Emily Rodda - The Silver Door

Rye gave a choking cry. He lurched forward, bumping into Bird, who was in front of him, his mind empty of everything but the fact that Sholto was alive—alive!

It did not matter what Bones had said. It did not matter that Four-Eyes had the Weld lantern. Sholto was here, in the red place, as he had been in the dream, his hair clipped brutally short, his lean face gaunt but alert …

Sonia’s frightened thoughts flew to him like arrows. Rye, no! It cannot be—

With a growl, a guard caught Rye by the neck and jerked him off his feet.

‘Do not damage him!’ Kyte ordered shrilly. ‘Put him down!’

‘He tried to attack you!’ the guard protested, lifting Rye higher and shaking him like a cloth doll.

Pinpricks of light began to explode before Rye’s eyes. All around him people were shouting and skimmers were shrieking, their pale wings beating at the invisible walls of their cages.

‘Let him be!’ shouted Bird. Furiously she threw herself at the guard. He slapped her away as if she were an annoying insect, sending her crashing to the floor.

Then suddenly he doubled up as if he had been punched in the stomach. His eyes bulged with shock. His hand opened and he let Rye drop.

Gasping, Rye fell to his knees. He could hear the other prisoners crying out. He could hear the guard who had seized him making choking, gobbling sounds. He could hear Chub crying to Bird, dragging her to her feet, and the other guards barking at the remaining prisoners.

Then silence fell abruptly. Feet paced towards him. He raised his head.

Sholto was looking down at him with distaste, and without a trace of recognition. Beside him was a severe-looking elderly woman with thick eyeglasses. She was dressed like all the other workers in the room, but the badge clipped to the collar of her grey coat read ‘Supervisor’. She was glaring at Kyte.

‘How dare you disrupt our work, slave-hunter?’ she snapped. ‘These slays are being fed, and it is a delicate task. You had no business bringing the specimens through here—particularly if your guards are incapable of controlling them.’

‘I thought you’d want to examine them,’ Kyte said sulkily.

‘Of course! But in the right place and at the right time.’

Sholto had been regarding the prisoners with cool interest. ‘I understood that goats were to be used for the test,’ he drawled.

Kyte laughed. ‘Goats were used for the early trials. But this time the goats have two legs instead of four. The Master wants the test to be as realistic as possible, now that the work’s nearly completed. Don’t tell me you’re squeamish, Vrett?’

Sholto raised an eyebrow in such a familiar way that Rye’s breath caught in his throat.

‘Save your humour for your guards, slave-hunter!’ snapped the supervisor. ‘They may appreciate it. We do not.’

She gestured irritably at the prisoners, her frown deepening. ‘And what are these stunted creatures? I thought you were to bring full-sized specimens from the Scour.’

‘These mine rats are marked for death, so I judged it more efficient to bring them instead,’ Kyte replied carelessly. ‘Scour scum can be used next time.’

She nudged Rye with the toe of her boot. ‘And this one is full-sized, Supervisor—perhaps your disability has prevented you from noticing that.’

The supervisor adjusted her eyeglasses angrily. ‘I can see it perfectly well! But he is only one of—’

‘He’s an enemy spy, as it happens,’ Kyte went on, her off-hand tone barely concealing her triumph. ‘Controller Brand wasn’t interested in the fact that I’d captured him, but I’m sure the Master will feel differently.’

The supervisor started. She bent and peered at Rye, and when she straightened her manner had become less aggressive.

‘Indeed,’ she said, bowing very slightly to Kyte. ‘Controller Brand will be … corrected. The Master will be very pleased to hear that the spy has been caught. And he will be most interested to know how the slays deal with him.’

She turned to Sholto, who had drawn out a small notebook and begun taking notes. ‘You can examine the specimens fully when they have been fed and watered, Vrett. They will be in better condition then. Pay particular attention to the spy. I only hope he has not been injured by that fall.’ She stared coldly at the guard who had dropped Rye.

The guard’s shoulders were hunched, and he was still clutching his stomach.

‘The tick kicked me!’ he complained.

‘What if he did?’ Kyte retorted. ‘Are you getting soft, that you can be upset by a little tap?’

‘Stand up,’ Sholto said to Rye.

Rye did as he was told. His thoughts were in turmoil. Was Sholto only pretending not to recognise him? Playing a part in order to deceive Kyte and the supervisor?

Or was Sholto’s mind no longer his own? Did he really believe he was Vrett, loyal servant of the Master? The journal fragments showed only too clearly that he had been suffering from delusions. The sorcery of the Harbour might well have completed what the Saltings had begun.

Either way, Rye knew he must not again risk exposing his brother by the slightest word or sign. If Sholto was acting, Sholto would somehow let him know. Hoping against hope, he stood like a statue as his brother’s thin, gloved hands ran impersonally over his body. But there was no whisper in his ear, no change of expression on the pale, intent face so close to his own.

‘He is well enough,’ Sholto said, stepping back.

The supervisor turned to Kyte. ‘You may go, then,’ she said coldly. ‘But I trust you will see to it that there is no noise whatever in the next room. I do not want the breeding slays too much disturbed. Your passing will excite them enough as it is. Vrett? Let them out!’

Sholto drew out a grey tube and aimed it at the room’s far wall. A door slid open, releasing a flood of white light. The supervisor turned away, raising one shoulder as if to screen Kyte even more completely from her sight.

Kyte winked slyly at Sholto. ‘Would you like to join me for breakfast in my apartment after the test, Vrett?’ she murmured. ‘The food I can offer is better than the slops you get in your staff feeding room—and certainly the company will be far more enjoyable.’ She laughed scornfully, glancing at the supervisor’s rigid back.

Sholto’s face relaxed into a half-smile. He bowed slightly.

Very pleased with herself, Kyte turned and led the way to the doorway. And it was not until Rye had shuffled after her with the other prisoners—not until he was actually moving through the gap into the next room, and facing another terrifying array of skimmers—that he realised something was wrong.

There was no shadowy red glow here. The only signs of red were the thick pads of jell that lined the bottom of every skimmer cage. The only shadows were inside the tiny round air vents that dotted the ceiling. The room was large, white, and bright with light. But the skimmers were flapping and clawing just as savagely as the skimmers in the first room had done. The light did not seem to trouble them at all.

And their eyes … their eyes were not white, like the eyes of the dead skimmer Rye had seen in Tallus the healer’s workroom. They were coloured.

Some had a brown tinge, but most were a murky grey. All the eyes were fixed avidly on the passing prisoners, and all glittered with ravenous hunger as jaws gaped and ragged wings beat uselessly on invisible bars.

And suddenly Rye was back in the waiting room of the Keep, listening to Tallus talking excitedly to the Warden.

‘Skimmers hunt at night because they cannot hunt during the day!’ Tallus had said. ‘Because daylight renders them helpless! It is their one weakness.’