Vengeance

to it. Besides, she had never seen Mia with a man. There weren’t enough to go around.

Tali’s stomach rumbled. Food production in the grotto farms, eeleries and poultyards was higher than ever, yet rations had been reduced again last week. Did slaves no longer matter? Why not?

They continued down the outside, steadily filling their buckets with girr-grubs. Mia kept well ahead, avoiding her, and Tali did not raise the topic again. She worked absently, making plan after plan, but all foundered on the same obstacle. No slave had ever escaped Cython, so how could she hope to? Many times she had sought the tunnels Tinyhead had led them along that terrible day, but she had never found them.

As they reached the end of the grotto, Mia gasped and doubled over.

‘What is it?’ Tali cried, holding her up.

Pink fluid was flooding down her friend’s legs and puddling on the stone floor. Her waters had broken.

‘Tali,’ wailed Mia, ‘it’s too early!’

It must be coming because of the chuck-lash. Curse Orlyk! But Tali knew it was her own stupid fault. Mia had warned her, and yet again she had allowed her anger to control her. What a lousy friend she was.

Tali helped Mia to the floor, lifted the loincloth and her hands clenched involuntarily.

‘What’s the matter?’ Mia grabbed Tali’s wrist.

Tali shivered. Let it be stillborn. If it’s born dead, we can hide the body and she might get away with it.

‘Tali?’ whispered Mia. ‘My baby is all right, isn’t it?’

What to say? Tali looked again, but there was no doubt at all.

‘It’s small,’ she said, standing up to check on the guard in the next grotto. For bearing a Cythonian’s baby Mia would be scourged, and Tali too, for witnessing the crime. ‘It’ll come quickly.’

‘Babies can live at seven months, can’t they?’ Mia’s tone was pleading.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Is it good and pink?’

Of course it’s not pink, Tali wanted to scream, but then the slate-grey baby slipped out. Surely it couldn’t live at seven months. What was she supposed to do? Scourging meant a life of agony that no healing charm could repair. There had to be a solution. But what, what, what? She could not think. Her mind had gone numb. ‘It’s a boy, but …’

‘My beautiful boy!’ sighed Mia.

‘I don’t think he’s breathing.’

‘Doesn’t have to ’til the cord is cut. Give him here.’

Tali cut the cord with her harvesting knife and knotted the end, carefully, respectfully. She picked the tiny baby up, feeling his lungs struggling as she embraced him with her hands and gave him to Mia. If he died, they might escape punishment — no, what sort of a monster was she, wishing that on a helpless infant?

He took a faint breath. ‘You’ve got to hide him, Mia. Hurry! I’ll say you’ve gone to the squattery to pee.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Mia said dreamily. ‘I’ve just had a baby.’

Tali wanted to slap her. ‘A Cythonian baby! And you know the penalty.’

‘They wouldn’t hurt my baby.’ Mia cradled the infant in her arms.

It was like standing beneath a toppling wall. ‘Come on!’ Tali tried to lift her. ‘If you’re quick, you can still get away with it.’

‘Leave me alone,’ wailed Mia. ‘You’re spoiling everything.’ She looked down and her face cracked. ‘Tali, he’s not breathing. Do something.’

The baby’s lips were turning blue. Tali put her hands around his tiny body. Heal, heal! But saving a life was far beyond her skill. He gave a little shudder and lay still. Tears welled in Tali’s eyes. The poor little thing hadn’t had a chance.

As she stood there, not knowing what to do, a rumbling voice echoed through the archway from the next grotto. Her stomach gave a sickening lurch. What was Overseer Banj doing here today? Investigating what had happened to Orlyk, of course.

Guilt rose up in her throat like vomit. She crouched in front of Mia, pressing the baby into her arms. ‘It’s Banj, checking up. Hide it, quick!’

‘Banj won’t hurt me,’ said Mia. ‘Not when I show him my beautiful baby.’

‘Your son is gone,’ Tali said gently.

‘No, he’s not!’

‘Mia, he’s dead. Please — ’

Mia’s face crumpled. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’

Banj was kindly, as slave masters went, but he could not overlook a grey baby. ‘He’ll have both of us scourged.’

‘Run away, then,’ said Mia, kicking Tali in the knee. ‘It’s your fault my little boy is dead.’

That hurt all the more because it was true. It was her fault Banj was here, too, and if ever there was a time for risking her mother’s subtle magery it was now. Tali closed her eyes, whispered the words and made the gestures exactly as she had been taught, then focused her will to cast a concealing glamour over the baby. Mist churned in her inner eye and her scar tingled, but when she opened her eyes the baby was still visible.

It was too late to try again. ‘Put it in my bucket,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll cover it up and carry it out to the composter.’

The compost buckets were often checked in case the slaves were stealing food, and if she were caught the consequences would be dire, but Tali had to make up for the disaster she had caused.

‘Lost everything,’ choked Mia. ‘Want to die.’

‘You’ll get over it. Soon — ’

Mia slapped Tali across the face. ‘Don’t want to get over my baby. Go away! I hate you!’

The overseer was approaching the archway and the best option for both of them was for Tali to disappear. If no other slave had seen the grey baby, Banj might not punish Mia too severely. Tali kissed her damp cheek then ducked below the benches as he came down the central path. It was the only thing to do, so why did she feel like a faithless friend?

She reached the archway, rinsed her bloody hands under a spring and slipped into the next grotto. Suba had gone and the half dozen slaves were moving away, heads down.

Tali scuttled to the exit and out into the broad passageway, which was sculpted and painted to resemble a resin-pine forest under snow. Water gurgled by in one of the siphons, its stone sides carved to resemble a rivulet with reed beds cut in relief. Where to go? Idle slaves attracted attention; she could not wait here.

She headed for the squattery, then stopped. Further on, the passage was blocked by a Cythonian teacher, a buxom brunette with single, bright blue spot-tattoos on each cheekbone, who was instructing a dozen chattering children in the art of wall sculpting.

‘First we take a measure of solu,’ the teacher said, pouring a cupful of palest green liquid from an orange-ringed carboy into a bucket. ‘Be careful with it. The waste alk- ’ She broke off, colouring. ‘Forget I said that.’

‘Yes, teacher,’ chorused the children.

‘Solu is a thrice-diluted waste from the segregators, made for us by the master chymister, but it can still burn.’ She held out her forearm, where a long red scar cut across her smooth grey skin.

The children stared at the scar, big-eyed. Tali did, too. She had often wondered what solu was made from, that even thrice-diluted waste could do such damage. She stopped to watch, for she had never seen stone carving done up close before.

Every wall in Cython was carved into dioramas of forest or meadow, glade or stream, mountain or pool or wild seashore. Inlaid pieces of glow-stone fostered the illusion of distance, as if the cramped caverns extended out into their lost homeland, while water gurgling in the siphons, and air sighing through wind-pipes brought each scene back to human scale.

No people, buildings or roads featured in these dioramas, which depicted a natural paradise empty of humanity. Could they not bear to think of Hightspallers occupying the land that had once been theirs, or was there