Tribute (4 page)

I race to my chamber and find my dark headscarf. It was easier to spy for the Knowledge Seekers when I was smaller, but there's nothing I can do about my height. Among the books in my father's library are stories about long-ago mages foolish enough to attempt shape shifting. It's possible for a skilled adept to change the structure of a living creature, but the results are usually fatal. Such magic is used in battle  …  or by executioners.

I pull on the plain brown robes I wear when I don't want to be noticed, stuff the scarf into a pocket for later. It's been too long since I've overheard anything useful. My father seems to trust me less with each year. As I slip through the corridors leading to the courtyard, I pray I don't run into Otter. And hope none of the administrative mages I pass wonders why I'm dressed like this, why I'm not at the Academy.

Once free of the palazzo, I stride through the city streets, reining in my impatience. As the hubbub of the market reaches my ears, I pause in a doorway to twist my hair up and cover it with the scarf. Of course, the mage marks on my cheeks and forehead proclaim what and who I am – but only a courtier would recognise Benedict's mark. And my mother has long been erased from official records. Most will take me for one of the rootless mages who roam the city-states in search of novelty.

The Maker's face still tugs at my imagination and my blood is singing. I feel reckless – invincible – which is both dangerous and stupid. When I first began spying for the Knowledge Seekers I was constantly terrified. But I've come to crave the excitement and risk. And the secret knowledge that I'm at war with my father.

I hurry through the marketplace as quickly as I dare. All around me stallholders call their wares:
Cabbage and potatoes! Fat cabbages for sale! Fine leeks! The last winter apples – buy before they go!
It's been a hard winter and even in Asphodel many kine have the bony faces and hollow eyes of the half-starved. Heads turn away and eyes drop as I pass. Swift told me that kine think it bad luck to look a mage in the eye.

I leave the noise of the food stalls behind and turn down a side street that leads to the silversmiths' quarter. The houses are small. Plaster crumbles from stuccoed walls. Where it remains it's faded pink, blue or ochre. Lemon trees raise rounded heads behind garden walls. Stone fountains spurt chill water and the clear sunshine of early spring falls slanting into the street. It shines on the wooden signboard of Tabitha the Silversmith.

I glance around to make sure I'm not observed, push open the low gate in the wall and enter a small courtyard. A robin scolds from the acid-yellow blossom of a late-blooming witch hazel. The house has an oak door, silver with age. It swings open at my touch and I step into a room full of sunlight and the sound of bells. Tabitha bends over a small pot, tapping it with a hammer. The hammer is a blur; the pinging noise like a flock of metal starlings in full voice, and the silversmith's face is rapt. As always, when I come here, I'm entranced.

I move forward into her line of vision and the noise stops at once. Tabitha lifts clear grey eyes, which widen as she recognises me. She stands and bows.

‘Bruin, the blacksmith.' Her eyes are firmly focused on the floor as she says this. She will not look at me again. For six years now, Tabitha has been my first contact, the first link in the chain of communication with the Knowledge Seekers. Her fear of me fills the room like a sulphurous stink.

‘Thank you,' I say, and leave.

Sometimes I am sent from shop to shop, from stall to stall. A young thief, Twiss, serves as the Knowledge Seekers' go-between. She may be based at the forge today, but there's no guarantee I'll find her there. Twiss could be flitting through the streets, carrying secrets from one rebel to another. Worse, it's nearly midday: counter time.

Twice a day the counters visit every smith in the city to weigh the iron and make sure none has been stolen to make a weapon, and Twiss will make sure she's nowhere to be found. If I've missed her I'll have to wait until tomorrow to pass on my news – I can't risk another trip to the market today.

But I'm lucky. The moment I peer into the smoke-filled smithy, I see her. She's working the forge, pumping the bellows with all the force her thin arms can muster. I pause in the door and watch. The thief is a dark-skinned girl with close-cropped black hair and the pointed face of a cat. She must be eleven or twelve, but looks no more than eight. She's dressed for her trade: barefoot and bare-limbed despite the cold, her tattered trousers and sleeveless tunic close-fitting and the colour of shadows.

The thief's happiness glows hot as the coals she heats. It's always the same when she's at the forge. Bruin is one of the leaders of the Knowledge Seekers; a grim-faced man with fire and iron in his soul. Not someone I would have expected a small child to attach herself to. Yet over the years I've watched an unexpected friendship grow between them. Twiss's eyes never leave the smith.

Bruin towers over her, all bristly black beard and leather apron. His powerful arms are bare and he's pounding a lump of iron on his anvil with a huge mallet. Sparks fly at every stroke. The room stinks of smoke, hot metal and sweat.

