Reckoning (17 page)

I skim through a long list of filenames that seem unrelated to anything and have to resort to opening them all one at a time. I check my thinkwatch every few minutes, watching time tick away, having not found what I need. I try to work quicker but my hand is shaking with the realisation that this could be my only chance. Jargon continues to fill the screen as I scan through the words looking for anything useful until, just as I am about to close a file, I notice a few lines at the bottom that mention an order number. I quickly jump back into the inventory and am so engrossed at hunting through the numbers that, as I find the right one, I almost don't hear the click of the door opening behind me.

18

‘Silver?'

Porter's voice is inquisitive, not angry, as I hear him moving around the room. Lumin's assessment that he would be ‘around an hour' was at least double what it actually was.

I emerge from under his desk, where I dived when I heard the door opening, and deliberately lift my head too quickly, bashing it into the hard wood of the table. I cry out in pain and although Porter doesn't show too much sympathy, he does at least ask how I am before querying why I was under his desk.

Rubbing my head as I look for empathy that doesn't come, I speak slowly, faking pain I don't really feel. ‘There was this fizzing sound and the lights flickered. It sounded like it was coming from here,' I say.

It sounds vaguely plausible. At least once every other day or so, there is some sort of issue with the power around the castle. Sometimes everything turns off and then sizzles back to life almost instantly, on other occasions we are without electricity for a few minutes at a time.

Porter's eyes narrow. ‘That happens all the time.'

‘I know but this sounded different – I thought I would check.'

He looks at me closely but I wince in false pain and continue to rub my head as I stand. ‘That hurt,' I add.

‘Did you find anything?'

‘One of the connectors was a bit loose so I shoved it back in and the noise stopped. Then I heard you calling my name and whacked my head.'

Porter nods but I'm not sure if it is because he believes me. His eyes shoot around the room. ‘Where's Lumin?'

‘He got some silicon in his eye and went to medical.'

Another nod.

As I return to my side of the room, I can feel him watching but he says nothing, even when he sits down at the screen I hastily swiped out of.

*   *   *

‘So you got it?'

Imrin's voice sounds excited and I realise he can see straight through my attempts at trying to play it cool. The night is colder than the last time we were in the passageway together. We sit wrapped under two blankets watching our breath.

I have to force my teeth from chattering as I reply. ‘It responds to the borodron used in Kingsmen uniforms.'

‘Oh, so there's no way through?'

‘What makes you think that?'

Imrin blows into his hands. ‘We don't have access to anything like that.'

‘No, but I've seen the order sheets. There are small amounts of it in the textiles department. They have it there to help out with minor armour repairs.'

He sounds unsure. ‘Do the scanners need anything other than borodron?'

‘I don't think so.'

‘Do you know anyone who works in textiles?'

I shake my head, although it's too dim for him to see. ‘One of the girls in our dorm works there but Pietra is the last person I could ask.'

‘There's a lad on our side who is in there.'

‘Do you get on?'

Imrin lifts the blanket slightly. ‘He got me this. Don't ask me how he smuggled it out but I swapped half-a-dozen fruit buns for it.'

‘You never get me fruit buns.'

Imrin knows I am teasing. ‘That's because I had to give them to him. If you want to place an order, I'll see what I can do.'

‘How about an entire pig on a spit?'

Imrin squeezes me just above the waist, his fingers tickling until I squeal and put a hand in front of my mouth to stop myself.

‘You're going to get us caught,' I say.

‘You're the one being noisy.'

I elbow him playfully. He recoils before tickling me again, until I am lying on top of him, one knee hovering dangerously close to an area he wouldn't want me to slam it into. ‘Do you give up?' I whisper.

‘Yes.'

‘Are you going to get me my pig on a spit?'

‘When we're outside, I'll catch you a pig and you can roast it yourself.'

‘Promise?'

‘Promise.'

