from what you were, until not even Claudia will be able to bring herself to see you. Until death will be welcome.’ He stood, abruptly. ‘Madam, I don’t know what—‘
‘You do know. Sit down, Jared.’ He wanted to walk to the door, open it, storm out, away from the horror she faced him with. Instead, he sat. His forehead was damp with sweat. He felt defeated.
She eyed him calmly. Then she said, ‘You will go and examine the Esoterica. The collection is vast, the remnants of a world’s wisdom. I’m sure you will find some medical research that can help you. The rest will be up to you.
You will need to experiment, to test, to do whatever it is you Sapienti do. I suggest you remain at the Academy; the medical facilities there are the best we have. A blind eye will be turned to any infringements of Protocol; you can do as you wish. You can spend your remaining time as it should be spent, in the research that will cure you.' She leant forward, her skirts rustling.
‘I offer it to you, Jared. The forbidden knowledge.
The chance of life.’ He swallowed.
In the stuffy room every sound seemed magnified, the voices outside worlds away.
‘What do you want in return?’ he said, hoarse.
She leant back, smiling. As if she had won. ‘I want nothing. Literally, nothing. The Portal must never open again. The gates of Incerceron, wherever that place is, must be found to be impassable. All attempts must fail.’ Over the top of the crystal glass, her eyes met his.
‘And Claudia need never know.’
7
Sapphique leapt up, overjoyed. ‘If you cannot answer, then I’ve won. Show me a way Out.’ Incarceron laughed in its million halls. It raised a claw and the skin of the claw split and the dragonskin Glove curled off and lay on the ground. Sapphique was alone. He picked the shining thing up and cursed the Prison. But when he put his hand into Incarceron’s he knew its plans. He dreamed its dreams.
That evening’s show was packed.
The troupe had erected their creaking wooden stage in the central space of one of the snow-domes, a smoky hollow of hewn iceblocks, melted and refrozen over so many years that the roof was twisted and seamed, gnarled with gloops and pinnacles of ice, black with soot.
Watching Rix stand before the two chosen volunteers next to her Attia tried to keep her face rapt and wondering, but she knew he was very tense. The crowd here had been quiet all evening. Too quiet. Nothing seemed to impress them.
And things hadn’t gone well. Perhaps it was the bitter cold, but the bear had refused to dance, crouching mournfully on the stage, despite all prodding. The jugglers had dropped their plates twice, and even Gigantia had only managed to draw a few spatters of applause by lifting a man on a chair with one of her huge hands.
But when the Dark Enchanter had appeared, the silence had grown deeper, more intense. The people stood in attentive rows, their eyes fixed in fascination on Rix as he faced them, young and dark, the black glove on his right hand, its forefinger pinned back to show the maiming.
It was more than fascination. It was hunger. From this close, Attia saw the sweat on his forehead.
The things he had said to the two women had been greeted with silence too. Neither of them had wept or clasped his hands with joy or given any indication of recognizing anything, even though he had managed to pretend they had.
Their rheumy eyes just gazed imploringly at him. Attia had had to do the sobbing and cries of amazement; she thought she hadn’t overplayed it, but the stillness had cowed her. The applause had been a mere ripple.
What was wrong with them all?
As she gazed out she saw they were dirty and sallow, their mouths and noses muffled and scarved against the cold, their eyes sunken with hunger. But that was nothing new. There seemed to be few old people, hardly any children. They stank of smoke and sweat and some sweet herbal tang. And they stood apart; they did not crowd together. Some sort of commotion caught her eye; to one side a woman swayed and fell. Those nearby stepped away. No one touched her, or bent over her. They left a space around her.
Maybe Rix had seen it too.
As he turned Attia caught a flash of panic under his make-up, but his voice was as smooth as ever.
‘You search for an Enchanter of power, a Sapient who will show you the way out of Incarceron. AU of you search for that!’ He swung on them, challenging, daring them to deny it.
‘I am that man! The way that Sapphique took lies through the Door of Death. I will take this girl through that door. And I will bring her back!’ She didn’t have to pretend. Her heart was thudding hard.
There was no roar from the crowd, but the silence was different now. It had become a threat, a force of such desire it scared her. As Rix led her to the couch she glanced out at the muffled faces and knew that this was no audience happy to be fooled. They wanted Escape like a starving man craves food. Rix was playing with fire here.
‘Pull out,’ she breathed.
‘Can’t.’ His lips barely moved. ‘Show must go on.’ Faces pressed forward to see. Someone fell, and was trampled. A soft ice-thaw dripped from the roof, on Rix’s make-up, on her hands gripping the couch, on the black glove. The crowd’s breath was a frosted contagion.
‘Death,’ he said. ‘We fear it. We would do anything to avoid it. And yet Death is a doorway that opens both ways.
Before your eyes, you will see the dead live!’ He drew the sword out of the air. It was real. It gleamed with ice as he held it up.
This time there was no rumble, no lightning from the roof.
Maybe Incarceron had seen the act too often. The crowd stared at the steel blade greedily. In the front row a man scratched endlessly, muttering under his breath.
Rix turned. He fastened the links around Attia’s hands.
‘We may have to leave fast. Be ready.’ The loops went round her neck and waist. They were false, she realized, and was glad.
He turned to the crowd and held up the sword. ‘Behold! I will release her. And I will bring her back!’ He’d switched it. It was fake too. She only had seconds to notice, before he plunged it into her heart.
This time there was no vision of Outside.
She lay rigid, unbreathing, feeling the blade retract, the cold damp of fake blood spread on her skin.
Rix was facing the Silent mob; now he turned, she sensed him come near, his warmth bending over her.
He tugged the sword away. ‘Now,’ he breathed.
She opened her eyes. She felt unsteady, but not like the first time. As he helped her stand and the blood shrivelled miraculously on her coat she felt a strange release; she took his hand and was shown to the crowd and she bowed and smiled in relief, forgetting for a moment that she was not supposed to be part of the act.
Rix bowed too, but quickly. And as her euphoria drained away, she saw why.
No one was applauding.
Hundreds of eyes were fixed on Rix. As if they waited for more.
Even he was thrown. He bowed again, lifted the black glove, stepped backwards on the creaking boards of the stage.
The crowd was agitated; someone shouted. A man shoved himself forward, a thin gangly man muffled up to the eyes; he tore himself out from the crowd and they saw he held one end of a thick chain. And a knife.
Rix swore briefly; out of the corner of her eye Attia saw the seven jugglers scurrying for weapons