‘That'll do, Twiss. The counters'll be here soon. You'd best be off.' Bruin plunges the piece of wrought iron into a basin of water. Steam hisses up, and he wipes his face and smiles at the girl. ‘You're shaping up a fair smith. I'll be having a word with your old lady about 'prentice papers.'

‘The Mistress'd sooner see you 'prenticed for a thief but you're too blame big!' Twiss lets go of the bellows and grins happily at the blacksmith. There's the feeling of a familiar joke repeated and enjoyed. Then the thief spots me and the smile dies.

Twiss is one of the brave ones: she always looks me in the eye. Bruin is another. I suspect he may be heretical. I've never met another kine who treats me as though I'm nothing special, as though the blood running in my veins is no different from his. Now he glares at me, as if daring me to bring him bad news.

‘Is it the foundry?' he asks. ‘Have they got wind of it?'

A shiver runs down my back. I hardly dare think of the foundry. A secret foundry means death – horrific death – to any kine. The Knowledge Seekers have illegally mined iron ore and built a moveable blast furnace. For nearly a year now they have been making a stockpile of swords, knives and spear points. The work is painfully slow, but some day there will be enough to arm every kine in the city. The war will be horrific. My research has told me something of what happened in the Maker world.

I shake my head, shoving all thoughts of the foundry and what it will mean from my mind. ‘No. I've heard nothing about that. But there is news: Benedict has captured a Maker. The Archmage claims he's made peace!'

‘Peace?' Bruin's face grows dark. He turns his head and spits. ‘Someone's been feeding you lies, girl!'

‘But it's true! Benedict has bartered a truce with the Makers. The hostage is a clocksmith. He was handed over by his own people.'

I hear a hiss of indrawn breath from Twiss.

‘The Archmage wanted a clocksmith to repair our shrine clocks,' I explain. ‘And I think he offered them the truce as bait. But I don't think for a moment he intends to keep his word. Not once the clocks are repaired. The Maker boy is refusing to work, b-but he'll have to.' I swallow and force my thoughts back to the job in hand. ‘And  …  I think there's something else going on. Benedict is planning something. I don't like it.'

Twiss's eyes narrow. She's been listening intently, memorising my words. She'll be off any second, carrying my news like a messenger bird. Bruin takes the lump of iron from the water and thrusts it back into the fire, working the bellows with his spare hand. I would think that he hasn't heard me except that his forehead is furrowed in thought.

‘Wait on, child,' he orders Twiss as she moves for the door. ‘You were right to tell us.' Bruin's eyes shift to me. ‘But your job's only half done. Now go find out what the bastard really wants with this Maker.' Those words, spoken elsewhere, would earn him a slow and painful death. The smith returns to his work, hammering the glowing iron, a scowl of concentration on his face.

I watch Bruin a second longer before I go. I'm a mage. All my training tells me that I should punish him for his insolence, yet I find myself strangely pleased that he's spoken to me as though I too were a common thief.

I'm too excited to sleep – or even to eat – although rest and food are what I most need to get through the night ahead. Finally, my shrine clock chimes three of the morning and, as I creep along the corridors of the palazzo, avoiding the night-guard stations, I try to imagine what it would be like to be a member of the Thieves' Guild.

It's good that there's a moon – I don't want to risk mage light. I shiver and wish the palazzo floors were wood rather than marble. Except that they would creak and I'm making too much noise already. I can't seem to stop my robes brushing the walls, my bare feet scuffing.

Twiss's tribe would never have me. The idea of a mage apprenticed to that outlawed guild makes me smile as I pad – almost silently – along the ground floor. Thieves steal from kine and mage alike. Benedict has tried for years to exterminate them. It's his one failure as Archmage.

I open a shuttered window, ease over the sill and drop onto the stone pavement of the courtyard. My heart taps quick as Tabitha's hammer as I dart across the open space. I hide in the moonshade cast by rose bushes; circumnavigate slender columns of topiary pointing to the stars. I don't
think
I believe the stories about the statues – that they were prisoners turned to marble or bronze in the age of great magic – but I avoid their shadows.

I crouch at the base of the ancient bay tree and stare at the prison entrance. Who is on duty tonight? Everything depends on that. Flying is powerful magic. If the duty mage is an adept they will feel the elements shifting, if they're awake and not drunk. And then they might wonder who was doing strong magic this time of night and come to investigate.