I release him and we huddle together under the blanket. I have completely forgotten what we were arguing about until Imrin asks me what the name of the material was. I tell him and he repeats it to himself a couple of times.

‘I'll ask him if there's any chance,' Imrin says. ‘But it will probably cost me. I might not be able to get you anything extra for a week or so.'

‘I'm fine.'

‘Are you sure? You're so thin.'

Imrin's voice is full of concern but I shrug it off, even though I know he is right. I have had to ask Ignacia for smaller work clothes and trace my ribs through my clothing almost subconsciously until I feel Imrin's hand holding mine.

‘I'll try to get you something anyway,' he says. I turn to look at him just as the narrow stream of moonlight intensifies. Presumably it is now shining through the clouds but it catches him at such an angle that I can see the pores of his soft caramel-coloured skin.

‘What?' he asks, but it is not his words that have me entranced, it is the way he is looking at me, like Opie used to, as if we have known each other our whole lives.

I feel his hand on my side and want to respond but, as I draw towards him, we hear a clatter in the corridor outside. Instantly we pull apart and my heart races as the moment is lost. We see the shadow of someone passing the door and heading towards the window, their boots echoing loudly.

For a moment or two, neither of us can bring ourselves to even breathe until the shadow passes back the other way.

‘I should go,' Imrin says and I don't disagree as he peeks out of the door and then scampers across the hallway before disappearing. I return silently to the room trying to focus on our plan but instead finding my thoughts clouded by what might have happened between us if it wasn't for the interruption.

*   *   *

At the banquet the following evening, Imrin gives a gentle shake of his head across the table to let me know he hasn't been successful yet. But he does flick his head towards one of the boys sitting a few seats down from him, letting me know someone is on the case. Aside from that moment, I don't look anywhere other than my plate, forcing myself to eat, even when my stomach feels full. I know it will likely be the only thing of substance I get all week and just hope that I can keep it all down, focusing on the meats and fruits instead of bread.

As I am finishing, everyone goes silent and I turn, expecting to see the Minister Prime standing. Instead, it is the King. Next to him, Jela is staring towards us, her eyes empty of feeling or recognition, but one is rimmed by a heavy purple and black mark that even from a distance looks painful.

The King clears his throat noisily and then wipes something away from his beard. He is wearing the same robes as always but tonight he does appear to be coherent. His voice sounds like the one I have heard many times before on screen and as with the Minister Prime, it holds an authority. The Minister Prime's voice instils fear but the King has a turn of phrase that is so charming, it makes you feel as if he is an old family friend.

‘My subjects,' he says, not needing a microphone to make his voice boom around the room. He then stares towards us. ‘My Offerings … I would like to offer my sincere thanks for your cooperation this year. It is wonderful to see so many new faces.'

He appears oblivious to the fact that the ‘new' faces are diminishing rapidly but seems to have an almost childlike sense of playfulness as he grins at us.

‘Now we have become a little more acquainted with each other over these past few weeks, I figure it is time to have a little fun.' He clicks his fingers and Kingsmen rush to the table and start removing the leftover food, then they take away the table and benches until we are left standing around, looking at each other in confusion.

The King sounds polite as he continues, although none of us is fooled into thinking we have a choice about his next request. ‘If you would, I'd now like you to separate into your Realms and then choose someone to represent you – girl or boy.'

Everyone looks at each other before we drift off towards our corners. With Jela next to the King, Pietra is the only other girl left from my Realm. Wray is dead, leaving Rush, the other Elite male I first sat with on the train, plus our male Inter and Member. I instinctively think it is going to be a battle to not volunteer but, before anyone can speak, Rush says he will do it. He stares at me as he speaks, knowing that everyone around us saw what I did to him on the train, silently challenging me to say I'm better than he is. The truth is, I'm happy with anyone who isn't me stepping forward.

