The Fade

'Is it true you live on the surface? That you never go underground?'

He laughs. 'That is not true. We do live on the surface, under the sky. We hunt and are hunted by the animals there. We eat Callespa's plants, and we sometimes travel beneath its suns. But we must also shelter like you do, in caves and in settlements that we build.' He looks up to the roof of the forge, invisible in the fug that curdles up there. 'Goi'shew is coming,' he says, his voice wistful. 'Soon my people will be on the move again.'

'Goi'shew? '

'The Season of Nights.'

'We call it Spore Season,' I tell him. 'Down here, the winds pick up and the fungi start multiplying. Mid-season in some places, the tides are thick with spores carried from across the sea.'

'I understand,' he says. 'I would like if you would correct me when I use your language badly. No teacher can copy talking to an Eskaran.'

'Substitute,' I say. 'No teacher can substitute for talking to an Eskaran. It means to put something in the place of another.'

A smile. 'I am learning already. I hope to be the first of my people to attend Bry Athka University.'

'Bry Athka? In Eskara?'

'Of course. Is there another?'

'You'll certainly cause a stir,' I tell him. He doesn't get it. I rephrase, slower. 'I mean, you will seem very unusual to us.'

'I see.'

'Many of us don't believe your people exist.'

He finds that hilarious. His laughter draws the attention of a passing guard, who snarls at him in Gurtan to get on with his work. Chastened, Feyn fixes his attention on the job, the smile gone from his face. But when the guard moves off, deeper into the black, hissing murk of the forge, he looks up at me, his lips curving wryly. I can't help smiling in response. It feels unfamiliar.

'We have a story about your people,' he says. 'Long ago, all people lived on the surface. Gurta, Eskaran, SunChild, Banchu, Khaadu were all one race, who we called s'Tani. It means ''Old Men'', in your language, but I am not sure if the translation means exactly what it should. The s'Tani were numberous-'

'Numerous,' I interrupt automatically. I shake my head at myself. 'Sorry. I'll keep quiet.'

'I want you to correct me.'

'We'll never get anywhere if I stop you at every mistake. I'll teach you properly later. Just go on for now.'

The boy is taken aback, so much so that he stops working at the screens and my rhythm is thrown. 'You will teach me?' he asks.

It's only by his reaction that I realise I just did offer to help him improve his Eskaran. And I meant it, too.

I'm starting to feel like me again. Something's dislodged and is working its way out, a mental splinter being expelled. Despite the pain of my injuries, I'm noticing that my limbs aren't so heavy any more. My senses feel more synchronised. No longer do I feel like a passenger in my own head, staring through fogged orbs at a world I've been removed from.

It feels wrong to abandon my grief, even the slightest bit. I am still grieving; I can't think of Rynn without a sensation like my chest being squeezed. But it's lost its power to destroy me. There's something else, slowly overwhelming my sorrow. I know it's there, but I can't put a shape to it yet.

And then there's Jai. Jai, somewhere on the front line. Jai, and a letter I have hidden in a drawer at home. A letter nobody knows about but me.

'Are you well?' Feyn asks, concerned by my silence.

'I'm fine,' I say. 'Yes, I'll teach you.'

'Perhaps I will tell you of the s'Tani later,' he says. He knows that my mind is in too many places right now, that I'm not listening. I'm surprised by his perceptiveness.

We work in silence for a while, and for the first time, I wonder what we're actually achieving with this constant push-pull of these cross-hatched metal screens. Breaking up lumps in the flow of slurry? Agitating the mixture so that it doesn't clot? I've never been a scholar, I don't understand these things. But I suddenly want to know. Because otherwise what we're doing is pointless. I didn't mind that before, but now I'm beginning to. Gendak summons me again the next turn, considerately bypassing the beating and drowning warm-up this time. I'm led to his study with a knife pressed to my kidneys, escorted by armed guards. Once there, I'm strapped into the chair again. The guards don't leave until they're certain I can't get loose. Even so, Gendak doesn't come too close. He sits some distance from me. Taking no chances.

'Why are you talking to me?' I ask him.

'You're unusual. A Cadre woman. It is not your custom to send women into battle.'

'Cadre are special cases. Sometimes they use us on the front line.'

'Are there many like you?'

'A few,' I say. I'm feeling less cooperative than I was last time. He's luring me with questions that he could easily answer himself. He's trying to make me relax, to trust him. Soon he'll start working towards more sensitive information. I decide to take control of the conversation.

'Where are the other women?'

'We do not take grown women. If they are young enough, those we capture on our raids are taken as slaves. We bring them up in our homes and they function as servants. We have many such servants here.'

That's interesting. I haven't seen any. I presume he means outside the prison.

'And if they're not young enough?'

'They are killed. Women are too much trouble to keep as prisoners. They incite the men to violence.'

'And me?'

'As I said, you are unusual. The soldiers did not quite know what to make of you. So you were brought here.' He cracks his knuckles absently. 'You are only alive now because of me. There are many who would prefer it otherwise. You have already caused us trouble.'

'So why not give me my own cell?' I wonder if this is an idea worth chasing. Less guards would mean an easier way out.

'If it was possible, I would. My influence is not great.'

We fall to silence again. I stare at him. Waiting. Let him talk.

'You must understand: our society visits the severest penalties on those who reject the Laws. Your clothes, your politics, your sexual promiscuity… by our culture, you are animals. There is no issue of cruelty. You are seen as beneath us.'

I recognise he's trying to be conciliatory and explain things from an objective point of view, but I can't help responding with venom.

'We don't reject your laws,' I say. 'They're not even worthy of rejection. The word of one insane Gurta counts for nothing to us.'

Gendak's face has darkened. Mocking their most revered leader really pisses them off. 'Only money counts to you. The wealthiest is the most powerful. That is the nature of plutocracy. Your society is ruled by merchants, not morals.'

'And yours isn't brave enough to question tradition. You follow the obsolete rules of the first person who thought to enshrine his morals in literature. How can people of such art and culture cling so tightly to something so obviously backward?'

He wants to snap back at me, but he knows I'm goading him. I see him swallow his words down, and his reply, though rigid, is not angry.

'What would you do with our women, were our positions reversed?'

'Who knows?' I say. 'They've a convenient habit of committing suicide rather than letting themselves be captured.'

'It is called maazu. They would rather die than allow themselves to be dishonoured. That is their choice. That is the nobility of the Gurta woman.'

'Very noble. I hear your people's coming-of-age gift to your women is a phial of poison, to be worn around the neck on a chain. So what happens if they don't choose to use it?' As if I didn't know.

'They would be cast out or executed.'

I raise an eyebrow and stare at him meaningfully.

'It is their duty to choose death rather than a life lived in shame,' he says.

'And who determines what's shameful?'

'The Laws,' he replies.