The Fade

'Go!'

And he's off, running low to the ground, not looking anywhere but at his destination. It's a matter of instants but the time stretches like putty. Then he's up on the tailgate, disappears inside, gone as if he was never there. The chila tethered to the front of the wagon murmurs, tossing its furred head. But no alarms. No cries.

'Go!'

Now it's Nereith, and he's a little slower. Those seconds scrape by like fingernails on slate. I'm not watching him, only the warehouse door where two workers have stopped and are talking.

I look back, and Nereith is gone. He's made it.

My turn. I keep my eye on the workers. They're looking over at the wagon now, and one of them is heading back.

Then I hear a grunt from the chila, and someone very close by hollers to one of his companions: ~ Move it! I'm getting old just watching you, you lazy molchon ~ Many Gurta insults are untranslatable; they have a wide and colourful variety.

I skirt around the boxes to find the owner of the voice clambering into the chila's saddle. He pulls on his gloves and picks up the reins. Getting ready to leave.

My ride is about to depart without me.

I race back along the boxes, just in time to see a scar-faced Gurta approach the rear of the wagon. He takes hold of the tailgate, swings it up and locks it. ~ No more ~ he calls to the driver. ~ Let's get going ~

The driver cries a command and snaps the reins. The chila takes the weight of the wagon and begins to lumber forward. Just as it begins to move, the scar-faced Gurta hops up on the tailgate and climbs inside, pulling the flaps closed behind him.

I break cover and sprint. It's barely travelled six spans, but the extra distance has opened up a terrifying view of the courtyard. I can't tell if any of the workers witness my dash. It doesn't matter, because if I get this wrong I'm dead anyway. I vault up on to the tailgate, thrust aside the flaps and lunge in.

The scar-faced Gurta is bent over as I come at him, occupied with tying some metal rods together. Of the stowaways there's no sign. He turns at the sound of my approach, his face shadowed in the gloom of the wagon. I rush him in the cramped space. Shock registers on his features. It's the expression he dies with.

I try to muffle his fall but he knocks rods into a noisy tumble. ~ Everything alright back there? ~ the driver calls jovially. I freeze. Waiting. The wagon rolls onward.

Silence. Silence. And still silence.

I let out a breath. The driver probably thinks he hadn't been heard, and he doesn't care enough to persist. We're still moving. I don't dare shift the body for fear of making more noise, so I creep to the back where I find Feyn and Nereith hidden behind some crates, under tarp. Nereith's calm facade is paper-thin now. He knows how close that last one was.

I hunker down with them, and we cover up and wait. Moments later, we hear the driver call out. ~ Good luck tomorrow, friends! I envy you the honour of meeting an Elder! ~

I think of the 'honour' I would have suffered, had I met him. I can't help a shiver.

~ Good journey ~ the guards call back. They're separated from us by nothing but the hide that covers the wagon.

We never even slow down. Past the gates, past the walls, and out of Farakza. My heart is punching at my gut. I can't believe we've got this far.

But there's one more obstacle before we're free. And it's the worst of them all.

19

Next time I meet Gendak, things get nasty.

I know that something's wrong when I see his face, even before I spot the chirurgeon standing in the room. There's another Gurta here too, older than Gendak, hair silver grey, skin dry and cracked around his rheumy eyes. He's dressed expensively, and regards me as if I were a particularly vile insect. A scribe lurks nearby, his quill hovering ready.

The guards strap me in tight, as always, but a dreadful sense of foreboding grows in me as they check my bindings.

This will be my last visit. After this, I'll be gone. The Elder is coming next turn; the guards talk about nothing else. I can only hope that chance isn't going to be so cruel as to stop me now.

Then it occurs to me. Maybe they know about the escape. But by then it's too late. I've been secured, and the guards have left.

~ They let their women fight and die in their wars ~ the old man croaks. ~ Disgustin g ~

~ Very few, Magister ~ Gendak replies. ~ This one is exceptional ~

~ She is exceptional only in that her conduct is even more shameful than most of her kind ~ the Magister snaps.

Gendak is clearly cowed. His expression is uncertain, remorseful. He doesn't say a word, but he looks at me, and it's like he's begging me not to blame him for what's to come.

I don't like this.

The chirurgeon is preparing a spike. I can see through the glass that it's full of some kind of liquid. Those bastards have drugged me twice already; there won't be a third time. I begin to turn my mind inward, furling it closed, concentrating. A lifetime of discipline has given me exceptional control over my body, including the ability to resist and eventually neutralise most poisons. It's one of the harder techniques of chua-kin training, but it's come in useful in my line of work.

~ Your methods are entirely too gentle ~ the Magister tells Gendak. ~ She has been playing for time ~

~ I was gaining her trust ~ he protests. ~ Such methods are slower but yield better results ~

~ Nonsense ~ he says. ~ She'll trick you, lie, betray you if she can. It's in their nature ~

Well, at least he got that right.

The spike is inserted into my inner elbow, and the drug spreads. It's gentle, insidious: it doesn't burn but it soothes. I can't entirely suppress the effects but I can stave the worst off as long as I keep my chants going. My body is working frantically to cleanse me, defying the drug's hold on my system.

~ Give it a moment to work ~ says the chirurgeon, as he leaves. ~ Then she'll tell you anything you want to know ~

So that's it. A concoction to loosen my tongue. Well, fuck you for not having the guts to just kill me, because this won't work, and you'll never get another chance.

Knowing what it is, I can concentrate on negating its effects. These kind of potions create a soporific blanket, putting the victim into a hypnotic and suggestible state. But my mind is anchored now, and though I feel like I'm floating in a dream, my thoughts are still clear enough to make out.

~ Ask her ~ the Magister demands of Gendak. The guards stand by, watching me closely.

He leans in, wets his lips, speaks. 'What is the name of your master?'

'Plutarch Nathka Caracassa Ledo, Magnate of Clan Caracassa, member of the Turnward Claw Alliance,' I slur. The words slip out past my teeth with frightening ease. I tell myself he already knows. This is only a warm-up.

'Explain your duties as Cadre.'

The scribe writes in the background; I can hear the scratch of his nib. I wonder what Gendak's getting at. We've been over all this. 'Whatever my master requires of me. Information… sabotage… theft. Assassination.'

'Did you ever act as his bodyguard?'

'Caydus or Jyirt are his bodyguards. But… sometimes I do it too. When they need… At functions and parties… he prefers the women there then… me and Vala and Quaday.'

'And you are loyal?'

'I'm a Bondswoman,' I say.

He glances at the Magister, then back to me.

'I'm going to say a name. You tell me if you have heard it before.'

I nod. My head lolls, not entirely faked.

'The name is Belek Aspa.'

The faintest tickle of recollection, but so distant that I can't hope to remember. I shake my head.

'You have never heard mention of this name?' he persists. 'Your master has never spoken it while you have been nearby? He trusts you, he would not fear to discuss secret matters in front of you.'