Still  …  my eyes lift to the prison roof  …  there's no other way in. I'm going to do it. My blood burns in anticipation.
Disobedience!
I let myself revel in the feeling for a moment then push it away.

And I'm airborne! Adept's magic, and a skill I mastered early. Ordinary mages can barely hover above the ground for a few seconds – I fly. Concentrate, thicken the air beneath and push. It's more like walking on columns of feathers than flying. Balance is everything  …  and focus. It uses up energy at a ferocious rate, and I'm physically drained when I drop onto the prison roof. But I'm shaking more from nerves. I crouch low and wait. The moon shines down; the tall cypress trees circling the palazzo bar the roof with shadows. Silence.

I swallow to ease the dryness in my throat and move as quietly as I can to the edge of the roof, clinging to the gently sloping pantiles. There is a small window on this side of the prison. The window is always open; its wooden shutters rotted long ago. A forgotten window. Doves fly in and out during the day and bats at dusk.

I step off the roof onto a column of thickened air and lower myself to the window. A smell of dust, of decayed feathers and the dried faeces of small animals catches at the back of my throat. I reach out, grasp the sill, and pull myself inside. It's an old storeroom of some sort. In the faint moonlight, I see a filthy wooden floor, the boards half rotten. Something scurries along one wall and my stomach lurches. I hate rats.

The door is opposite. I'm sure now that the duty mage isn't an adept. Or is drunk. So I float above the floor. It's not just the filth – I don't trust those boards to carry my weight. The door is locked; the lock rusted solid. I rust it further. Push. And curse. I'd forgotten the hinges would squeak. The mage might not be an adept, but she or he will have ears. As will the prison guards.

I'm tired now – I should have eaten. I stand in a dark corridor beside the half-opened door, heart pounding, and wait. Nothing. Time's own luck is with me tonight. I must be more careful or I'll lose what might be my only chance to talk to the Maker. As I think of him, his face appears in my mind, and I decide to take one more risk. The prison is a labyrinth of cells but I need to find him quickly.

I settle onto my heels, my back against the wall, and send out a thin thread of consciousness. Most of my mind is still in my body. I'm far too frightened to risk more. I focus on the image of the boy and send the thread snaking through the prison. I sniff him down, like a bloodhound.

One floor down. In a locked room and not one of the cells in the dungeon. Benedict obviously wants him alive and healthy. The boy lies on a bed in a corner of the room, beneath a barred window. But he does not sleep. I search and find the nearest guard. She paces the corridors one after another, her route a set pattern. I memorise it and return to my body.

In less than five minutes I'm outside the Maker's door; the guard should be out of sight and hearing for another five. It's long enough to touch the lock with my mind, push the metal fingers holding it shut into alignment. There's a soft click and the lock is open. I twist the heavy doorknob and slide into the room.

That was easy! I grin to myself. Perhaps the Thieves' Guild will have me after all  …  and then someone lunges at me and there's an arm around my throat. I struggle to speak but he's choking me. Instinct takes over; I thicken the air between us and shove the boy away. He staggers back and I send a ball of mage light spinning between us. I'm breathing hard and not just from effort. Ever since the night in the library, I cannot bear being touched. I stare at the Maker, daring him to try again.

The reflection of my mage light dances in his irises, turning them a bright kingfisher blue. Something catches in my throat at the sight of him, at his nearness. He's standing in a half-crouch, arms loose at his sides. A fighter's stance. The Maker glares at me, only the rapid pulse flickering in his neck betraying his fear. Perhaps it's the danger, but suddenly I can barely breathe. He looks from the mage light to my face and I see shock. But that is quickly replaced with a more familiar expression: loathing.

‘What do you want,
mage
?' He hisses the word like a curse.

‘To help you.'

And now, face to face with the Maker, I know I've been a fool. Why should he trust me or answer my questions? Worse, I can't trust him. I can't tell him I'm a spy in my father's palazzo; that I'm Benedict's daughter but am working with the Knowledge Seekers. Even if he wanted to keep my secret, no mind is safe from the Archmage.

‘Help me? Why would you? You're a mage!' The look of loathing on his face intensifies.

‘So?' I snap. ‘Does that mean I can't try to help you?'

‘Yeah.' He nods sarcastically, but he's breathing more quickly now and I feel his fear expand. ‘That's exactly what it means. Why are you really here? Did the Archmage send you?' He looks me up and down in a way that makes me want to slap him. ‘Are you supposed to seduce me into being a good boy? Well, tell your master he'll have to try harder. Besides, I don't sleep with demons, I kill them!'

