Tribute (14 page)

I wait. Fighting to hold on as the hawk struggles to regain its will. I grip its mind desperately and  …  there. They emerge from beneath the trees. My father stalks ahead, eyes blazing. In front of him, floating in the air, is a thief. A woman. It only takes one glance to know she is dead. And suddenly I understand. Mistress Quint must have supplied her with poison. The assassin killed, then killed herself. Oh ye gods. My heart swells with so heavy and sore a pain I fear it will break inside my chest.

As the lifeless body is flung on the ground near me I see a young woman of no more than twenty-five. Once she was pretty. Now her features are twisted in agony. Whatever Quint gave her, it wasn't an easy death. I look at my father's face and rejoice at the bitterness I see there.

I will pay you out, dear Father. For this and so much more.

‘You see?!' Benedict is raging still. ‘A thief! Lying in wait. They knew of this meeting. Now do you doubt me? The thieves are our greatest enemies. Aris thought them animals. Well, they may be, but that animal killed him.'

His teeth are bared in rage. And fear. Joy! The great Benedict has felt Death's kiss. He knows who was meant to die today. I look down at the dead thief. Sorrow for her death. For her bravery. But Aris, at least, will never murder another kine.

‘It isn't safe to remain, Benedict!' Goddart wrings his hands in fear, watching as the guards scour the olive grove, allowed this once into the temple precinct. A group of them draws near. Soon the hawk will be discovered. I must leave. But  … 

‘We will need to meet in safer surroundings. May I suggest indoors?' Wonset's voice is acid.

The guards draw near, stabbing the low bushes, poking their pikes into the tops of the trees. I see Otter, and wonder again where his loyalties lie. Did he know of the assassin? Does he know I sit here, inside the hawk?

‘You must accept my hospitality tonight,' says my father. ‘We will continue our meeting after dinner. No one, I promise, will disturb us.' Benedict's voice is chill and calm again. But I feel his rage vibrating in the air. ‘Aris will have to disappear. We can think up a reason later but it cannot become known that an archmage has been killed by kine. Wonset, deal with his people. We'll send an emissary to his city. But this assassination did not happen.'

Deal with his people?
I look into the old woman's face and read the answer. Horror loosens my grip on the hawk. The bird screams, flaps its wings and takes flight.

I hear Falu's voice: ‘What is that? There in the tree! I'll take it  … '

I spin into darkness, rewinding the thread of my consciousness. Fainting, shivering, I fall back into my own body.

When I open my eyes, I am weeping. I look at the Hound and cannot speak. He reaches out and holds me tight. I cling to him, shaking, crying. Then fall head first into a deep white nothingness of exhaustion.

‘Give her more, Mistress Quint.'

I've never liked mead. Quint pushes the cup of golden liquid into my hands. I frown at it.

‘Drink, Zara. There isn't much time.'

I look at Floster. My heart feels frost-blasted. ‘Who was she?'

The Mistress's face softens with sadness. ‘A good, brave girl,' she says. ‘And I need you to make sure she didn't die for nothing. Come on, Zara. You have to be strong enough to go into the palazzo tonight. We must know what they are planning.'

‘All those Tributes. Aris's guards. They  … '

‘You can do nothing for them. Only for others. Or it will never stop. You know this, Zara. This is why you chose to join us. Don't give up now.'

‘I can't  … ' I take a breath. Of course I can. I must. It's true I'm tired to the point of exhaustion. That my body is still shivering. But the mead brings a welcome numbness. It gives me the courage to finally ask: ‘Did you know Benedict would kill the guards?'

‘It was Benedict who should have been lying with an arrow in his throat. Mirri was my best archer.' Floster's voice is dry. She sighs. ‘At least the other Tributes will survive. It was only Aris's who had to be silenced.'

‘Otter. He was there.'

‘Yes.' Floster's eyes and voice give away nothing. ‘Concentrate on your job, Zara.' She gestures at the rat winding round and round inside the cage sitting at the Hound's feet. I look up into his brown eyes and thank the gods that if I have to do this thing, at least it's this man who'll be my companion. I know, now, why Floster depends on him so fundamentally. He is like an oak tree. He gazes back, unsmiling.

