The Traitor Game Page 10

  ‘Of course I do. I sell it.’

  ‘And you’ll tell him –’

  ‘Yes, I’ll tell him. Or maybe –’ Columen smiles. It’s a slow, calculating smile that makes me uneasy. ‘No. No, you’re right. I think I’ll just ask a favour.’

  She bends forward to look at him, raising her eyebrows. ‘You are joking?’ He shakes his head, still smiling, and she steps backwards. ‘Oh. Of course. You’re high too. Shall I come back when you’ve crashed?’

  Columen gets up, swiftly, in a smooth movement that my eyes can’t quite follow, as though there’s something slippery about it. His sister moves automatically out of his way. ‘I mean it. You’ve given me an idea.’ He walks to the door, straight past her, and pauses there to beckon me to follow, the way you’d click your fingers to a dog when you’re taking it for a walk. Iaspis watches him coolly, with her head on one side.

  I don’t move; my heart is stuttering now, beating loudly in my ears. What’s he going to do? What does he want?

  He holds my gaze. ‘Argent. Come with me.’ There’s a tone in his voice that I want to obey, in spite of myself: partly because it makes me want to trust him, and partly because I’m afraid not to. Finally I get up and go to him, silently, because there’s nothing else I can do. I don’t have a choice; not if I want to stay alive.

  Columen goes out into the corridor – a little, dark, winding corridor, that’s more like a tunnel than anything else – and I follow at his heels. Iaspis walks after us, with a sort of it’s-not-that-I’m-curious-I-just-think-you’re-crazy insouciance that makes me think of Ryn. The door behind her swings shut and clicks into the wall so that you wouldn’t realise it was there.

  Columen doesn’t take any notice of her. Or of me, for that matter. He moves swiftly to the end of the corridor and leads us through a series of passages without looking back. When I’m outside, my sense of direction is quite good – even in a sea mist, I know how to get home, how to find the path, how to get round the patches of rotten ice where the adders nest – but inside the castle I’m lost. I try to concentrate, but I can’t; the corners of my vision fizz darkly and blur with tiredness. It’s as much as I can do to put one foot in front of the other. I haven’t even got the presence of mind to count the turnings. I just follow mindlessly, like I’ve got no will of my own. Like a dog, or a slave, or a ghost.

  But when we turn left into a big pillared gallery I know where he’s going. It’s the way I came this morning. The Duke’s apartments are at the end of the hall.

  The tiredness vanishes like a flame that’s been blown out. No. No. What’s going on? He can’t . . . I don’t understand, I can’t . . . I stop dead, feeling my pulse in the roof of my mouth, struggling against the panic. I’d rather die . . .

  Columen’s in front of me, so I don’t know how he knows I’ve stopped, but quicker than green he turns on his heel and grabs my arm above the elbow, gripping right down to the bone, like a bird of prey. I flinch, and he drops his hand. But he still says, ‘Argent.’ It’s a command.

  My mouth is too dry to speak. I think about running, but there’s nowhere to go.

  Columen gives me a long, steady look. Then he walks between the guards, who glance at him briefly and then go back to staring rigidly in front of them. He gives another flick of the wrist in my direction, to say, Follow me, come on. And I do.

  I go through the archway, into the smoke and the noise of men gaming and drinking and joking, the harsh over-muscular sounds of lots of people speaking Evgard. Except that now, as they look up, they go quiet, until there’s only the Duke finishing his sentence, and then there’s silence. The familiar knot of terror gathers in my stomach as he looks up, slowly, from the dice he’s just rolled. He sees Columen. Then he sees me.

  He leans back, stretching his hands out on the arms of the chair, like a cat showing its claws, and tilts his head back, looking at us. It makes me feel cold. But in front of me Columen shifts his weight slightly, mirroring his father. It’s so subtle that it’s hard to say exactly what’s changed, just a tiny alteration in the angle of his chin or his back. Whatever it is, though, it makes them look the same: staring each other out, balanced, reflecting each other. It reminds me of the moment just before a fight starts. It feels dangerous.

