Tribute (5 page)

We sit side by side on the narrow bed and his story is whispered to the dark.

‘They sent my brother to find me. Donal.' The moon is setting, but there's still enough light to see his scowl. ‘Donal's the soldier.' Aidan shrugs. ‘I'm apprenticed to Father. I'm good with machines and Mother didn't want me going to war. I'm still an apprentice but I'm already the best horologist in the city.' There's no pride in his voice; he sounds like he's swearing. ‘I don't want to be a clockmaker! I want to be an engineer.'

He darts a quick look at me from under frowning brows, then smiles ruefully. His smile lights his face and my breath catches in my throat. I turn my head away, aware that I'm blushing.

But he's speaking again: ‘I'm tribute.'

As he pronounces the word, the moonlight framing Aidan seems to shimmer. The Maker dissolves away and in his place I see a small figure with hair like dark wings. A head, turning slowly towards me, as though submerged in black treacle. A pale face shining; dark eyes lifting.

The vision cracks and floats away like fallen leaves on a stream. I stare at Aidan and my heart stutters with the heavy, slow rhythm of that old pain.

‘Are you all right?' The Maker is watching me, eyes suddenly wary.

‘You said “Tribute”.' My voice is hoarse. Did I see her? Was it my mind, playing tricks? Or Swift's ghost?

‘It's our word for a hostage.' Aidan says. ‘Why?'

I hesitate, still dazed. ‘It means something different here. A Tribute is a slave.'

Should I tell him? He hates mage-kind already.
Demons
. What will he think of us – of me – when he knows the truth? I have to trust him enough to tell him. Trust that he will understand.

I begin: ‘Each non-magic family must give their firstborn to us – to the mages – the year the child turns five. It's a tithe the kine pay to their mage overlords – a human tax. It provides us with free labour, but it's also an insurance against insurrection. We have their children.'

I see the horror in his face. I don't want to say more, but I must. I owe it to Swift. And the brutal truth is probably the only way to finally reach this boy – to make him understand that this isn't just about him.

‘Each autumn,' I continue, ‘a new crop of children is harvested. They become servants in our houses. At twelve, most are sent to join the Tribute army – to fight on the Maker Wall and die there. A few of the five-year-olds are chosen for special training and become guards, like those in this prison. As well as guarding the city, they oversee the Tribute army. And each archmage picks one guard to be their own Guardian – their servant, shield and assassin. Guards and Guardians alike have had their minds  …  cleansed  …  so that they will be totally loyal.'

He stares at me. Even in the faint moonlight, shock and disgust are plain on his face.

‘We don't all want it to be this way!' I cry. ‘I
don't!'

He swallows and the revulsion fades a little from his face. ‘Because of your mother?'

‘Partly. But  … ' I've never spoken of Swift to anyone. Not since Gerontius – and I never really talked about her to him: it hurt too much. But I have to make the Maker understand. I take a deep breath and begin. ‘On my fifth birthday, I was given a Tribute child by my father. To be my personal servant. I loved her. She was like a sister to me. She died. She was murdered.'

Speech has left me. Tears run down my face.

I feel the horror in Aidan's soul give way to tenderness. He wipes my tears away with a gentle hand. Where he touches my skin, his fingers leave a glowing trail of warmth. The Maker looks deep into my eyes. ‘I'm sorry for your loss,' he says with quiet formality. ‘What was her name?'

‘Ita. I called her Swift.'

‘Who killed her?'

I stare at him, my mouth open. I shake my head. I can't tell him who I am – that I'm Benedict's daughter, the daughter of Swift's murderer. And now I'm crying properly. Deep, wrenching sobs that feel like they will tear me to pieces.

‘Oh,
shit!
'

If I wasn't so upset the panic in his voice would be funny. But I can't stop sobbing long enough to laugh.

‘Look. If this a trick  … ' He groans. ‘Just, don't get the wrong idea, all right?'

A hesitant arm goes round me. Then another. Aidan holds me awkwardly, then he relaxes and pulls me close. He stinks of sweat – both boy and horse – and he's squeezing me too tightly. But instead of the awkwardness and anger I expect to feel, a sharp but sweet pain kindles beneath my heart.

My misery loosens. I lie against his shoulder, shuddering as my body quietens. And think:
How strange that the first person since Swift to hold me like this should be a Maker.

In the quiet and peace, I sit up and look into his eyes. His arms immediately unwrap themselves and he slides a little way away from me on the bed. I'm shocked by how bereft I feel.

He watches me warily. Still, that doubt. Does he trust me at all?

‘Sorry,' I say. ‘I almost never cry. But I don't talk about her.'

‘S'all right.' He looks even more uncomfortable and suddenly I feel too big for my skin, all elbows and knees and stupidly long legs. I wrap my arms around myself.