‘We need to go,' he says. ‘Wrap her up warm. The tunnels are cold, and the girl goes very chill when she's in the beasts. Don't stay too long out of your body tonight, Zara, or I think you won't be coming back. No good if you find out what the bastards are up to but die before you can tell us.'

‘Off with you.' Floster hesitates, then seizes my hand in a brief, crushing grip. ‘The gods look after you, Zara, daughter of Eleanor.'

The Hound and I sit in the guardroom I stumbled into that first night: the night Twiss brought me here. It's the closest we can get to the palazzo without leaving the catacombs. I'm wearing a thick woollen jacket over my leather tunic. The rat is twitching and pacing inside its cage. It senses something is about to happen: everyone says rats are clever. I don't like rats.

‘It's time, Zara.' The Hound knows I'm frightened. But I don't mind. I can trust him to kill me. Which suddenly strikes me as so funny I laugh out loud.

‘You all right?'

I've worried him. I just grin back. That old feeling of reckless excitement is sweeping aside fear. It's time. I glance from the Hound to the thief whose job it is to take the rat into the palazzo cellars and release it. A woman in her thirties, not a middling – I suspect Floster doesn't trust them where I'm concerned. She's quiet and so still that if I didn't know she was there I wouldn't see her. Again, I wonder about this talent thieves possess  …  and firmly push aside the distraction.

I nod at the Hound. Take a deep breath, gathering my will, concentrating. And it's so easy. I was born to do this. It feels so right  …  perfect. Doing magic cannot be evil. It can't. Only people are evil. Magic just  …  is. It's the last thought I have in my own body.

Good dark. Stay in the dark, deep places. Creep along walls; hide in corners. And sniff. Smell my way. Sharp, rich, rotten, sweet. Stone, dead and cold. Wood, dry and chewy. Gnaw it bite it. No time. Want to chew. NO! Up. Up to the place where bigs live. Smell beetle! Pounce. Catch it catch it. Hold it tight. Wriggly. Crunch it up. Snick-snack chewy sharp-sweet. Swallow. Lovely  …  More beetle. NO!

The rat is tricky. Wily, slippery. Far the cleverest animal I've ever mind-controlled.

We crawl. Rat-Zara. She makes us go up and up, skittering on our feet on the cold earth. Smelling the dust of the stones. Through the lovely, kind dark up to where the bigs lie in wait to trap, to knock, to hurt. With their dogs and firewoodsticks killing dark. She won't let us go back to the dark smelly places where safe dark lovely smelly rotten. On. Light. Ssssssss. Lash tail. Light kills. Smell it out. Curvet tumble slither slide creep crawl run and run faster than bigs can. Through caverns of cold stone and stickfires. Stinks of fire of bigs.

The rat fights me to the last, lashing its tail and chittering as I force it to slink along corridors, creeping along the line where wall and floor meet, scurrying from shadow to shadow. Closer and closer to my father's library.

The palazzo buzzes with activity. High alert. Guardian and Tribute slaves rush to and fro. But none see us. Finally, the rat's blurry, weak eyes show me the door I seek: the door to my father's library.

No light seeps under the door. The corridor is empty except for the regular pacing of the guards on their rounds. The archmages sit long over their dinner. But it is here they will discuss the dark thing my father is planning. There are too many ears in the dining hall. Servants' ears, kine ears; and my father has new proof that he is spied upon. This room – his inner sanctum – this is where he will bring them.

Squeeze, wriggle, ooze. Our bones shift and soften and we push and scrabble beneath the door, feeling in front of us with wriggling whiskers. Lovely dark. But  …  we hiss and the fur on our neck and shoulders bristles in fear and hate. There has been a catbeast here.

And suddenly I have a fight on my hands. The rat twists and turns, thrashing on the floor as it fights to rid itself of my presence. It's taken me by surprise; nearly, I lose my hold. But this is the library. This is where Swift died. All the black fury of that night returns, and I bear my will down on the beast. And it is stilled. I loosen my hold just in time, before I crush its mind altogether.