‘Good luck,' I say, meaning it, as he steps towards the centre of what is now an amphitheatre, steep banks of seats stretching up towards the ceiling filled with people I can only see the outlines of in the bright overhead lights. I look nervously towards the group of people from the West and am glad to see it isn't Imrin moving forward. Faith is not representing the South either.

All of the volunteers are boys, with Rush just about the biggest of the group. The rest of us are crowded around the edge of the arena, leaving a large space in the centre where the four volunteers stand nervously.

‘Excellent, excellent,' the King says with a lick of his lips. ‘First things first, bring her up.'

Everyone's eyes turn as the main doors open with a clang and two Kingsmen bring in Bryony, who Pietra told on for stealing food. She can barely stand by herself. She is thinner than I am, her hair a straggle of knots, her eyes bruised and beaten. They drag her to the group from the East and drop her on the floor before turning without a second glance and heading back to the door. Pietra shuffles awkwardly next to me, staring at the floor. The King allows Bryony's gentle whimpers to filter around the room for a few moments before continuing as if nothing untoward has happened.

‘Four strapping young men … there's only one thing for it.' He glances towards the Minister Prime, who offers a smile and a nod before the King turns back towards us.

‘Gentlemen, it is time for a little tradition which we have had around here for a few years now, where I look to find my champion. You are to be the first four competitors this year. For the winner, you and your Realm's Offerings will be invited back for a private breakfast with me tomorrow. For the losers, well…'

He gives a nod towards the Kingsmen by the door, who approach the volunteers, hands gripping their sword handles. I see the boys tense, as Rush bends his knees in a fighting stance. Instead of violence, the Kingsmen offer each of the boys a sword before returning to their spots.

The four of them eye each other anxiously as what is going to happen begins to dawn on them. I see Rush taking a few steps away from the rest of the group.

The King laughs at the sight in front of him. ‘Of the four of you, I only want to see one left standing. I do not care how you do it as long as you are entertaining. You will start the next time I click my fingers.'

He edges back to his seat to get comfortable while the boys separate, eyeing each other. The boy from the East is almost as tall as Rush but probably a little bulkier. He is twirling the sword in his hand, clearly relishing what is about to happen. The Offering from the South is the smallest by quite a long way and reminds me of Wray in stature. The sword seems too big for him and, although he is trying to grasp it confidently, everyone can tell he doesn't want to be there. The boy from the West is somewhere in the middle but is hopping from one foot to the other as if to signal that he has speed on his side. Rush, meanwhile, is still standing with his knees slightly bent, looking between the other three and ready for action.

Although we knew it was coming, it is a shock when the snap of the King's fingers echoes around the room. The hush that surrounded us from above is transformed into an audible ‘ooh' as everyone gets ready for the action.

Straight away, the Offering from the East tears across the space until he is bearing down upon the one from the South, who seems fixed to the spot in fear. With an exaggerated swish of the sword, the smaller boy is on the ground in a pool of blood in seconds. The King brays and takes a swig from his bottle of wine.

It is hard to judge the atmosphere. There is a sense of excitement from the people above us but it is hard to know whether this is for the King's gratification or because they are genuinely enjoying what is playing out. I look across to the Offerings from the South and one of the girls is in tears. Meanwhile, the three remaining boys are still circling each other.

Rush is slowly moving backwards while keeping an eye on the other two, but I'm not entirely sure he knows where he is going as he is heading straight towards the Kingsmen by the door. As one of them steps forward, I start to shout to Rush but it is too late as the guard clubs him to the floor from behind and then shoves him back towards the centre. I hold my breath, suddenly concerned about the fortunes of someone I had knocked to the ground myself a few weeks ago. The Offering from the West holds back but the one from the East, still splashed with blood from his first kill, tears forward, sword in the air.

Everything seems to slow as his momentum carries the sword forward, swinging it towards Rush, who rolls out of the way and scrambles to his feet. The boy from the East overbalances from the weight of the sword and, as he tries to steady himself, the one from the West launches forward and spears him through the back.