Blue eyes blaze above sharp cheekbones. He's made an attempt to wash, but his face is still bruised and his hair stiff with road dust. He watches me like a bird of prey, body tensed for battle. I can feel his his anger, his desire to escape. But not blood lust. Fear and hatred, yes. But this boy has never killed anyone. I'm certain of it and it gives me the courage to continue.

‘I've been really stupid,' I say and feel a surge of triumph as he blinks in surprise. ‘I should have realised you'd be scared of me. But you don't have to be. My mother died because she wanted to help the kine.'

‘Kine? Your mother died because she liked
cows
? Great!' He snorts a bitter laugh and shakes his head. ‘Just to make things totally wonderful, now I'm being stalked by a mad demon.'

‘Mages are not demons! We're as human as you. And I'm not mad. Well  …  maybe I am  …  oh,
pestilence
!' How many ways can I mess this up? And what I have to say next isn't going to help.

‘“Kine” is the mage word for non-magic users.'

He blazes into anger at once. ‘You call us
cattle
? That's disgust—'

‘Yes, it is. Now shut up and let me finish!'

He glares at me, battle-light in his eyes. I stare right back. The Maker crosses his arms and waits, his whole body shouting sarcastic comments.

‘Thank you!' I take a deep breath. Unlike this boy, I've had years to learn to control my temper. ‘My mother was an adept. A mage of great talent who undertook years of schooling to join the ruling elite. She had everything – power, status. But she gave it all up because she knew it was wrong to enslave non-magic users. She died for her beliefs. Mages like us are considered heretics. We're locked up or killed. But we exist. A few of us.'

I pause, but he merely watches me. Giving nothing.

I try again. ‘The Archmage claims he's made a truce with the Makers, but I don't believe he wants peace. I think he wants to wipe your people from the earth. I'm here to talk to you, nothing else.'

I haven't forgotten his taunt about seduction. It's a perfectly logical conclusion for him to have made, but I don't like him any the better for it. I push my irritation aside. ‘If we work together perhaps we can figure out why the Archmage has really brought you here.'

His face tells me I'm not getting through. Stubborn, arrogant boy! Why did I ever want to help him?

‘You can believe me or not!' I snap. ‘That's your decision. I've risked my life to come here tonight! What have you got to lose? I'm not asking you to tell me anything the Archmage doesn't already know.'

His sharp blue eyes narrow, considering. He's not like me: he doesn't rush at things.

‘You claim you're risking so much,' he says at last. ‘Well, why do it then? To help your enemy? I don't believe that. What's in it for you?'

‘I told you. My mother –'

‘Died. Yeah. You said.' The loathing in his eyes has faded to dislike. But his mistrust stains the air between us.

There's something else as well, something he's fighting to keep under control. Anger, of course. He's been delivered into slavery by his own people. But there's a deeper, sadder emotion. The Maker has lost everything and everyone he loved. I try not to feel his pain but it's no use. Some people I can barely read. Others seem directly connected – I can't stop myself feeling their emotions. Swift was like that, and the thief, Twiss. And so is this boy.

‘I've lost people too. Everyone. That's why  … ' I've run out of words. I can't reach him. I've failed.

My vision blurs. My nose starts to run and I swipe at it, furious with myself. Who am I fooling? I can't save this boy. For years I've been playing pretend, like a child refusing to grow up, imagining that somehow I will be the one to change things.

I don't want to be a mage! I don't want the power to kill with my mind. I don't want any more Tribute children, any more suffering. I don't want Swift to have died for nothing  …  but she did. Benedict murdered her. He killed my mother. He will probably kill me someday. Wanting something won't make it happen, no matter how hard you pretend. The Knowledge Seekers will never defeat the mages. I'm a fool.

‘I'm sorry.' There really isn't anything else to say. It's all been for nothing. I turn to go.

He's brave: he touches me for the second time. He takes hold of my arm and turns me back around with surprising gentleness. And it's the gentleness – plus the new look in his eyes as he studies my face – that keeps me from blasting him across the room for daring to touch me again.

The Maker is standing so close our bodies almost meet. My heart thuds in my chest, heavy and hurtful. My mage light flickers and goes out, but there's moonlight from the barred window. It's bright enough.

The Maker reaches up a careful hand and pulls the scarf from my head. He stares at my hair as it tumbles down; stares at my face, at my mage marks, his eyes searching, his whole body tense with the strain of keeping hope at bay. ‘Who are you? What's your name?'

I am still a fool. I tell him: ‘Zara.'

‘I'm Aidan,' he says. ‘Son of Fergal the Clockmaker. Will you help me, Zara? Will you help me get home?'