Whimpering, the rat scurries into the place I have chosen: beneath the clock shrine. The shrine is made of oily cedar wood. Carved feet lift the base two inches from the floor. More than enough room for a small rat. The smell bites our nostrils, but will cover our scent as well. We swivel our head from side to side, peering through the dark at my father's chair. We are a few feet away, but see only shadowy blue, purple and grey blurs. I doubt that there will be much improvement when the candles and oil lamps are lit. Our sharp, clever ears are our weapons tonight, not our weak eyes. And despite the loud ticking overhead – Aidan's work – we will be able to hear any word spoken in this room.

We crouch on the cold stone floor. The rat pants in distress and shivers, but no longer fights me. I feel a stab of self-loathing. I'm doing exactly what Aluid wanted; what I refused to do, what I've always hated – crushing the will of the animal I'm controlling. But I have no choice. For Swift. And Aidan. Tonight I will learn why my father took him hostage. Tonight I finally keep my promise to try to help him.

Even with the ticking of the clock overhead, I lose all track of time. It seems hours before footsteps approach and light spreads like water beneath the door. Our heart pounds in our chest and our neck fur bristles as the door swings inwards. My father's voice, translated through the high-pitched hearing of a rat, booms and cracks through the room. It takes minutes of struggle and panic before I adjust my brain to the sounds and hear words rather than concussions.

The mages lounge or perch on the chairs set out for them, doing their best to ignore the fact that my father's chair sits in front of his desk, facing them, like a throne. And that he sits in it like an emperor. Even through the rat's weak eyes, I can see the arrogance of his posture. His voice makes it even clearer. Benedict is ordering minions, not discussing plans with equals. Aris's assassination seems to have knocked the fight out of his fellow archmages as thoroughly as I have overwhelmed the rat.

As my hearing adjusts, I listen to a conversation already well begun:

‘ …  but we have no guarantee that the Makers will collapse in confusion as you suggest. So we kill the Council? So what? There will be other politicians. And don't forget the soldiers. They're the ones who matter.'

‘The head of their army will be present, Falu.' My father's voice is patient, but I can hear the irritation behind the calm tones. ‘And you underestimate the impact on the city when the entire Council is wiped out in their own chamber. At the same time, we mount our attack. We will have cut the head off the body; the arms and legs will be leaderless. Yes, they will fight. But not long or effectively. Our warrior mages and Tribute army will wipe the city of Gengst-on-the-Wall from the earth. And with the Wall breached, the most powerful of the Maker cities in ruins and every last soul killed. Well  … ' His laugh twists even the rat's strong stomach. ‘If we work together, we will exterminate the Maker race within weeks.'

‘And who is the adept you've chosen to inhabit the hostage Maker's body? They will need to be impeccable. I know few who I would trust with such a task.'

In my shock I barely recognise Wonset's cold, quivering old voice.
Aidan!
This is why my father brought him here. Benedict plans to wipe his mind and send his possessed body home, hiding the mage who inhabits it. There will be nothing left of him! Of the thing that makes him himself. It's worse than death! Aidan will be a golem made of flesh. A golem holding the will and magic of a mage bent on murder.

Bile rises in the rat's mouth. We shiver. The rat whimpers. I'm too stunned to notice the animal's distress as my father's voice booms and echoes bizarrely through the room.

‘Why, I myself will inhabit the Maker.' Benedict's voice is rich with anticipation. ‘Who else?'

Laughter. Laughter from half a dozen voices.

‘And who will repair the clocks when they break again?' This from Falu. ‘If you kill all the Makers, who will repair Time's shrines?'

‘The Maker is training an apprentice. They have nearly finished the repairs on the Great Clock in the Council Chamber. When that is done we are free to proceed.'

The rat and I crouch, shivering and shocked, staring into a blurry blankness of evil. Aidan. Oh gods, Aidan! Then the rat squeaks and races like a lightning flash for the door. Before I can think; before I can stop it.

A grey monster armed with gnashing fangs and slashing claws jumps out of the dark. Attacks. We veer, dart. We scream. We whirl, run madly one way and the next. The voices of evil roar and cheer.

POUNCE! Sharp claws dig into our back. Stabbing pain, unbearable pressure. Our spine snaps and the agony stops. Now there is only a quick suffocating darkness. So this  …  this is Death.