‘You said you were given to the Archmage as a hostage?' I make my voice business-like.

‘Yes.' He shrugs.

‘But  …  that means there really was some sort of parley between Benedict and your people.'

‘There was a parley. The Archmage sued for peace. We're not at war now. So Benedict says. So my father believes. Our spies report that your army has withdrawn to camps a few miles away from the Wall.'

‘I wish I could believe in the peace, but I don't!' I shake my head in frustration, searching in vain for an explanation. ‘There's something we don't know. The Archmage hates the Makers. All mage-kind fear that ki—  …  that the non-magic will someday rise in rebellion as they did on your side of the Wall. Brokering a truce would be political suicide.'

‘I don't believe it either.' The look he throws me is full of the pain of betrayal. For a moment, I glimpse the boy of ten, secure in a childhood where love existed. The lost boy.

‘It's obviously a trick of some sort.' Aidan shrugs, a faint sneer on his face. The boy has disappeared. ‘I told them so! But my father didn't want to believe me. Every family in Gengst has lost someone on the Wall. We've been trapped in the past by the Mage wars for generations. Those who should invent and build the future die fighting your kind. My father wants peace more than he wants to kill mages. And the Council didn't think they had anything much to lose. Only an apprentice clockmaker.

‘Give him his due – my father had a really hard time.' Aidan grinds out the words: ‘He sacrificed the son he had trained up to take over the family business, but at least he's guaranteed his political career. He'll be Council leader for the rest of his life. Whether I live or die, he's always going to be the man who gave his son for the city.'

He sits hunched on the bed, lips tight and thin, eyes full of cold misery. I know he's watching the death rites of his childhood. There's nothing I can say. No comfort I can give. We all face the truth alone.

I hear myself sigh with relief as the wave of pain crests and falls back. I say: ‘The Archmage wants you to fix our clocks.'

He nods. ‘And make new ones. And train up some of your slaves as my apprentices. They told me your Clockmakers' Guild died out a generation ago.'

I decide this probably isn't the time to tell him that our clockmakers were murdered for rebelling against their overlords.

‘I'm to be the master of your new Clockmakers' Guild.' His laugh is dry and hard. ‘As long as the peace holds, I live. Until I've taught what I know. And then  … ' He stares at the floor. ‘My people sold me, sacrificed me like a sheep to the winter sun.'

‘And you want to go back to them?'

‘Anything is better than being a slave to a filthy  … ' He breaks off with a wince.

‘A filthy mage. You can say it.' I shrug, hiding my desperation: I don't want him to see me like that. Perhaps that's what makes me say it – the need to prove to him that I'm different – to prove it to myself. ‘I know people who can help you get home. I'll find a way to get you to them.' It's a rash promise and even as I make it I realise the odds are impossibly long.

‘Who?' His slumping body straightens at once. He leans towards me.

‘I can't tell you yet. It isn't safe for you to know. I have to talk to them first. Make arrangements. But I promise – I won't stop until you are free.'

His eyes capture mine, full of hope. My heart flutters, begins to race. Suddenly I feel like I'm back inside the hawk, soaring high above Asphodel. I reach out and take his hand. His fingers tighten on mine. He shakes his head as though seeing something strange, incomprehensible.

‘Are you real, Zara? You're not like anyone I've ever met.

‘Nor are you,' I whisper.

‘Will you really help me?' His eyes search mine, wanting to believe. But still I feel doubt threading the dark edges of his mind.

There's a twisting pain in my chest. But still I say it: ‘I swear!'

I've sworn and am like to be forsworn – helping this boy will almost certainly kill me – or worse – but I don't care.

He shakes his head, holding my gaze. ‘How long?'

‘I don't know. I can't tell you that. I'm sorry. You'll have to be patient. For a little while.'

‘I'm not going to repair the clocks!' Aidan drops my hand, turns away. He stares into the dark, chin jutting stubbornly.

‘You
have
to. He'll make you!' I grab his arm, feel the living warmth of his skin, the strength of his muscles. And know the strength is an illusion. My father could break this boy to pieces with a single thought. ‘Just play along with the Archmage for now,' I urge. ‘Why not? You don't want to risk  …  he can do horrible things! You won't prove anything  …  you'll just suffer.'

‘
I'm not a slave!
'
He remembers to whisper, but the blast of pain and anger batters me. ‘My whole life, people have decided who I'm to be, what I'm to do. But this  … 
no!
' Aidan draws his arm away, stands up. He takes deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down. Without looking at me he says: ‘Thank you, Zara, for promising to help me. But I think you should go now. I need to think. And  …  you should just leave.'

