Ian Irvine - Tetrarch

Colm turned right, crawling down next to the wall. Before long he stopped by a pair of grubby feet. Next was a smaller pair, clad in sadly stained and tattered slippers.

‘Stay down until I say so,’ he whispered in Nish’s ear, and with a twisting movement like an eel on a hook, Colm was out, up and standing between the two pairs of feet.

‘Where have you been, Colm?’ came a weary, worn-out female voice. ‘I’ve been worried sick about you.’

‘Just around,’ said Colm. ‘I –’

‘Get to work, son.’ The man’s voice was equally lifeless. ‘We’re behind in our quota and your slackness –’

‘I’ve found him!’ Colm hissed.

‘Can you fix this one?’ said his mother as if he had not spoken. ‘It doesn’t want to go together again.’

Silence, in which there was an occasional click or rattle, a muffled curse.

‘I’ve found the man who floated in on the balloon.’

‘Lose him! They’re looking for him and we don’t want to attract attention to ourselves, boy. I’ve told you that a hundred times.’

‘But –’

‘It’s dangerous, Colm,’ said the dead voice. ‘Keep your head down. Do your work. Say nothing. Never catch anyone’s eye.’

‘I might as well be dead !’

‘He’s a spy! Or in the pay of the enemy. We could all die if he’s linked to us. And there’s your sisters to think of, Colm. It’ll be worse for them. I didn’t think I’d have to remind you of that.’

‘He’s a hero!’ Colm said stubbornly. ‘He’s going to help us get Gothryme back.’

‘It’s gone forever,’ snapped the man. ‘We’re refugees and we will never get anything back. We’re lucky to be alive.’

‘We’re unlucky to be alive,’ said Colm. ‘What’s the point to life when we’ve lost everything, even our Histories?’

‘We can’t eat our Histories.’

‘I’m going to go back if it takes me all my life. Gothryme is my due and I won’t give it up.’

‘Anything you can’t carry on your back is worthless; it’s like chaining yourself to a rock.’

‘You don’t even tell us our family Histories any more.’

‘If you cling to the past, you’ll never make a new future.’

‘This man can help us. You should hear what he’s done, father. He’s a hero.’

Smack . Colm fell to his knees. For a second his eyes met Nish’s, then he climbed to his feet again.

‘I won’t hear another word, son,’ said the father. ‘The man is a liar and you’re a little fool for being taken in by him.’

Nish pulled himself against the wall, where it was darkest. His pockets were empty. He had not a copper nyd to his name, nor anything else he could use to buy or bribe his way out. He had no weapons, no means of defending himself. All he had were his wits. He might have given way to despair, but lately Nish had thought his way out of a number of difficult situations. Leaning back, he closed his eyes and went through his options. He could only see three.

Declare himself to the guards at the gate, tell them who he was and where he had come from. Likely result: a merciless beating and being thrown back into the camp, where the powers that ran it could well give him another beating. It didn’t seem worth the risk.

Try to get over the palisade in the night and escape. Colm’s little remark made that into an unpalatable option, though Nish knew that guards were seldom as vigilant as rumour had it. On a dark night, or a rainy one, there must be a chance.

Failing that, let’s see what he could do with the boy. Colm had proven trustworthy but Nish was wary of pressing him too hard. Family always came first.

He spent the whole day under the table. It grew increasingly hot and humid until Nish could think of nothing but cool water. His last drink had been with the scrutator the previous day. Had he really come all this way in only a day? He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious. It felt like another year; another life. The scrutator would not be back to the manufactory yet, and Ullii … Poor Ullii. How was she coping? He could still hear her screams.

The hours dragged by. The building stank of unwashed bodies. There was not a breath of fresh air to be had and he felt as if he were suffocating. Nish looked up at the underside of the bench, where the grain of the timber made sawtooth patterns reminiscent of the crest of a lyrinx. He swallowed.

Considering so many people worked here, the workhouse was uncannily quiet. All he heard was the shuffle of feet, an occasional clearing of the throat and the muted tap and click of mechanical parts being put together. Nish manoeuvred an eye to a gap between the boards, looking up along the bench. The workers were putting together small clockwork mechanisms, possibly for something like a clanker.

Thwack . Someone let out a reedy scream, quickly cut off.

‘Half-rations for three days. Work harder!’ The voice was close by.

Nish made himself as small as possible but felt sure he would be discovered. A thick pair of hairy calves went by, attached to the filthiest feet he had ever seen. They smelled like ordure.

The feet stopped. Something struck the bench above Nish’s head so hard that small objects jumped. He did not dare to breathe. He could hear the heavy breath of the supervisor. The room was completely silent. Everyone else was as afraid as he was. Nish’s nose began to itch but he resisted the urge to scratch it.

‘Get on with your work!’ the man roared and the dirty feet moved away. The clicking and tapping resumed.

Nish endured the day. Should he declare himself, or leave it to the boy? He waited. In the early afternoon the work stopped briefly while lunch was taken at the benches. Nish could smell the water by then and had begun to shake with hunger. He was practically fainting when a thin hand reached below the bench, holding a battered wooden mug.

Nish drained it in a single swallow and immediately regretted that he had not made it last. He put the mug into the waiting hand. Shortly it reappeared with a generous chunk of black bread.

Nish eked that out, taking the tiniest of nibbles, which was just as well since it was full of hard, burnt grain and grit he might have broken a tooth on. After that he pillowed his head on his arms and slept.

When he jolted awake it was dark outside but the work was still going on. What had disturbed him?

‘Don’t start that again,’ Colm’s father hissed. ‘You’re not too old for a beating, boy!’

‘He’s here ,’ Colm whispered.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The man is right here, under the bench. His name is Cryl-Nish Hlar and his father is a perquisitor .’

The silence stretched out, then the man dropped a wooden spanner, bent down to pick it up and stared at Nish.

Nish held his gaze. ‘It’s true,’ he said softly. ‘He is Jal-Nish Hlar, Perquisitor for Einunar, and I have come all this way on scrutator’s business. I beg your help in his name.’

The man ducked away again, forgetting his spanner. Reaching forward, Nish handed it up to him.

‘Which scrutator?’ Colm’s father said out of the corner of his mouth.

‘Xervish Flydd!’

The work resumed on the bench, and only some minutes later did Nish hear any more.

‘You have ruined us, Colm,’ his mother muttered. ‘This will be the end of your family.’

‘Why couldn’t you mind your own business?’ his father said. There was no anger in him now; just despair. ‘Why, Colm?’

‘You taught me to do what I thought was right, no matter how painful.’