was adamant.’
‘Did she hear anything else? Whether the Queen had brought in this Pretender?’ He stared at her. ‘That interests you more than your own death?’
‘Tell me!’
‘Unfortunately, no. The Queen professes ignorance as to which of the boys is her true stepson. She’s told the Council nothing.’ Claudia paced, shredding the rosebud. ‘Well, I don’t intend to be executed, by her or your Wolves or anyone else.
Thank you.’ She had ducked under the rose arch when he took a step after her and said softly, ‘Master Jared was bribed to stop work on the Portal. Did you know that?’ She stopped still as death, without turning. The roses were white, perfectly scented. Fat bees fumbled in their petals.
There was a thorn in the bud she held; it hurt her fingers and she dropped it.
He came no nearer. His voice was quiet. ‘The Queen offered him...’
‘There’s nothing’ — she turned, almost spitting the words
— ‘nothing, that she could offer that he would take. Nothing!’ A bell chimed, then another from the Ivory Tower. It was the signal for the Inquisition of the Candidates. Medlicote kept his eyes on her. Then he put his spectacles back on and bowed, clumsily. ‘My mistake, my lad,’ he said.
She watched him walk away. She was trembling. She didn’t know how much with anger, how much with fear.
Jared looked down with a rueful smile at the book in his hand. It had been a favourite of his when he had been a student here, a small red book of mysterious and cryptic poems that languished unread on the shelves. Now, opening the pages, he found the oak leaf he had once placed in it, on page forty-seven, at the sonnet about the dove that would cure the devastation of the Years of Rage, a flowering rose in its beak. Reading the lines now he let his memories slip back to that time. It had not been so long ago. He had been the youngest graduate of the Academy since Protocol began, considered brilliant, assured of a great career.
The oak leaf was as frail as cobweb, a skeleton of veins.
His fingers trembling slightly, he closed the book and slid it back. He was certainly above such self— pity.
The library of the Academy was a vast and hushed collection of rooms. Great oak cabinets of books, some of them chained, stood in ranks down the galleried halls.
Sapienti sat huddled over manuscripts and illuminated volumes, quill nibs scraping, each stall lit by a small lamp that looked like a candle but was in fact a high intensity personal diode powered by the hidden underground generators. Jared estimated that at least a third of the precious remaining power of the Realm was consumed here.
Not just in the library, of course. The apparent quills were linked to a central computer that also ran the lunar observatory and the extensive medical wing. The Queen, though he hated her, had been right. If there had once been a cure for him, this was the only place it might still be found.
‘Master?’ The librarian had returned, the Queen’s letter in his hand. ‘This is all in order. Please follow me.’ The Esoterica was the heart of the library. It was rumoured to be a secret chamber, entered only by the First High Sapient and the Warden. Jared certainly had never been there. His heart fluttered a little with excitement.
They walked through three rooms, through a hall of maps and up a winding stair into a small gallery that ran round above the reading room, under the dusty cornice. In the far corner was a shadowy alcove, containing a desk and a chair, the arms carved with winding snakes.
The librarian bowed. ‘If you need anything, please ask one of my assistants.’ Jared nodded and sat. He tried not to show his surprise, and disappointment; he had expected something more secret, more impressive, but perhaps that had been foolish.
He glanced round.
There were no obvious watching devices, but they were here, he sensed that. He put his hand into his coat and slid out the disc he had prepared. He slipped the disc under the desk and it clasped itself on tight.
The desk, despite appearances, was metal. He touched it, and a portion of the wainscoting became a screen that lit discreetly. It said YOU HAVE ENTERED THE ESOTERICA.
He worked quickly. Soon diagrams of the lymphatic and nervous systems rippled over the screen. He studied them intently, cross-referencing with the fragments of medical research that the system still held. The room below was silent, formal busts of ancient Sapienti staring in stiff rigour from their marble pedestals. Outside the distant casement a few doves cooed.
A librarian padded by, carrying a heap of parchment. Jared smiled gently.
They were keeping a good watch on him.
By three, the time for the brief afternoon rain shower, he was ready. As the light dimmed and the room grew gloomier, he slid his hand under the desk and touched the disc.
At once, under the diagrams of the nervous system, writing appeared. It had taken a long time to find the encrypted files on Incarceron, and his eyes were tired, his thirst a torment.
But as the first thunder rumbled, here they were.
Reading one script below another was a skill he had perfected long ago. It needed concentration, and always gave him a headache, but that would be bearable. After ten minutes he had worked out one symbol that unlocked others, then recognized an old variant o the Sapient tongue he had once studied.
As he translated, the words began to form out of the mass of strange glyphs.
Rota of the original Prisoners.
Sentences and Judicial reports.
Criminal Records; Photoimages.
Duties of the Warden.
He touched the last line. The screen rearranged, and under its web of nerves informed him curtly: This material is classified. Speak the password.
He swore, quietly.
Incorrect, the screen said. You have two more attempts before an alarm wilt be sounded.
Jared closed his eyes and tried not to groan. He glanced round; saw the rain slashing against the windows, the small lights on the desks below brighten imperceptibly.
He made himself breathe slowly, felt sweat prickle his back. Then he whispered, ‘Incarceron.’ Incorrect. You have one more attempt before an alarm will be sounded.
He should withdraw and think about it. If they found out he’d never get this far again. And yet time was against hint.
Time, that the Realm had been denied, was taking its revenge.
Pages turned below. He leant closer, seeing in the screen his own pale face, the dark hollows of his eyes. There was a word in his mind and he had no idea if it was the right one.
But the face was both his and another’s, and it was narrow and its hair was dark and he opened his mouth and whispered its name.
‘Sapphique?’ Lists. Rotas. Data.
It spread like a virus over the page, over the diagrams, over everything. The strength and speed of the information astounded him; he tapped the disc to record it as it rapidly came and went.
‘Master?’ Jared almost jumped.
One of the Academy porters stood there, a big man, his dark coat shiny with age, his staff tipped with a white pearl.
‘Sorry to disturb you at work, Master, but this came. From the Court.’ It was a parchment letter, sealed with Claudia’s black swan insignia.
‘Thank you.’ Jared took it, gave the man a coin and smiled calmly. Behind him the screen showed endless medical diagrams. Used to the austere ways of the Sapienti, the porter bowed and withdrew.
The red seal snapped as Jared opened it. And yet he knew it would have been read by the Queen’s spies.
My dearest Master Jared, The most dreadful thing has happened! A fire broke out in the cellars of the East Court, and most of the ground and upperfloors have collapsed. No one was hurt but the entrance to the Portal is buried under tons of rubble. The Queen’s Majesty assures me everything possible will be done but I am so
