Chris Wooding: The Fade

The train of wagons was crawling along a bridge of natural stone, a tentacle of scabrock that stretched impossibly across a massive chasm. The bridge was thick with luminous crystal formations, geometric prisms that burst in sprays like flowers. The walls of the cavern were striped with thick veins of some mineral, that reflected light like a silver mirror. Vines of multicoloured lichens hung from the cliffs, and fungi of varieties we had never imagined thrived here. At the bottom of the chasm a river of perfect blue churned and rushed, and giant insects ribboned through the air far below, paddling a dozen wings or more.

The light was white and blinding, and we feared we might lose our sight, but we had to look anyway. Besides, we trusted our masters. The Gurta were wise and they would protect us, their inferiors, like a man might protect his pet. We took comfort in that.

~ Did you ever think we should see something like this? ~ Aila asked, breathless. ~ Ever in our lives? ~

I shook my head. ~ Truly, I am grateful to our masters, for allowing us to behold such magnificence ~

~ Their kindness towards our lowly selves is beyond measure ~

I didn't remember how to speak Eskaran. My life before slavery was a vague and distant place, and I had no desire to return there. My thoughts and words were formed in ritualised Gurtan, shaped by years of harsh and painful teaching. But I accepted that I was ignorant, being of a lowly race, and so I thanked my tutors for their perseverance and apologised for my stupidity and promised to try harder. Languages were a weak point, but I took to their brainwashing like filings to a magnet.

We had been travelling for three turns now. The purpose of our journey had not been explained to us, but rumour among the slaves was that Chorik and several other important Administrators had been summoned by an Elder to help with a thorny supply problem in Dak, one of the mighty frontier cities of the Gurta.

Naturally, Aila and I were thrilled by the prospect. The idea that we would be allowed to meet an Elder was beyond comprehension and we dared not even hope for it. The sight of another great Gurta city would be enough for us. Our masters had a flair for architecture that overwhelmed us, and we were at the age when every new place was an adventure. Every city was wildly unique, further evidence of their superiority. It brought us comfort to know we were in the hands of such a people.

~ We will be stopping soon ~ said our master, from behind us. ~ Make ready ~

We turned back to where Chorik lounged amid the plush interior of the wagon. It was covered with patterned fabric stretched over an elaborate frame, carpeted in fur and strewn with cushions. He and two of his friends, whose professions were unclear but who entertained our master greatly, were lounging on settees laid against the sides of the wagon, drinking wine. We made sure the men's goblets were full before we set about our tasks of preparing evening clothes and perfumes.

Chorik gave me an indulgent swat on the arse as I glided past. I didn't really understand it, but there had been talk of 'duties' I would have to perform when I was older. Chorik had 'appetites'. At first I thought they were talking about cooking, but even at ten I sensed that there was more to it than that. Aila told me not to worry. Whatever it was, it was sure to be for my own good. Didn't I trust our masters?

Of course I did. Unquestioningly. We came to an inn not long afterward. It stood just off the road, commanding a breathtaking view of the chasm, with a roaring waterfall nearby that plunged to the river below. The inn was built of cordwood, stone and ivory from gorth herds. It was circular in shape, all curves and points. A gazebo sat on the cliff edge, amid a small grove which shone eerily with its own luminescence. Bats fluttered between the dwarf mycora and lichen-trees, catching insects that were drawn to the light.

Aila and I scampered off with the other slaves to prepare our masters' rooms while the Gurta men drank and gossiped, and their masked women waited in a cluster nearby, silent. In public, they would not speak unless their husbands spoke to them. I thought them very elegant and dignified.

We made a game of it, as we always did, dividing up the tasks and racing each other to complete them first. Our strict training and our honest desire to please our masters prevented us from cutting corners, but I usually beat her by picking the least time-intensive jobs.

When we were done, the Gurta and their Entwined went to their rooms while we cleaned the interiors of the wagons, swiftly gobbled some food and then fed the chila. Even though I hated the smell of the bad-tempered beasts, we were eager workers, because we knew that soon there would be music, and music was our joy. When we were done, we asked our zaze for permission to get our instruments, and after she had checked our duties were complete we were allowed to take them and scamper to the gazebo.

The gazebo was built around a pool of water, which had to be heated from beneath with coals in the absence of a natural hot spring. Other slaves had already begun the process when we arrived. We picked a spot at the edge of the gazebo that gave us a good view down into the chasm, knelt down and began tuning and plucking our instruments. I played the zhuk, a nine-stringed instrument with a metal fingerboard and a trebly, cooing timbre. Aila played oza, a cube-shaped skin drum. I had been assured that it took many years of practice to truly learn the subtleties of oza, but secretly I thought it was a rather simple instrument.

I loved to play. With every note, I thanked my masters for allowing me that grace. Without them, I would never have been introduced to the art of music, would never even have laid my hands on a zhuk. But I had shown an aptitude while very young and they had recognised it and tutored me. I loved to play because I was better than anyone else at it, except the older slaves who had had more practice. But my tutor told me I would surpass them if I kept studying. He said he had never had such a talented pupil of such a young age.

The other two musicians turned up shortly after, and began tuning up their own instruments while Aila and I rehearsed. We knew many songs, from traditional Gurta lays to wild, rousing battle songs and mournful ballads. The Gurta music pierced me with its passion, stirred my blood and made me shiver. I thought what wonderful people these were to have made such music. I remembered snatches of tunes from my life before, verses of lullabies and a rowdy song my father used to sing with his friends. But they were rough and simple melodies, nothing like the counterpoint and harmony of Gurta compositions.

Our masters came to the gazebo in twos and threes. The other slaves served them food and wine while we played. Some of them stripped and lounged in the pool, because the women were being attended to elsewhere.

The conversation of the Gurta surrounded me, but I didn't understand much of what they were talking about and I concentrated on playing instead. They were powerful men, speaking of things beyond the knowledge of an Eskaran girl. Instead, I took private delight in my skill, marvelling at every trill and flourish, pleased that I was pleasing my masters.

And please them I did. After one particular ballad in which the zhuk took the lead – a favourite of mine – Chorik approached me with another man, whom I knew as one of the Administrators. He was broad and stocky for a Gurta, with small, sharp eyes and a knotted braid of a beard, even though he was still young. The musicians stood and we drew the Form Of Abject Subservience.

~ Didn't I tell you? ~ my master said to his companion. ~ She plays with such emotion for one so young ~

I positively glowed on the inside, but my pride was quickly snuffed.