A stack of coffins, hastily built, stinking of disinfectant.
Kindling was piled all around them.
She stopped breathing, flung her arm over nose and mouth, gave a wail of horror.
Plague!
It explained everything; the people falling, the cowed and muffled silence, the desperation for Rix’s magic to be real.
She stumbled out backwards, sobbing with dread, grabbing snow, scrubbing her hands, her face, her mouth and nose. Had she caught it? Had she breathed it in? Oh god, had she touched anyone?
Breathless, she turned to run.
And saw Rix.
He was stumbling towards her. ‘No way out,’ he gasped.
‘Can we hide in there?’
‘No!’ She caught his arm. ‘This is a plague village. We have to get out of here,’
‘So that’s it!’ To her amazement he laughed in relief. ‘Just for a minute there, sweetie, I thought I was losing my touch. But if it’s just—’
‘We could already be infected! Come on!’ He shrugged, turned.
But as he faced the darkness he stopped.
A horse stepped out from the smoky shadows of the lane, a horse dark as midnight, its rider tall, wearing a tricorn hat.
He wore a black mask with narrow eyeholes. His coat was long and his boots supple and fine. He carried a firelock, and now he pointed it with practised skill straight at Rix’s head.
Rix froze.
‘The Glove,’ the shadow whispered. ‘Now.’ Rix wiped his face with one black hand, then spread his fingers. His voice adopted its cringing whine. ‘This, lord? It’s just a prop. A stage-prop. Take anything from me, sir, but please, not—’
‘Cut the act, Enchanter.’ The highwayman’s voice was amused and cold. Attia watched, alert. ‘I want the real Glove.
Now.’ Reluctant, Rix slowly took a small black bundle from his inside pocket.
‘Give it to the girl.’ The firelock edged slightly towards her.
‘She brings it to me. You make any move and I kill both of you.’ Attia surprised herself, and both of them, by her harsh laugh. The masked man glanced quickly at her, and she caught his blue eyes. She said, ‘That’s not the Glove either.
The real one he keeps in a small pouch under his shirt. Close to his heart?
Rix hissed with fury. ‘What is this? Attia!’ The masked man clicked the trigger back. ‘Then get it.’ Attia grabbed Rix, tugged the robe open and dragged the string from around his neck. His face, close to hers, whispered, ‘So you were a plant all along.’ The pocket was small, of white silk.
She stepped back, thrust it into her coat. ‘I’m sorry, Rix, but…’
‘I believed in you, Attia. I even thought you might turn out to be my Apprentice.’ His eyes were hard; he stabbed a bony finger at her. ‘And you’ve betrayed me.’
‘The Art Magicke is the art of illusion. You said it.’ Rix’s face contorted in white fury. ‘I won’t forget this.
You’ve made a mistake crossing me, sweetie. And believe me, I’ll have my revenge on you.’
‘I need the Glove. I need to find Finn.’
‘Do you? Keep it safe, Sapphique said. Is he safe, your thief friend? What does he want it for, Attia? What harm will he do with it?’
‘Maybe I’ll wear it.’ The highwayman’s eyes were cold through his mask.
Rix nodded. ‘Then you will control the Prison. And the Prison will control you.’
‘Take care of yourself, Rix,’ Attia said. She put up her arm, and Keiro leant down and pulled her up behind him.
They turned the horse in a circle of sparks. Then they galloped away into the icy dark.
The Boy in The Yellow Coat
8
Our Realm will be splendid. We will live as men should live, and the land will be tilled for us by a million yeomen. Above us the ruined moon will be our emblem of the Years of Rage. It will flicker through the clouds like a lost memory.
Finn lay deep in a softness of pillows so comfortable that his whole body was relaxed. Sleep was a drowsy content; he wanted to slip back into it, but already it was receding, withdrawing from him like a shadow from the sun.
The Prison was quiet. His cell was white and empty and only a small red Eye watched him from the ceiling.
‘Finn?’ Keiro’s voice came from somewhere close. Behind it the Prison remarked, ‘He looks younger when he sleeps.’ Bees hummed through an open window. There was a sweet scent of flowers he had no name for.
‘Finn? Can you hear me?’ He turned, licked dry lips.
When he opened his eyes the sun dazzled him. The figure bending over him was tall and fair but it was not Keiro.
Claudia sat back with relief. ‘He’s awake.’ Finn felt all the knowledge of where he was flood him like a wave of despair. He tried to sit but Jared’s hand came down gently on his shoulder. ‘Not yet. Take your time.’ He lay in the enormous four-poster bed, on soft white pillows. Above him the dusty canopy was embroidered with suns and stars and intricate twining briar—roses. Something sweet smouldered in the hearth. Servants moved discreetly round, bringing water, a tray.
‘Get them out,’ he croaked.
Claudia said, ‘Stay calm.’ She turned. ‘Thank you all.
Please tell the Queen’s Majesty that His Highness is quite recovered. He will attend the Proclamation.’ The chamberlain bowed, ushered the footmen and maids out, and closed the double doors.
At once Finn struggled up. ‘What did I say? Who saw me?’
‘Don’t distress yourself.’ Jared sat on the bed. ‘Only Claudia. When the seizure ended she summoned two of the groundsmen. They brought you up the back stairs. No one saw.’
‘But they all know.’ He felt sick with anger and shame.
‘Drink this.’ The Sapient poured a cordial into a crystal glass; he held it out and Finn took it quickly. His throat was parched with thirst. It always was, afterwards.
He didn’t want to meet Claudia’s eyes but she seemed unembarrassed; when he looked up she was pacing impatiently at the foot of the bed.
‘I wanted to wake you, but Jared wouldn’t let me. You slept all night and half the morning! The ceremony is in less than an hour.’
‘I’m sure they can wait for me.’ His voice was sour. Then, slowly, he gripped the empty glass and looked at Jared. ‘Is it true? What she told me? That the Prison . . . that Keiro is so small?’
‘It’s true.’ Jared refilled the glass.
‘It’s not possible.’
‘It was only too possible for the Sapienti of old. But Finn, listen to me. I want you to try not to think of it, not now You have to prepare yourself for the ceremony.’ Finn shook his head. Astonishment was like a trapdoor inside him; it had opened under him and he could not stop falling into it. Then he said, ‘I remembered something.’ Claudia stopped.’ What?’ She came round the bed. ‘What was it?’ He lay back and glared at her. ‘You sound just like Gildas.
All he ever cared about were the visions. Not about me.’
‘Of course I care.’ She made a real effort to calm her voice.
‘When I saw you were ill I—’
‘I’m not ill.’ He swung his feet out of bed. ‘I’m a Starseer.’ They were silent. Then Jared said, ‘The seizures have an epileptic nature but I suspect they were triggered by whatever drug they gave you to forget your past.’
‘They? You mean the Queen.’
‘Or the Warden. Or indeed the Prison itself. If it’s any consolation, I do think the fits will become less severe with time.’ Finn scowled. ‘Fine. Meanwhile the Crown Prince of the Realm collapses into a twitching cripple every few weeks.’
‘This is not the Prison,’ Jared said quietly. ‘Illness is not a crime here.’ His voice was sharper than usual. Claudia frowned, annoyed at Finn’s clumsiness.