right?’
‘Yes . . .’
‘Then someone owns it. Someone always does. If we’re lucky there’ll be a toll to pay at the far end.’
‘And if we’re unlucky?’ He laughed, as if the danger had cheered him. ‘We make e quick descent. Though maybe not, because the Prison’s on our side now. It has reasons to keep us safe.’ Attia watched him lead the horse on to the viaduct before she said quietly, ‘Incarceron wants the Glove. I don’t suppose it cares who brings it.’ He heard her, she was sure. But he didn’t look back.
Crossing the rusting structure was precarious. The horse was nervous; it whickered and once sidestepped, and Keiro soothed it continuously in a low irritated mutter, swearwords merging seamlessly with comfort. Atha tried not to look to either side. There was a strong wind that nudged slyly against her; she braced her body, aware that with one gust Incarceron could topple her over the edge.
There was nothing to hold on to. She paced in terror, foot before foot.
The surface was corroded. Debris lay on it, scraps of metal, abandoned filth, snags of cloth caught from the wind and fluttering like ragged flags. Her feet crunched the frail bones of a bird.
She concentrated on walking, barely lifting her head. Gradually she became aware of empty space, a giddiness of air. Small dark tendrils began to sprawl across the track.
‘What’s that?’
‘Ivy.’ Keiro’s mutter was tight with tension. ‘Growing up from below.’ How could it grow this far? She glanced briefly to the right and giddiness swept her like sweat. Tiny people moved beneath, the sound of wheels and voices faint on the wind.
Her coat flapped against her.
The ivy thickened. It became a treacherous tangle of glossy leaves. In places it was impassable; Keiro had to coax the terrified horse along the very edge of the viaduct, its hooves clanging on metal. His voice was a low mutter.
‘Come on, you scrawny nag. Come on, you useless beggar.’ Then he stopped.
His voice was snatched by the wind. ‘There’s a big hole here. Be careful.’ When she came to it she saw its charred edge first, crumbling with rust. Wind howled up through it. Below, iron girders corroded, old bird’s-nests in their joists. A heavy chain looped into emptiness.
Soon there were other holes. The track became a yielding nightmare, creaking ominously wherever the horse trod.
After a few minutes, she realized Keiro had stopped.
‘Is it blocked?’
‘As good as.’ His voice was tight, oddly breathless. His breath frosted as he looked back at her, ‘We should go back.
We’ll never cross this.’
‘We’ve come too far!’
‘The horse is on the edge of panic.’ Was he scared? His voice was low, his face set. For a moment she sensed weakness, but then his hissed anger reassured her. ‘Back up, Attia!’ She turned.
And saw the impossible.
Masked figures were swarming up over the sides of the viaduct, through holes, up chains and bines of ivy. The horse gave a whinny of fear and reared. Keiro dropped the reins and leapt back.
She knew it was over. The horse plunged in terror; it would fall, and far below the starving people would butcher its body.
Then one of the masked people grabbed it, flung a cloak over its eyes and expertly led it away into the dark.
There were about ten of them. They were small and shin, and wore feathered helms, all black, except for a tagged lightning flash across the right eye. They held Keiro in a ring of aimed firelocks. But none of them came near Attia.
She stood, poised, the knife ready.
Keiro drew himself up, his blue eyes fierce. His hand dropped to his sword.
‘Don’t touch that.’ The tallest raider took the weapon, then turned to Attia. ‘Is he your slave?’ The voice was a girl’s. The eyes in the mask were mismatched — one alive and grey, the other with a pupil of gold, an unseeing stone.
At once Attia said, ‘Yes. Don’t kill him. He belongs to me.’ Keiro snorted but didn’t move. She hoped he’d have the sense to stay silent.
The masked girls — for Attia was sure they were all girls — glanced at each other. Then the leader made a sign. The firelocks were lowered.
Keiro looked at Attia. She knew what that look meant. The Glove was in the inner pocket of his coat and they’d find it if they searched him.
He folded his arms and grinned. ‘Surrounded by women.
Things are looking up.’ Attia glared. ‘Shut up. Slave.’ The golden-eyed girl circled him. ‘He doesn’t have the bearing of a slave. He is arrogant, and a man, and he thinks himself stronger than us.’ She gave a curt nod. ‘Throw him over.’
‘No!’ Attia stepped forward. ‘No. He belongs to me. Believe me, I’ll fight anyone who tries to kill him.’ The masked girl stared at Keiro. Her golden eye glittered and Attia realized that it was not blind, that she saw through it in some way. A halfwoman.
‘Search him then for weapons.’ Two of the girls searched him; he pretended to enjoy it, but when they took the Glove from his pocket Attia knew it took all his self-control not to lash out.
‘What is this?’The leader held up the Glove. It lay in her hands, the dragonskin iridescent in the gloom, the claws split and heavy.
‘That’s mine,’ Keiro and Attia said together.
‘I carry it for her,’ Keiro said. He smiled his most charming smile. ‘I am the Slave of the Glove.’ The girl gazed at the dragonclaws with her mismatched eyes. Then she looked up. ‘Both of you will come with us. In all my years taking toll on the Skywalk I’ve never seen an object of such power. It ripples in purple and gold. It sings in amber.’ Attia moved forward cautiously. ‘You can see that?’
‘I hear it with my eyes.’ She turned away Attia flicked a fierce glance at Keiro. He had to shut up, and play along.
Two of the masked girls pushed him. ‘Walk; one said. The leader fell in beside Attia. ‘Your name?’
‘Attia. You?’
‘Rho Cygni. We give up our birth names.’ At the large hole in the floor the girls were sliding expertly through.
‘Down there?’ Attia tried not to let the fear into her voice, but she sensed Rho’s smile behind the mask.
‘It doesn’t lead to the ground. Go on. You’ll see.’ Attia sat, her legs dangling over the edge. Someone caught her feet and steadied her; she slithered through and grabbed the rusty chain. There was a rickety walkway built close under the viaduct, half hidden by ivy It was as dark as a tunnel and it creaked underfoot, but at its end it divided into a maze of smaller passageways and rope stairs, hanging rooms and cages.
Rho walked behind her, noiseless as a shadow. At the end she guided Attia to the right into a chamber that moved slightly as if beneath it was nothing but sky. Attia swallowed. The walls were of interwoven wattle and the floor was hidden in a deep coating of feathers. But it was the ceiling that made her stare. It was painted a deep, amazing blue and gleaming in it were patterns of golden stones, like the one in Rho’s eye.
‘The stars!’
‘As Sapphique wrote of them.’ The girl stood beside her and looked up. ‘Outside they sing as they cross the sky. The Bull, and the Hunter and the Chained Princess. And the Swan, of whose Constellation we are.’ She pulled off her feathered helm and her hair was dark and short, her face pale. ‘Welcome to the Swan’s Nest, Attia.’ It was stiflingly warm, and lit by tiny lamps. She saw the shadowy figures remove armour and masks and become girls and women of all ages, some stout, some young and lithe. The smell of food rose from cooking pots. Deep divans filled with downy feathers littered the room.
Rho pushed her towards one. ‘Sit down. You look exhausted: Anxious, she said, ‘Where’s . . . my servant?’
