Emily Rodda - The Silver Door

The sounds of wheels and running feet grew louder, slowed, then stopped. Rye tried desperately to turn his head so he could see what was happening on the track, but it was hopeless.

He could only imagine the cart coming to a stop beside the wagon. He could only imagine Kyte looking down from the back of her cowed horse at another set of inhuman grey-clad guards panting between the cart’s shafts.

‘Take the trench-bridge from the cart, Baks!’ he heard Kyte order. ‘We won’t need it now. Then turn the cart around. By chance we’ve been spared the journey to the Den. We don’t need Scour scum for the Master’s test any more. These traitors will do just as well.’

‘But Kyte,’ whined a Diggings guard, as the clatter of falling wood and the sound of turning wheels signalled that the woman’s order was being obeyed. ‘Can’t we at least have the mine rats back? We’re shorthanded as it is!’

‘Silence!’ Kyte snapped. ‘The penalty for trying to escape the Diggings is death. Isn’t that so?’

‘Yes, Kyte,’ the guard mumbled.

‘Yes!’ cried Kyte. ‘So these scum are doomed to die in any case. And if I were you, Krop, I’d think twice about questioning my orders. You made a bad mistake tonight. If I hadn’t come along—’

‘It wasn’t our fault,’ the guard protested. ‘The spy showed the Master’s paper, with Brand’s signature at the bottom. How did he lay his hands on it?’

There was a tiny pause. Rye knew why. Kyte was well aware that it was her error that had allowed the grey paper to fall into Bird’s hands.

‘It doesn’t matter where the paper came from!’ the woman snapped, recovering. ‘What matters is that somehow the spy knew where the mine rats he wanted worked, and which hut they slept in.’

‘It was not the Krops who told!’ exclaimed the guard. ‘The Krops would never betray—’

‘Luckily for you,’ Kyte cut in smoothly, ‘I’m in a good mood because I’ve been spared a tedious journey to the Den. So I’ll destroy the paper and say nothing of it to Brand. I’ll report that a spy made use of the jell-trader’s wagon to enter the Diggings, and tried to steal the slaves by force.’

‘Thank you, Kyte. The Krops are in your debt.’

The guard sounded very subdued. The woman’s reply was coldly triumphant.

‘Very well. Forget the paper ever existed, and you’ll be safe. And don’t open the gates again for any reason till I tell you to do it. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes, Kyte.’

‘Now, load the prisoners into the cart. Yours first—the quell will hold mine a bit longer. Tie their wrists and ankles, but don’t harm them. They’re to be delivered in good condition. The Master wants them to be able to run.’

Kyte’s final words echoed often in Rye’s mind during the long, jolting journey that followed. Bound hand and foot, lying packed together with the other prisoners beneath a canvas cover that hid the sky, he could not forget them. They kept coming back to him like a hideous refrain.

The Master wants them to be able to run …

What horror awaited him at the Harbour?

He had no idea how many others lay with him in the cart. Four-Eyes had been found, released from the sack, and left in the driver’s seat of the wagon, still fast asleep. But Bird had been taken, he knew. He had seen her carried out of the storage space with Sonia. Bean was here also. The Diggings guards had grabbed him as he stood helping others to jump down from the wagon. And Itch was here. And Chub and her husband, whose name seemed to be Pepper.

But there were many of the slaves from Tunnel 12 as well—all those who had not managed to escape in those first few moments of confusion. Rye could hear them whispering to one another. Every now and then he would catch a name. Lucky. Giggle. Bud …

Lucky, Giggle, Bud, Chub, Bird, Itch, Bean—what sorts of ridiculous names are they? Rye thought with a flash of useless irritation. And slowly it dawned on him that all the names of the people he had met since going through the silver Door were strange. Bones. Needle. Cap. Four-Eyes …

Then he saw it. Nicknames! They were nothing but nicknames!

The people here believed in the old tale, long forgotten by almost everyone in Weld, that those who know your true name have power over you. They kept their real names secret from everyone but their closest family and friends.

And perhaps this was wise. Perhaps it was their only defence against the sorcerer who had first led them, then enslaved them. Not knowing their names, the Master could control their bodies, but not their minds.

Of course! That was why Rye’s careless use of the name FitzFee had caused Bird to react so savagely. Bird’s family name must be FitzFee too. She had thought Rye was trying to enchant her!

If only I had been, Rye thought drearily. And if only I had succeeded. Then Dirk, Sonia and I would be together now, facing only the dangers of the Scour. And the bag of powers would still be with me, safe around my neck.

After a while, he lost all sense of time. And gradually the murmuring of the other prisoners, the bumping of the cart, the pounding of the guards’ feet, merged and became parts of confused, nightmarish dreams.

He seemed to see Dirk waking, groggy with myrmon, on the track far behind him. He seemed to see Bones sitting alone by the sled at the Den, his head in his hands.

And he seemed to see Sonia lying somewhere very near, somewhere in the rattling cart, coming to consciousness and searching frantically for some sign of him.

Hazily, knowing he was caught in the web of a waking dream, he sent his thoughts to her.

Sonia, I am here with you! Sonia, we are captured—being carried to the Harbour .

Rye sent the message, as so often he had sent urgent thought messages in the past, without any real hope that it would be received. But this time something was different. Faintly, so faintly that he could not be sure it was real, an answer came to him.

The nine powers. Can you or Dirk reach …?

The stab of pain he felt made him reply abruptly, without thought.

The bag of powers is lost. Dirk too. Lost .

Sonia’s horror rolled like a wave through his mind, making him gasp and blink. Then, quite suddenly, there was another feeling—a feeling, almost, of joy—startled joy!

Rye, we are talking to each other in our minds!

Yes, Rye thought in amazement. But how can that be?

Am I dreaming? He sent the message cautiously.

If you are, then I am too , the reply shot back, clearer than before. And then another message came, tumbling after the first and tinged with dread. Rye, I can smell the sea .

Rye hesitated. And slowly, through the mingled odours of canvas and sweat, he too detected the tangy scent of salt water and seaweed.

He had been relying on his sense of hearing to warn him that the journey was ending. He had been waiting for the dull, regular boom of waves pounding on a shore, like the sound that had dominated the city of Oltan.

There was no sound of waves here. Yet now that he had become aware of it, it seemed to him that the smell of the sea was growing stronger by the moment.

And the cart was slowing. Slowing, turning … and stopping.

Rye—

Sonia’s voice clamoured in his mind, sharp with fear, then broke off abruptly. Rye knew why. Sonia did not want to burden him with her terror.

We will find a way out of this, Sonia. We will survive, as we did in Oltan .

He sent the message as firmly as he could, but the only reply was a faint brush of warmth. Sonia was holding her thoughts back. No doubt she could not stop herself from remembering that it was the Fellan powers that had saved them in Oltan, and the powers were gone.