  Then the Duke grins. ‘Columen . . .’ he says silkily, and turns to me. ‘Vermiculus . . .’ It means grub. Like one of the white squidgy maggots that eat dead animals. Columen lets the silence hang for too long. Then he drops to one knee and bends his head. ‘My lord.’ The Duke waits. So does everyone else. Columen looks up, straight into his father’s eyes. For a strange, frozen moment it’s as though there’s a sort of tenderness in the way they look at each other. Then he says, ‘I have a favour to ask.’

  ‘Indeed . . .’ It’s hard to know if it’s a statement or a question.

  ‘This slave . . .’ Columen flicks a finger over his shoulder without looking at me. ‘I want him to teach me Mereish.’

  The Duke doesn’t show surprise. His face is very still. But somehow I know he’s taken aback, caught off-guard. He glances up at me and then quickly away, almost as though he doesn’t want to catch my eye. ‘I see. And why should I give him to you?’

  Columen shrugs. ‘Because I’m your beloved son?’

  The Duke’s mouth twitches. ‘Not beloved enough, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Then because I should learn Mereish. Please. I only know the swear words.’ He leans forward and says again, ‘Please.’ It sounds funny, coming from him.

  ‘No.’ The joke’s over; the Duke looks away, picks up his cup. Columen’s been dismissed. But he stays where he is.

  ‘I’ll buy him from you.’

  The Duke frowns. ‘No.’

  ‘Please –’

  ‘No.’ His voice is so cold it makes the back of my throat ache.

  Columen rocks back on his heels. He starts to get up – at least, I think he starts to get up, his shoulders sagging – but then he drops slowly back to his knees. His expression has changed. He leans forward and says softly, ‘I’ll throw dice for him.’

  He’s joking. Isn’t he? You don’t throw dice for people. Of course, to these Evgard bastards, I’m not a person – but I thought he was different, I thought he was on my side. He seemed . . . Then I want to kick myself for being so stupid, for being taken in so quickly.

  The Duke’s eyes narrow; he licks his lips. ‘And what will you bet with?’

  Columen glances round briefly, as though he’s looking for ideas. ‘If you win,’ he says slowly, ‘I’ll go on the next raid to Marydd.’

  ‘You want to gamble with slaves you haven’t even got yet?’ The Duke laughs, as though he admires Columen’s audacity.

  Columen looks back at him without blinking. ‘Yes.’ He could be talking about my father, or Ryn, or my grandmother. He’d be there, hunting them down, the way I was hunted down. I want to kill him. I can’t move.

  The Duke nods. ‘All right. Highest roll takes all.’ It’s happening so quickly that I can’t take it in – what will happen if he wins? If there’s another raid? – but already he’s picking up the die sitting by his hand, and rubbing it in his palm. Unexpectedly he throws, so quickly it makes Columen jump. He smiles. ‘Eleven. Not regretting it, are you?’

  The atmosphere has changed, in the blink of an eye, unbearably. Now everyone’s leaning forward, excited, hungry, the way they did that first night. I feel sick, sick all the way to the inside of my bones. This is what it’s like to be nothing, to be worth absolutely nothing. They’re gambling with me as though I were an object. I’m a game they can play, that’s all.

  Columen’s hand is shaking. When he reaches forward for the die he can hardly hold it. Then suddenly his whole arm twitches, and I see the die fall out of his hand on to the stone floor. He says, ‘Wait – that’s not my throw – I just dropped it –’ and starts to scrabble for the die. The Duke laughs, leaning back in his chair. The men swap glances. When Columen kneels up again he looks flushed and sham
efaced. He deserves it. He deserves more than that. I hope he rots in hell.

  He grimaces nervously. Of course he’s going to lose. He’d have to roll a twelve. And you can see that he knows he’s already lost, pretty much, because he drops the die on to the table as though it’s not even very important. As though he’s given up. He doesn’t even throw it properly – like he can’t be bothered – just drops it. He hardly even looks at how it lands.

  Twelve.

  Silence. Silence that settles on everything like snow. Until the Duke says, ‘I see. Congratulations, Columen.’ He means the opposite.

  ‘Thank you.’ Columen stands up swiftly and inclines his head.

  ‘Take the luridus and get out of my sight.’ It means sallow, sickly-pale. ‘And you, boy –’

  I look him in the eye. ‘Me?’

