Саймон Морден - Down Station

The tower now had a top, a parapet of stone that was waist-high, and the rafters that would make the roof had already grown out. All that was missing was the floor beneath, and the shingles above. The crows swirled around her, cawing and cackling, but those already roosting merely hopped out of her way as she stepped on the exposed beams on her way to the edge.

She planted her feet, held on to one of the angled uprights, and stared out over Down. From the height she was at, she could see more, even the distant mountain with the twin peaks, which the geomancer ruled and where she’d fought a dragon and at least not lost.

When she leaned out and looked down at the cooking fire, she didn’t feel a visceral turn in her stomach. Rather, she felt the opposite. Elation. Her wings fluttered against the gusting wind, rising of their own accord.

A crow hopped on to the parapet beside her, its head turning to inspect her with one dark eye. The same wind that she felt riffled the purple-black plumage on its back, and it flapped its wings with sudden violence, making the wing-tips snap like whips. It settled, and its pale beak announced a caw.

‘Caw,’ she said back. ‘Caw.’ Her own wings, brown, speckled with white and black, remained mute.

The crow stretched its wings out again, and flapped them hard. It rose into the air, and glided back into place. It looked at her again, its bright eye shining. She could see her reflection, strange and inhuman.

For a third time, the crow flapped and rose, fell and folded.

It was trying to teach her how to fly, and she still didn’t have the muscles or the motive. All she had was wings, that were surely insufficient to carry her aloft.

She stepped up on to the stonework, and spread her arms wide.

She wanted to do it. She wanted to leap out into the sky and not hit the ground. She knew she mustn’t. That it was a dangerous, lethal delusion, brought about by Down’s magic. It was going to kill her if she jumped, because there was no way she’d survive the impact with the unforgiving pavement below.

The crow looked at her, daring her. They were both birds. With a flap of her wings, she’d be away, rising over the darkening land, wheeling and calling with all the others. How simple and straightforward that would be.

She wavered between flying and falling, caught between what she knew to be true and what her dreams told her to believe. The wind whirled around her bare legs, her exposed midriff, her outstretched arms. Her hair, still damp in its depths, quivered with anticipation.

How could she contemplate this? This was craziness, drug-fuelled, bad trip psychosis. She wasn’t going anywhere but back, on to the wooden beams and down the stairs and collect her meal that was steaming merrily away over its bed of brightly glowing coals.

But despite everything, she knew that if she missed this opportunity, that she’d wake in the morning and the gift would be gone. Down gave, and Down would take away. There was no guarantee that she’d ever find this road again.

Tricked by the wolfman, abandoned by Crows, alone in two worlds, and only Down had stepped in to save her when death had seemed certain, each and every time, hiding her in the folds of its land and rising up to drive off the dragon.

She steadied herself, gripped harder with her toes, and shouted out over the tops of the trees to the lake and sea beyond.

‘You seem to be helping me. I don’t know why. I can live small, and regret it for however long I’ve got, or I can risk everything now to live large. And I’m tired of living small.’

She leaned forward, over the parapet, over the pavement, and stretched her whole body out towards the sky.

There was no fight. Not that day, and not the next.

Stanislav was the one who became like a caged beast, prowling and snapping, being forced to wait and finding that waiting impossible to endure. Dalip was calmer than he thought he’d be: he had the prospect of a fight to the death, yet he’d come to some measure of acceptance that the older man had not. He’d accepted the plan they’d devised, and it was now Stanislav who wanted to change it, strike pre-emptively while the geomancer was incapacitated.

The guards bore the brunt of his bad temper, and it was a constant surprise to Dalip that they wore it as well as they did. They were the guards, they were in charge, and they should have had no qualms about putting him back in his place. But they understood. Perhaps they were waiting for something too.

The day’s work had ended, and the slaves were being herded chaotically back to their cells. They were, briefly, all together. Mama, as usual, waited to be pushed across the threshold.

Then Stanislav turned around and said he had had enough.

Pigface pushed past the other guard. ‘We don’t want any trouble, Slav. Just do as your told.’

‘No. Now is as good a time as we will get. Dalip? Take his knife.’

Dalip stepped around Stanislav. He reached out, got his hand slapped away, but in that narrow corridor, it was easy enough for him to immediately bring his other hand across and pull the knife free of its scabbard. He held it high, and Stanislav reached up to take it from him.

‘Hey. Give that back.’ Pigface tried to find the space to wrestle with Stanislav, but there was none.

‘You want it back?’ Stanislav slipped his arm under Dalip’s and stabbed Pigface. Not once, but repeatedly, the blade going in and out into the man’s stomach like a sewing-machine needle. Both the other guard and Dalip watched the sudden series of impacts with shock, as if it was happening to someone else, somewhere else.

Then Pigface folded, leaning against Dalip before sliding wetly to the floor.

The remaining guard stared and stared, then tried to run for it.

‘Stop him.’

Dalip, used to obeying that voice, and that tone of voice, leapt after him, brought him down and tangled his fingers in his hair. Then he jabbed his wrist forward, and the man’s forehead connected with the stone flags. His captive went limp.

‘Did you have to?’ Dalip said, getting to his feet.

Stanislav rolled Pigface flat to search him for anything else useful. Pigface wasn’t dead yet, but would be very soon, and as he was turned, he made a sort of wet, gurgling noise that elicited quiet moans of dismay from the others.

‘He is the enemy. He is complicit in our slavery. You want to show him mercy?’ He slid the bloody blade over to Dalip. ‘Then do so. It will be more than he would have done for any of us.’

Dalip wasn’t going to stab a dying man. And neither was he going to have the other guard stabbed either. He dragged him into his own cell, pulled the door closed and started to lower the bar across it.

‘You have not finished him.’

‘No. I’m not going to either.’

Stanislav scooped up the knife with an exasperated sigh. ‘This is weakness. This will get us all killed.’

‘We can just leave him there.’

‘When he begins to scream and shout, others will come and free him. Then we will have to kill them to escape.’ Stanislav jabbed his finger hard against Dalip’s temple. ‘You are not thinking.’

‘We cannot kill an unconscious man.’

‘You want to wait until he wakes up?’

‘We can’t.’ Then: ‘I won’t let you. You might not have any scruples, but I do.’

Stanislav made to lift the bar, and Dalip slammed his hand on top of it, holding it in place.

‘We don’t have time for an argument,’ he said.

Pigface coughed, his whole frame shaking, and Stanislav broke the stand-off. ‘The pit, then. Mama, go to the guard room and bar the outside door. Elena, Luiza, bring the table there through into the pit, and a chair.’