‘Clever puss.' The human's voice purrs. It is pleased with me.

Hands stroke me, lift me up to sit on a warm lap. I press my nose into the hand. Fingers rub the special spot behind my ears and I shiver in ecstasy. They have taken away the rat. I wanted it. I lick my lips, savouring the taste of rat, then curl up on the human's lap.

Voices float above my head. Back and forth. Distracting. Keeping me from sleeping. I open a sleepy eye, and  … 

 …  I am Zara!

The cat-me body stiffens, spine arching, claws unsheathing, digging into  …  my father.

‘Ahh!' An ungentle hand scoops me up, throws me. I arch and twist in mid-air, land sliding and skidding on all four paws, and run for the door. It opens before me. One of the mages, Merze, I think. I get a whiff of her delight at my father's discomfiture as I wheel out the door into the corridor, running for my life.

My life.

I was in the rat. And then the cat  … 
this cat
 …  attacked without warning. It must have been in the library the whole time. The rat knew. And I squashed its will, didn't listen to its instinct to flee.

Stupid. And so I wasn't prepared for the cat. I remember desperately trying to detach myself from the rat as it died. Flinging my consciousness free from the dead pathways of its brain before they dragged me into death. But I had no time to find my way back to the catacombs. I was disorientated and floating.
Free floating!

Inside the cat, I shiver with horror. So close to disembodiment  …  and the Hound's reluctant knife.

I must have somehow found the strength to transfer to the cat before I floated away entirely. I've never heard of any mage managing such a feat, not even my father. Another time I would be pleased. But I'm simply terrified. And desperately worried.

I'm growing weaker. The cat is easier to control than the rat, but even so it takes many ticks before I can slow its headlong flight. I encourage it to hide, flanks heaving, heart pattering, in a corner. I must think! It's so hard. I'm tired. I want to let go  …  I need to return to my body. I know where it is now. I sense the connecting thread of consciousness. Dwindled, but there. I should go now, before it's too late, before the thread weakens, thins, and snaps like the rat's spine. Floster and Philip must learn of Benedict's plan. We have to stop him.

But first, Aidan. I must tell Aidan. Now.

Ignoring the numbness chilling my consciousness more and more each minute, I tighten my grip on the cat. And we run. Run and run through corridors, sliding on the marble as we turn – right, left, right. Dodge through a half-open door under the feet of a cursing guard and on into the courtyard. And now. Slow. Pad on unconcerned paws to the entrance of the prison and saunter in. The guard barely gives us a glance. Dozens of cats and kittens prowl the palazzo, ratting and mousing.

So easy. Hope lightens our paws. Scamper up the stairs, ears flattened, tail streaming behind. And smell him almost at once. The part of me that is Zara senses him immediately; as clearly as seeing. He is asleep, on that small bed. Behind the door  …  the door  …  the
locked
door.
Oh, pestilence!

I growl and scratch at the wooden barrier separating us. Furious. Furry and furious. And am struck by a sudden image of how we must look; a small fluffy lilac-grey cat spitting and clawing at a prison door. If a cat could laugh, we'd be howling. Instead, we sit, curl up a hind leg and lick it furiously, soothing our embarrassment at having been ridiculous.

And then. Narrowing our eyes to slits, we peer past our leg at the door. We slink into a waiting crouch, as though yet another juicy rat sits quivering its whiskers in front of us. And I open the door. The fragment of my consciousness inside the cat finds the strength to command the iron of the bolt to unstick, to shift, to slide backwards. And the latch of the unbolted door to lift. We shoulder the door open and slip inside.

He sleeps. We jump up onto the bed, crouch beside him. Watching. The dark is not dark to us. In the half-light, the starlight and the light of the new weakling moon shining in at the window, we see him. Relaxed in sleep, Aidan is surprisingly beautiful. His hair is corn-coloured silk, smooth as the pelt of a hill leopard. His mouth curves, full lips soft and tender.

Slowly, we balance on his chest, rising and falling gently under the blanket. He is naked. He smells  …  oh, he smells of wonder, of spices and secrets. Of boy. Of man. We reach out a gentle, soft paw and pat his cheek. He sighs. Snores.