  ‘You have extraordinary luck. Don’t push it.’ He turns back to Columen, who’s on the balls of his feet, ready to leave, like a runner before the beginning of his race. ‘What you want this pathetic specimen for I can’t imagine. Except the obvious, I suppose.’ This time when he looks at me I look away, in spite of myself. The hate rises in my mouth like bile. I promise I’ll kill him, one day. I’ll kill them both. ‘I thought you had higher standards. This boy is a traitor, you know. He’ll never be more than that. Just a ciccus.’ The men laugh, nodding at me maliciously.

  Ciccus. An apple-core. A nothing. A nought.

  ‘Oh,’ Columen says coolly, ‘I’m not sure about that.’ He lets the pause lengthen for a split second. ‘Don’t be a bad loser, Father.’ And then, before anyone has time to wonder – did he really just say that? Is he out of his mind? – he turns and walks past me, pulling me after him. He walks without hesitation past Iaspis, through the archway, and back down the gallery towards his own rooms. I go with him, because there’s nowhere else to go; but I’m so angry I’m shaking as though I’ve got a fever. I almost reach out for the knife sheathed in his back. Shudfargtte. Varesh ryglyng. You think I’m nothing. You threw dice for me.

  He flicks a latch somewhere to get back into his room, looks away, turns back to me, easily, about to say something. This is the moment.

  And before I’ve even thought about it his dagger is in my hand, fitting into my fingers as if it was made for me. It’s light, and sharp. It catches the light. It’s at his throat. I hold my hand there, steady, feeling the blade just start to draw blood.

  He looks so surprised. As though he doesn’t understand what he’s done.

  ‘You bastard,’ someone says, and it takes a moment to realise it’s me. I sound hoarse, fierce, unfamiliar. ‘You think I’m nothing. You gambled with my life. You said you’d go out and get more slaves from Marydd. You said –’ Something cracks. My voice. I stare at Columen. I swallow and try again, forcing against the harsh edges in my throat. ‘You think I’m . . . ciccus. That’s what your father called me.’

  His eyes narrow and widen again. ‘Argent . . .’

  I press harder and there’s a tiny red flower expanding on his collar. ‘You threw dice for me. You were playing . . .’

  ‘Wait.’ He brings one hand up gently to the knife. There’s something in his eyes. I let him push the blade away from his neck, but I keep it up, in front of me, at the level of his face. ‘Watch. Just let me . . .’ His face is very calm, very still. Deliberately, he holds his arm in front of his body, as if he’s showing me something. He shakes his hand, and a little dodecahedron rolls out of his sleeve into his palm. A die. He drops it on the floor, at my feet. Twelve. Slowly he crouches, picks it up, rolls it again. Twelve. Again. Twelve. I meet his gaze, and he grins, slyly, inviting me to grin back. ‘It’s weighted, Argent. It’s a trick.’ He watches me.

  I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say.

  ‘You’re right. It would have been an awful thing to do.’ He stands up, quickly now, and takes the knife easily out of my hand. He sheathes it in the small of his back as though nothing’s happened. ‘But I knew I’d win.’ A beat. ‘Did you really think . . . ?’

  I still can’t say anything. But he doesn’t wait for a reply. He pushes the door open with one hand and beckons me through.

  ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘and as for thinking you’re an apple-core . . .’ He doesn’t look at me; he smiles into the middle distance like it’s a friend. ‘Non ciccus, sed cor,’ he says, quietly, so quietly I almost don’t hear it.

  It’s a pun. It means, not a core, but a heart. Not a nothing, but an everything.

  .

  .

  Seven

  Everything went in the black plastic bag. Everything. The Book and the papers and the Latin dictionary Francis used for names sometimes and the mapping pens and the special silver ink. All of it. Everything. Michael junked it all.

  .

  Once, ages ago, right at the beginning of the stuff at the comp, he’d come home and told his mum what was happening. He didn’t mean to; it just came out. All the stuff about them taking the mickey (he wasn’t going to say piss to his mum) and calling him names and saying he was clever, and the way they’d push him sometimes in the corridor and ‘borrow’ money and not give it back. It wasn’t that bad – he found out later how much worse it could get – but at the time he thought it was awful. And when he ended up telling his mum he couldn’t stop himself starting to cry, so that there were tears and mucus and spit everywhere and it took him ages to calm down. He hiccupped his way through the whole story, like his body was trying to stop him talking about it. He could remember how salty his mouth tasted, how difficult it was to swallow. He could remember the smell of his own snot.