I'm a mage again. No longer an enemy perhaps, but not yet a friend. I suddenly feel tired to my very bones. I nod. I walk out of the cell, close the door and lock it behind me, and leave him alone in the dark.

It's days before I see him again. Days spent avoiding Otter, placating my tutors, staying out of my father's sight. I don't dare return to the prison. The risk isn't worth it – Aidan has told me all he knows and it's not enough. I have nothing to offer the Knowledge Seekers. Bruin gave me a job, and I've failed. As for the Maker boy's bravado – his threat to withhold labour – I have to trust that somewhere in that thick head he has a degree of self-preservation. He will have to work. He is the Archmage's creature now, whether he knows it yet or not.

With every day that goes by without a glimpse of the Maker, the pain in my heart sharpens. Why? I'm not sure I even like him. But his face, with those wounded, bright eyes shining resentfully at me, haunts my dreams both awake and asleep.

I get up before time and dress in the cold, clear light that finds my window earlier each morning. Spring has come at last. My white student robes are not the best colour to wear when spying, but I'm only Benedict's problem child. No one – from the high adepts who sit on the Council of Mages to lowly administrative mages – takes me seriously. In the hour before lessons, I wander the palazzo almost unnoticed, listening to gossip, looking for any sign of the Maker.

A week passes without success. Then one day as I trot down the marble staircase that circles up and up on its iron balustrades, the twisted spine of my father's house, I glance to the floor below and catch sight of a scarlet jerkin and cropped blond head. I grab the banister – surprise has turned my knees to butter – and watch him disappear around a corner. Otter walks slightly behind the Maker, his bulk too quickly blotting Aidan from view.

I reorganise my legs and slip quiet-footed after them, careful to keep out of sight. Two sets of boots clump ahead of me, down the corridor then up the servants' stairs at the back of the building. I trail them all the way to the attics.

Spying on Otter is almost as terrifying as eavesdropping on my father so I keep well back. When I open the landing door and edge around it all I see is an empty corridor paved with dusty terracotta tiles and lined with a row of plain doors. Storerooms, I guess. I've never had reason to come here before. Why has Otter brought the Maker here? They must be in one of these rooms. There's no place else for them to go.

I'm about to follow when I hear something. Halfway down the corridor, a door opens and a Tribute guard steps out. She closes the door with quiet efficiency and turns towards me. I back up so quickly I nearly fall on my behind.
Did she see me?

Almost frantic with fear, I gather my magic and half fly, half glide down the stairs, following the twisting stairwell to the floor below. I slip through the landing door, close it behind me and crouch there. Blood pounds in my ears. What if the Tribute wants this floor? But I'm trapped now.

The steady clump of her boots follows the stairs down. Closer and closer. I hold my breath, but the boots pass on without a break in rhythm. A wash of relief. I'm trembling slightly as I frown into the silence. The guard must have come from the room where Otter has taken Aidan. But why she was there, waiting for them?

In less than a minute, I'm back on the floor above, encouraging my feet to silence as I approach the door where the guard appeared. I was right. They
are
in there. I hear raised voices from inside the room. Actually, one raised voice. The other is low and quiet. I recognise them at once: Aidan and Otter.

‘
 …  go and get stuffed!
' Aidan isn't shouting. His voice is too full of concentrated scorn for that.

‘What kind of man are you? You haven't even got a proper name – you're called after an animal, for fuck's sake. You're nothing but an intellectual eunuch – doing that monster's bidding. Why don't you slaves join together and fight back? He can't kill all of you. You're a coward! I'd rather be dead than be his creature.'

‘You won't be given the opportunity to choose.' Otter's voice is still quiet, but there's an edge to it I've never heard before. The Maker has got under the Guardian's skin, something I've never managed to do.

‘The Lord Benedict has been extremely patient with you, Maker.' The Guardian's voice is heavy with threat. ‘But his patience is at an end. This is your workroom. It is equipped with every tool you might need. You will repair the clock shrine waiting on the work table. You will start immediately. Or you will be punished.'

I edge closer to the door. I need to see inside. It's tiny magic: even an adept would hardly notice. The door latch is made of oak, a stubborn wood. But I convince the wood fibres that they want to float on the thickening air. Slowly, carefully, I lift the latch with my mind, push the door open as far as I dare and peer inside.

The Guardian is looming over Aidan, trying to intimidate him physically. The Maker is a head shorter and half as wide. Otter could break him in two with his bare hands and they both know it.

Damn Aidan!
Why is he doing this? Why can't he just repair the shrines? Pride? Sheer stubborn stupidity? Partly, but I think he doesn't know what he's facing. He doesn't know my father.

