backstage.
The man climbed up on the boards. ‘So Sapphique’s Glove brings men back to life.’ Rix drew himself up. ‘Sir, I assure you...’
‘Then prove it again. Because we need it.’ He hauled on the chain, and a slave fell forward on to the boards, an iron collar around his neck, his skin raw with hideous sores. Whatever the disease was, it looked terrible.
‘Can you bring him back? I’ve already lost…’
‘He’s not dead,’ Rix said.
The slaveowner shrugged. Then quickly, before anyone could move, he cut the man’s throat. ‘He is now.’ Attia gasped; her hands over her mouth.
The red slash overflowed; the slave fell choking and writhing. All the crowd murmured. Rix did not move. For a moment Attia had the sense he was frozen with horror, but when he spoke his voice had not a tremor. ‘Put him on the couch.’
‘I’m not touching him. You touch him. You bring him back.’ The people were shouting. Now they were crying out and crawling up the sides of the stage, all around, closing in. ‘I’ve lost my children,’ one cried. ‘My son is dead,’ another screamed. Attia looked round, backing away, but there was nowhere to go. Rix grabbed her hand with his black-gloved fingers. ‘Hold tight,’ he hissed. Aloud he said, ‘Stand well back, sir.’ He raised his hand, clicked his fingers.
And the floor collapsed.
Attia fell through the trapdoor with a suddenness that knocked the breath out of her; crashed on a mat stuffed with horsehair.
‘Move!’ Rix yelled. He was already on his feet; hauling her up he ran, crouched under the planking of the stage.
The noise above them was a fury; running footsteps, shouts and wails, a clash of blades. Attia scrambled over the joists; there was a curtain at the back and Rix dived under it, tugging off wig and make-up, false nose, fake sword.
Gasping he whipped his coat off, turned it inside out and put it back on, tied it with string, became a bent, hunched beggar before her eyes.
‘They’re all bloody mad!’
‘What about me?’ she gasped.
‘Take your chance. Meet outside the gate, if you make it.’ And he was gone, hobbling into a snow tunnel.
For a moment she was too furious to move. But a head and shoulders came down the trapdoor behind her; she hissed with fear and ran.
Dodging into a side cavern she saw that the waggons were gone, their tracks deep in the snow. They hadn’t waited for the end. She scrambled after them, but there were too many people down that way, people surging out of the dome, some fleeing, some a mob smashing everything within reach.
She turned back, cursing. To have come all this way and even to have touched the Glove and then to lose it to a baying crowd!
And in her mind the red slash of the slave’s throat opened over and over.
The tunnel led out between the snow-domes. The settlement was in chaos; strange cries echoed, the sickly smoke burnt everywhere. She ducked into a quiet alley and ran down it, wishing desperately for her knife.
The snow here was thick, but hardpacked, as if from many feet. At the end of the lane was a large dark building; she ducked inside.
It was dim, and icy cold.
For a while she just crouched behind the door, breathing hard, waiting for pursuers. Distant shouts came to her. Her face against the frozen wood, she stared through a crack.
Nothing but darkness caine down the lane. .. And a light, falling snow.
Finally, she stood, stiff, brushing ice from her knees, and turned.
The first thing she saw was the Eye.
Incarceron gazed at her from the roof, its small curious scrutiny. And under it, on the ground, were the boxes.
She knew what they were as soon as she saw them.
A stack of coffins, hastily built, stinking of disinfectant.
Kindling was piled all around them.
She stopped breathing, flung her arm over nose and mouth, gave a wail of horror.
Plague!
It explained everything; the people falling, the cowed and muffled silence, the desperation for Rix’s magic to be real.
She stumbled out backwards, sobbing with dread, grabbing snow, scrubbing her hands, her face, her mouth and nose. Had she caught it? Had she breathed it in? Oh god, had she touched anyone?
Breathless, she turned to run.
And saw Rix.
He was stumbling towards her. ‘No way out,’ he gasped.
‘Can we hide in there?’
‘No!’ She caught his arm. ‘This is a plague village. We have to get out of here,’
‘So that’s it!’ To her amazement he laughed in relief. ‘Just for a minute there, sweetie, I thought I was losing my touch. But if it’s just—’
‘We could already be infected! Come on!’ He shrugged, turned.
But as he faced the darkness he stopped.
A horse stepped out from the smoky shadows of the lane, a horse dark as midnight, its rider tall, wearing a tricorn hat.
He wore a black mask with narrow eyeholes. His coat was long and his boots supple and fine. He carried a firelock, and now he pointed it with practised skill straight at Rix’s head.
Rix froze.
‘The Glove,’ the shadow whispered. ‘Now.’ Rix wiped his face with one black hand, then spread his fingers. His voice adopted its cringing whine. ‘This, lord? It’s just a prop. A stage-prop. Take anything from me, sir, but please, not—’
‘Cut the act, Enchanter.’ The highwayman’s voice was amused and cold. Attia watched, alert. ‘I want the real Glove.
Now.’ Reluctant, Rix slowly took a small black bundle from his inside pocket.
‘Give it to the girl.’ The firelock edged slightly towards her.
‘She brings it to me. You make any move and I kill both of you.’ Attia surprised herself, and both of them, by her harsh laugh. The masked man glanced quickly at her, and she caught his blue eyes. She said, ‘That’s not the Glove either.
The real one he keeps in a small pouch under his shirt. Close to his heart?
Rix hissed with fury. ‘What is this? Attia!’ The masked man clicked the trigger back. ‘Then get it.’ Attia grabbed Rix, tugged the robe open and dragged the string from around his neck. His face, close to hers, whispered, ‘So you were a plant all along.’ The pocket was small, of white silk.
She stepped back, thrust it into her coat. ‘I’m sorry, Rix, but…’
‘I believed in you, Attia. I even thought you might turn out to be my Apprentice.’ His eyes were hard; he stabbed a bony finger at her. ‘And you’ve betrayed me.’
‘The Art Magicke is the art of illusion. You said it.’ Rix’s face contorted in white fury. ‘I won’t forget this.
You’ve made a mistake crossing me, sweetie. And believe me, I’ll have my revenge on you.’
‘I need the Glove. I need to find Finn.’
‘Do you? Keep it safe, Sapphique said. Is he safe, your thief friend? What does he want it for, Attia? What harm will he do with it?’
‘Maybe I’ll wear it.’ The highwayman’s eyes were cold through his mask.
Rix nodded. ‘Then you will control the Prison. And the Prison will control you.’
