The Fade

'Food good?' I enquire of the Khaadu. He shows me his teeth in a disparaging snarl. Khaadu hate cooked food, and he's probably as nauseated by the slab of grilled hookworm on his plate as I would be if I ate it raw.

'You want to talk, talk,' says Charn. I'm leaning close to him, and I can actually feel him trembling with adrenaline.

'Alone.'

There's a long moment when he decides what to do, but ultimately he has to maintain the show that he's not afraid of me. He gets up, and we walk to a sparsely occupied bench. The guards watch us go, as do most of the prisoners in the food hall. We sit down, on opposite sides, away from the others.

The bruises round his eyes have almost faded now: only a sickly yellow pallor remains. He's much bigger than me, but he's chewing his pierced lower lip in agitation, rotating the rings with his tongue. Sweat beads his bald pate, but that's probably the heat in here.

'What?' he says, sullen and impatient. He feels I've won a victory by making him get up and come with me. Which I have.

'I need your help,' I say. It's not so hard; I'm not afflicted with an excess of pride, so there's nothing to swallow.

I expect him to laugh, but he doesn't. 'You need my help with what?'

I hesitate, just a moment. I have to risk trusting him. 'An escape.'

That gets his interest. He sits back, thinks. 'You cut me in on it,' he says. 'I get out too, or I walk away right now.'

'Just you,' I say. 'Nobody else. You don't breathe a word to anyone.'

He looks over at the table he's just come from. Nereith is watching us intently. 'Who else is going?'

'Feyn.' I see the expression on his face and add: 'Don't worry. He doesn't do grudges.'

He stares at me for a long time. Thinking hard. But he knows, as we all do, that sooner or later our time here will be up. And the end that awaits us is not a pleasant one. There've been insurrections in the past, but they always result in the prisoners being slaughtered. What keeps us in check is the futility of rebellion, the hard labour, the shifting schedule and the slim hope that somehow we will be liberated before our time comes. The prisoners try to make themselves useful to their captors, seeking to stave off their executions indefinitely. Men believe what they need to believe.

Charn's not stupid. 'Tell me the plan,' he says.

I lean closer. Our voices are quiet enough that nobody can overhear. 'The forge.'

'What about it?'

'Every shift, the Overseer takes a tour of the forge at exactly the same time. He comes through a metal door, high up on one of the walls.'

'I know it. I see him.'

'He locks it behind him, makes his inspections, then returns through the door and presumably locks it again.'

'Everyone knows that,' he says impatiently. 'What's the plan? Steal his key?'

'Exactly.'

He smirks, derisive. 'Think you're the first that thought of that? Some problems. First, the key's kept in his belt pouch, and he's always got a guard with him. If they catch your hand down his trousers, pardon the expression, they'll cut it off.'

'I can handle that. Next objection?'

Disbelief crosses his face. He's sceptical that I can dismiss the problem so easily. 'Alright then. Second and very large flaw in your plan: what happens when he gets to the end of his inspection, tries to open his door, and finds his key is gone?'

'They'll search everyone. If they don't find it they'll reason it's been hidden, and probably begin killing us until someone owns up or until they believe it's really been lost. Then they change the locks.'

'Exactly,' he says, in mocking imitation of me. It's not a very good impression.

'Unless it's back in his pouch by the time he gets to the door.'

Now he does laugh. Short, harsh. He wipes his hand over his face, hunkers closer. 'You want to steal the key off him, then put it back in his pouch before he completes his rounds?'

I hold his eyes, letting him feel my determination.

'And what happens in between these two highly improbable events?'

'You take an impression of the key.'

Suddenly he understands why I need him. But I see something else there too. The tiniest chink of hope.

'It'll never work,' he says. 'You'd have to get the key off him near the start of his tour, get all the way across the forge without being seen, get the key to me – you know the blacksmiths are most heavily guarded of all, right?'

'I know.'

'I can make an impression of the key without them noticing, that's easy enough. I can even get the key back to you. But for you to get across the forge again and put it back in his pouch?' He gives me a look like I'm insane. 'It'll never work. There's not enough time.'

'It can be done,' I insist. 'And if we fail, it's me who'll be punished, not you.'

'I'll be more than punished if they catch me with the key,' he mutters. 'They trust me. They know I don't misbehave. Taken me a long time to get them that way.'

'Then you've probably not got very long left,' I reply. 'Sooner or later, we're all going to go.'

He shakes his head. 'They need me. Any idiot can hammer a sword or make metal struts or shard-cannon barrels or whatever. But there's only two or three like me, who can make the proper stuff. Good swords, fine components, that kind of thing. I'm valuable to them.'

'So valuable that you want to stay here?'

'Shit, no. But valuable enough so I don't want to risk my position on a dumb idea like this.'

'You remember how easily I took out your friends?' I ask quietly. His face clouds. 'I'm Cadre. We go through training like you can't imagine to become the best at what we do. I'm a saboteur. Thief, spy, assassin, whatever needs to be done. I've been in and out of some of the most heavily fortified places in Veya.'

'I heard of you,' he says slowly. 'Nobody knew exactly what you did, but I heard of you.'

'This can be done,' I tell him, firmly. 'I can do it.'

He stares at me for a long time. Sits back, looks away: at the guards, at his cronies, at Feyn who is eating on his own. Nereith is still watching us with undisguised suspicion. Finally he flops forward onto his forearms, sighs.

'So I make you the key,' he says. 'What happens then?'

26

They put me back to work while I heal, pushing and pulling the metal screens through which that stinking mineral slop flows. I'm working opposite Feyn again. At first I'm afraid I'm going to be greeted with fawning gratitude or pity; or worse, as the cause of my injuries, he'll inflict his remorse on me. But he does none of those things. He greets me with a shy smile, the first I've seen from him. Then he applies himself the screens without a word. He pushes when I pull, he pulls when I push. I go easy and let him dictate the pace. I don't feel the need to hurt myself any more. I hurt enough.

We've been at it some time when words start bubbling out of me. I can't be silent any more; it seems stupid to remain so uncommunicative. I'm not going to stop living and I'm not going to spend the rest of my life in solitude. I need to say something, anything at all. So I say: 'I have a son your age.'

Feyn's heavily lashed eyes flick up from the trough of grey slurry and regard me. 'What name does he have?'

'Jai. He's a junior officer in the Eskaran Army.' The thought inspires more fear than pride, but I've become used to that.

'May I ask, what name do you have?'

'My name is Orna.'

He's quiet. I go on. Now I've started, I can't stop. I'm a talker, and these few sentences have opened the gates of a dam. I want to talk.

'You're a SunChild,' I say baldly.

'Some name us the Far People. In my own language we are named a'Sura'Sao.' He punctuates the rapid syllables with a clicking noise at the back of his throat.