I start to call out, then press my hand over my mouth. I can't help Aidan. I have to trust that Otter won't actually kill him. If I interfere, Benedict will find out I've disobeyed him and probably put me under full surveillance. I can't afford that now. Not when I might at last be of real use to the Knowledge Seekers.

The emotion swirling around the room is making me dizzy.
Two people?
I never sense the Guardian – Otter is a blank. That means there's a third person in the room. Someone terrified, almost to the point of collapse. I edge sideways until I see him cowering a few steps behind Otter – a little boy dressed in the black tunic of a Tribute. A thin child with bushy white-blond hair. His face is white with horror. His mouth is open as though he's crying out, but he makes no sound. I hear it though – his unspoken scream. It wails inside my head.

‘Your apprentice is waiting.' Otter's voice is hard. ‘Your tools are ready. Start working.' The tension in the air rises like steam.

I bite my lip, heart thudding.
Please, Aidan! Do as you're told!

But the Maker raises his chin, blue eyes narrowed and glinting. ‘Get stuf—'

Otter's hand lashes out and slaps the word from Aidan's mouth. The force of the blow lifts the Maker off his feet and sends him flying sideways. He crashes to the floor but staggers up immediately. Blood trickles from a cut lip. He shakes his head to clear it and smiles at Otter. ‘Having fun?'

I groan. The attitude, the anger – the sheer, stubborn determination not to give in. It's all still there, stronger than ever. Aidan's just upped the stakes. I'm going to have to stop this. But I can't! My mind freezes. I don't know what to do.

Otter is watching Aidan. His calm control is back and he gives a short, chilly laugh and shakes his head. ‘You're a little cracker, aren't you? Tough boy, eh?'

‘Tough enough.' Aidan wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I've been beaten up by better men than you. We know how to fight, our side of the Wall. You're a coward, or you'd be dead before you'd work for these blood suckers.'

‘You don't know what you're talking about.' Otter nods his head, as though he's come to a decision. ‘But I wonder how tough you'll be after a taste of this. I've got to know you a little bit now, Aidan of Gengst, so I had the prison guards bring me one of their favourite toys. Especially for today.'

The Guardian walks out of my line of vision. My mouth is dry, my heart pounding. Then Otter reappears. He's carrying a whip made of nine leather thongs with metal tips. The prison torturers call it ‘the Persuader'. Applied skilfully, the metal tips slice skin. Cut through flesh and tendon to bare white bone.
Oh gods! He can't mean it!

But the Guardian doesn't approach the Maker. Instead he walks to the child, takes him by the arm and drags him forward. The boy makes no sound, but his face goes even whiter and his whole body shakes. My stomach twists inside out. I look from the boy to Aidan. The Maker's cockiness has disappeared. There's only shock and dawning horror in his blue eyes.

‘Not you, Maker.' Otter's face is blank, empty. ‘We need you whole and in one piece to do your work. The boy. If you don't pick up your tools and repair this clock – properly, no messing – I'll flog the boy. There's not much flesh on him. He might die, which would be unfortunate. We'd have to find another apprentice and do it all over again. So what say you now, Aidan of Gengst?'

Aidan stares back, eyes dark with hatred. His chest is heaving, almost as though he's sobbing. But he doesn't speak. I can feel his horror as strongly as my own. And his desperation. ‘No.' He shakes his head. ‘You're bluffing. You wouldn't!'

Otter's expression doesn't change. His grip on the boy's shoulder is the only thing keeping the child on his feet. ‘Are you willing to risk this boy's life that you're right? This city rests on the ashes of dead children, Maker. Your people have seen them die in their hundreds and thousands on your Wall. Do you think the Archmage will give this child a moment's thought? You're the only one who can save his life. Your choice, Maker. Does he live? Or will you watch him die, just so you can prove how tough you are?'

Aidan's mouth opens. His face is chalky. He's gasping. ‘Bastard  … ' he breathes. And then he closes his eyes and his whole body slumps.

Thank the gods! He's giving in!

‘You win.' Aidan has opened his eyes and the person looking out is years older. ‘I'll do what you want. I'll work. Let go of the kid, you  … '

Tears trickling unnoticed from his eyes, the Maker marches on the Guardian, who steps back. Aidan gently takes the boy by the shoulders. He squats down until their faces are level. ‘It's all right, kid. You're my apprentice now. Hey  …  come on, stop crying. He didn't mean it. I'm looking after you now. No one's gonna hurt you. I promise.'

I back away from the scene, my body convulsed with sobs I don't dare release.

I turn to run, but a hand grabs my shoulder and tugs me around. Nearly seven years ago, Otter came to the palazzo as my father's new Guardian. Since then he has never once dared to touch me. Now he holds my arms with stone-hard hands. He glares down at me and his eyes – always so empty, so unreadable – have come to vivid, furious life.