Aidan! Wake up!

He groans. And snores on.

We unsheathe our claws. Only a fraction. And  …  pat!

‘Ow!'

We leap back as the boy jerks up in the bed, clutching his face. A bit too much claw, then.

‘What the  … ' He breaks off and stares at us, befuddlement giving way to confusion. His head jerks around. He stares at the open door and his mouth drops open. It's funny. I'd laugh if I could. Instead I wait as he climbs slowly out of bed and then do my best to trip him up by winding in and out between his feet.

I wish I could take him with me now. Lead him out the prison and float him magically to the catacombs on the same strand of consciousness I must soon follow. But I can't. All I can do is warn him.

Aidan stares down at me. And I see wariness turn to fear in his eyes. He reaches out a shaking hand and pushes the door closed. He retreats to his bed and sits on it. ‘What are you?'

I open my mouth. And miaow. Oh, why can't animals talk? It would make life so much easier! Slowly, I shake my head back and forth, showing my inability, and Aidan's fear grows in his blue eyes. He guessed  …  and now he knows. Knows a mage is in his room wearing the body of a cat.

His fear makes me nervous. He might do something foolish. And I am nearing the end of my powers. Strength to concentrate is fading. I need to warn him and get out. My eyes search the floor, find a patch of dirt in a puddle of moonlight. I trot to it. Turn and look over my head at the boy until he slowly gets to his feet and reluctantly joins me.

I reach out a paw, and write in the dirt.

DANGER

He drops to his knees beside me and as he reads the word, his eyes grow huge. I pat the dirt with an awkward paw. He catches on quickly, smooths the dirt in readiness and I write again. Nine more times I write with a clumsy, slow paw. And each time Aidan wipes the words from the dirt, hands shaking as the meaning of my message is revealed.

BENEDICT

TREACHERY

BIG CLOCK

WHEN WORKS

YOU DIE

DELAY REPAIRS

WILL RETURN

FOR YOU

ZARA

As he reads the last word, the fear in his face is replaced by wonder. Then a new horror wipes it away. I flinch back as Aidan leaps up with a strangled cry to grab the blanket from his bed. It's not until he wraps it around his waist and hips that I realise he's mortified that I've seen him naked.

The cat and I sit back on our haunches, too tired even to think of laughing. Our head drops. We are shivering with exhaustion.

‘Zara? Are you ill? What's wrong?' He kneels, reaches out a tentative hand. I can almost feel him wondering if he should pet me or not. So I lift my head and touch my nose to his. A cat's kiss. I give him a brief, tired purr. Then turn and walk to the door.

Obediently, he opens it. ‘I know you'll come back for me. I trust you, Zara.'

I give him one last look. He is frowning after me, worry dark in his eyes. But he knows what he must do. He shuts the door behind me. And I perform the last job of the night.

It's killing me. I'm nearly spent. But the door must be re-bolted. Scraping, slow, heavy, the iron bolt slides home. And in that moment, I release myself from the cat, struggle, weak and fainting, up and up, seeking the slender thread of consciousness. Find it at last. So thin. So worn. Winding like a single strand of gossamer silk out of the prison, through the palazzo. A frail thread, rubbed to the point of breaking by Time.

I'm so tired. I watch the thread of my mind twisting its way on and on. I pull myself along it, hand over hand. It hurts. Not with the sharp pain of a burn, but the deathly deep ache of tiredness. And with a sudden despair I realise I can't do it. I've waited too long, outlasted my strength. It's too far, too difficult. I haven't the strength or the will. No one can do the impossible. Let me give up. Please. Let me rest.

Time for me to die. Time for the Hound's gentle knife.

I let go.

Oh, the relief! Just slide away. Fall  … 

I feel the Hound willing me to come back but I don't listen. I can't do it. I'm too tired. I've fought for so long. Let it stop now. Let someone else do it.

I trust you, Zara.

Oh, it hurts. I didn't know anything could hurt so very much. But what can I do? So many he's trusted have let him down. He needs me. Swift needed me and I failed her. I can't – I won't – do that again.

I wind the slow path of agony home to my cold body.