faint moss clung like grass. No roads led up there; the cuboid hills must be hard as marble, and smooth, impossible to climb. Instead the track ran into a tunnel hacked into the base.
The waggons halted. Rix stood up, and said, ‘People.’ Quite suddenly faces were peering out from the waggons, all the stunted, enormous, shrivelled, dwarfish faces of the freakshow. The seven jugglers clustered round. Even the bearguard ambled back.
‘The rumour is that the gang that runs this road is greedy but thick.’ Rix took a coin from his pocket and spun it. It vanished into the air. ‘So we should get through without problems. If there are. . . obstructions, you all know what to do. Be alert, my friends. And remember, the Art Magicke is the art of illusion He made an elaborate bow and sat back down. Puzzled, Attia saw how the seven jugglers were distributing swords and knives, and small balls of blue and red. Then each of them climbed up by a driver. The carts closed together, a tight formation.
She climbed hastily behind Rix and his guard.
‘Are you seriously taking on some Scum gang with collapsible knives and fake swords?’ Rix didn’t answer. He just grinned his gappy grin.
As the tunnel entrance loomed Attia loosened her own knife and wished desperately that she had a firelock. These people were crazy, and she didn’t intend to die with them.
Ahead, the tunnel’s shadow loomed. Soon intense darkness closed over her.
Everything disappeared. No, not everything. With a wry smile she realized that if she leant out she could see the lettering on the waggon behind; that it was picked out in glowing luminous paint — The One, the Only, Travelling Extravaganza — that its wheels were whirling spokes of green. There was nothing else. The tunnel was narrow; from its roof the noise of rumbling axles reverberated into an echoing thunder.
The further in they went, the more worried she became. No road was without its owners; whoever held this one had a surefire ambush site. Glancing up she tried to make out the roof, whether any one was up there on walkways or hanging from nets, but apart from the web of one uberspider she could see nothing.
Except, of course, the Eyes.
They were very obvious in the darkness. Incarceron’s small red Eyes watched her at intervals, tiny starpoints of curiosity She remembered the books of images she had seen, imagined how she must look to the curious Prison, tiny and grainy, gazing up from the waggon.
Look at me, she thought, bitterly. Remember, I’ve heard you speak. I know there is a way Out from you.
‘They’re here,’ Rix muttered.
She stared at him. Then, with a crash that made her jump, a grid smashed down ahead in the darkness; and another, behind. Dust billowed up; the ox bellowed as Rix dragged it to a halt. The waggons creaked into a long straggling stillness.
‘Greetings!’ The shout came from the darkness ahead.
‘Welcome to the toll gate of Thar’s Butchers.’
‘Sit tight,’ Rix muttered. ‘And follow my lead.’ He jumped down, a lanky shadow in the darkness. Immediately a beam of light lit him. He shaded his eyes against it. ‘We’re more than willing to pay great Thar whatever he wants.’ A snort of laughter. Attia glanced up. Some of them were overhead, she was sure. Stealthily she drew her knife, remembering how the Comitatus had captured her with a flung net.
‘Just tell us, great one, what’s the fee?’ Rix sounded apprehensive.
‘Gold or women or metal. Whatever we choose, showman.’ Rix bowed, and let relief creep into his voice. ‘Then come forward and take what you want, masters. All I ask is that the properties of our art are left us.’ Attia hissed, ‘You’re just going to let them—’
‘Shut up,’ he muttered. Then, to the juggler, ‘Which one are you?’
‘Quintus.’
‘Your brothers?’
‘Ready, boss.’ Someone was coming out of the dark. In the red glimmer of the Eyes, Attia saw him in flickers, a bald head, stocky shoulders, the glint of metal strapped all over him. Behind, in a sinister line, other figures.
On each side, green lights flared with a sizzle.
Attia stared; even Rix swore.
The gangleader was a halfman.
Most of his bald skull was a metal plate, one ear a gaping hole meshed with filaments of skin.
In his hands he held a fearsome weapon, part axe, part cleaver. The men behind him were all shaven- headed, as if that was their tribemark.
Rix swallowed. Then he held up a hand and said, ‘We’re poor folk, Winglord. Some thin silver coins, a few precious stones. Take them. Take anything. Just leave us our pathetic props.’ The halfman reached out and gripped Rix by the throat.
‘You talk too much.’ His henchmen were already climbing all over the waggons, pushing the jugglers aside, ducking under the canvas.
Several of them came straight back out.
‘Hell’s teeth,’ one muttered. ‘These are beasts not men.’ Rix smiled wanly at the Winglord. ‘People will pay to see ugliness. It makes them feel human.’ A stupid thing to say, Attia thought, watching Thar’s grim face.
The Winglord narrowed his eyes. ‘So you’ll pay us coins.’
‘Any amount.’
‘And women?’
‘Indeed, lord
‘Even your children?’
‘Take your pick.’ The Winglord sneered. ‘What a stinking coward you are: Rix pulled a rueful face. The man dropped him in disgust.
He flicked a glance at Attia. ‘What about you, girl?’
‘Touch me she said quietly, ‘and I’ll cut your throat.’ Thar grunted. ‘Now that’s what I like. Guts.’ He stepped forward and fingered the edge of his blade. ‘So tell me, coward. What are these . . . props?’ Rix paled. ‘Things we use in our act:
‘And what makes them so precious?’
‘They’re not. I mean...' Rix stuttered. ‘To us, yes, but. .
The Winglord pushed his face close to the magician’s.
‘Then you won’t mind me looking at them, will you?’ Rix looked stricken. His own fault, Attia thought sourly. The Winglord pushed past him. He reached into the waggon, wrenched open the cavity that was hidden under the driver’s footboard, and dragged out a box.
‘No.’ Rix licked cracked lips. ‘Sir, please! Take anything we have, but not that! Without these trinkets we can’t perform. .
‘I have heard: Thar smashed the hasp of the box thoughtfully, ‘tales about you. About a certain Glove: Rix was silent. He looked panic-stricken.
The halfman tore the box lid off and looked inside.
Reaching in, he drew out a small black object.
Attia drew a breath. The glove was tiny in the man’s paw; it was worn and had been mended, and the forefinger was marked with what might have once been bloodstains. She made a move; the man glanced at her and she froze. ‘So,’ he said greedily. ‘Sapphique’s Glove.’
‘Please.’ Rix had lost all his bluster. ‘Anything but that: The Winglord grinned. With mocking slowness, he began to pull the glove on over his fat fingers.
4
We have been most careful in setting the locks of the Prison. No one can break in or out. The Warden will hold the sole Key. Should he die without passing on his knowledge the Esoterica must be opened. But only by his