  His mum had hooked a lock of hair behind her ear, smoothing it back over and over again. She’d rubbed his back and put her arms round him and told him to drink his tea. She’d waited until he could breathe in properly, until he wasn’t sobbing any more. Then, very gently, she told him not to let it upset him. ‘They’re just jealous of you, darling. If you ignore them they’ll get bored. They’re probably just worried about not doing well in tests. They must be unhappy themselves, and they’re just taking it out on you. Try to forget about it.’ She smiled at him. ‘You know, sweetheart, a lot of people wouldn’t think being called clever was an insult!’

  Michael looked at her. He stared into her eyes until he had to blink. Was that all she could say? That couldn’t be all . . . Please, Mum, help me, you’ve got to help . . . She smiled back at him, reassuring and loving and totally, utterly useless. She couldn’t do anything. They’re just jealous of you. Try to forget about it. She didn’t have a clue. And suddenly, horribly, it hit him, as if someone was wringing out his stomach like a flannel. He was on his own. He always had been, of course – but somehow it was worse, because now he knew there wasn’t anyone to go to. He shouldn’t even have told his mum. He looked away and stood up, quite calmly. He put his mug in the dishwasher, picked up his bag and went upstairs. ‘You’re right,’ he said flatly over his shoulder. ‘I’m fine, really. I’ll just ignore it.’ She said something else as he closed the door, but he couldn’t hear the words.

  The stupid thing was, he actually tried to do what she said. Then, and later, when it got really bad. He ignored them, he tried not to let them upset him, he tried to walk through the school wide-eyed and empty and non-existent, as transparent and slippery as a jellyfish.

  And when he came home, he sat and ignored himself. He pretended he wasn’t there; he was just an empty Michael-shaped space, just air and dust. But he had to try harder and harder. He had to sit for longer and longer before he felt himself fade away. After that last day at the comp he sat like that for hours, with his head on his knees and his arms braced over his head like a passenger on a crashing aeroplane. Maybe, if he did it properly, he’d be able to forget about it. He’d be like everyone else. He wouldn’t be a loser any more.

  Sometimes it worked, just for a bit, and he went numb. He could function then. It was a sort of relief, that weird airless gap when you could fold up your pyjamas or make a cu
p of tea. But mostly, even then, you could see it all coming back, rising on the horizon like a tidal wave. And then it was there again, and – well, you might have made a cup of tea, but you couldn’t drink it, not without throwing up. You could stare at the TV, but everything you saw would be through a filter, like there was coloured plastic over the screen. Everything was in shades of you’re-a-loser. And he’d always be a loser. He was nothing.

  He’d grab on to the arm of the sofa and breathe, just to get through it. Don’t let it upset you . . . but it was too late, he was already upset, the way a glass of water gets upset. That was him all over the floor. All he could do was hold on, and wait for the misery to recede. It had to, eventually. Sooner or later he had to come out the other side.

  It was funny, really. He had come out the other side. He’d made it to the surface. He’d come up, blinking, into . . .

  Into Evgard.

  Now he sat, exactly where he used to sit, at the foot of his bed. He stared at the black bin-bag and waited for the flood to hit.

  .

  In Ghist Marydd there’s a custom called sterdark. Sometimes it’s a punishment; but mostly it’s something people choose to do, as a kind of mourning ritual. Normally you’d go sterdark if your twin died, or your firstborn. Once you’re marked as sterdark, you’re invisible. As far as other people are concerned, you don’t exist. You can go anywhere you want, steal food, dance and scream for help and cry, and no one will take any notice of you. It’s as though you’re a ghost.

  Michael would have liked to go sterdark. He almost felt like he had; as though Evgard was the real world, and he didn’t really exist. It made it easier, if he could close his eyes and be somewhere else, someone else. He could blot himself out, and Francis, and Shitley, and his mum; he could let Evgard carry him like a river. On Monday morning, as he was walking down the fifth-form corridor to his locker, he was thinking, I’m not here. Not really. I’m not here. I’m sterdark.