The Traitor Game Page 5

  The Duke is standing now, leaning forward over the table. His face looks eager, thirsty. He watches Thurat hang there. He’s waiting for his grip to loosen.

  But it doesn’t. I’ve seen Thurat harvest marsh-reeds, knotting them into bundles, and I know how strong his hands are. He could drag himself up by his fingers. He’s going to climb back up. I watch, shaking, as the muscles in his shoulders start to bulge. There’s more mocking applause from the watchers, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, except that Thurat can pull himself back up. Please, please. His hands clench harder on the stone, fingernails white as the marble. His arms bend; he’s doing it, he’s climbing back up . . . Slowly he eases one elbow over the edge of the tiles. I can’t breathe. Please . . .

  The Duke frowns. He looks away sharply and says something in a low voice to one of the women at his side. The woman smiles and tilts her head to gaze up at him, trailing dark enamelled fingernails across his sleeve. Then she stands up and walks to the edge of the floor, her dress swinging like a bell, peacock-blue. The noise grows louder. The men whistle and the other women clap grudgingly. Thurat has almost got his other arm up now. Just a few more seconds and he can stand up, safe, unhurt. But now everyone’s watching the woman in blue.

  At first I think she’s dancing. The way she moves, gracefully, as though she’s listening to music no one else can hear, counting the steps sideways and back. The way she walks with such precision, exactly, carefully, as though one false step would ruin the whole dance. She holds up her skirts and moves towards Thurat, along a line of tiles, then diagonally, like a knight’s move in shek. Then I realise. Of course. She knows how to cross the floor without falling through it. She knows the design. I watch where her feet go, weaving an invisible pattern on the tiles. She gets closer and closer to Thurat; closer and closer, until she’s there, right in front of him. But he doesn’t know she’s there until she puts one blue-slippered foot deliberately on the back of his hand. He freezes. The audience jeers loudly.

  The woman in blue looks around, acknowledging the noise, licking her lips as she meets the Duke’s gaze. She presses down on Thurat’s hand with her foot, pensively, as though she’s wondering what to do next; then she lifts it again, stands daintily on one leg for a moment, and kicks Thurat’s blindfolded face as hard as she can.

  He yelps and jerks back. His hands lose their grip and scrabble desperately on the stone. His palm slaps on the marble as he tries to grab for the edge, but it’s no good. He cries out, and falls. There’s a thud, like a sack of earth hitting a stone floor.

  The marble tile clicks back into place. The woman curtsies.

  The noise in the hall swells painfully, and then subsides. People pick up their bits of food and carry on with their conversations. A couple of children spit bits of stale bread at us, sniggering. The woman dances back to the high table, light-footed. The Evgard men start to herd us out of the hall. No one meets my eyes.

  Behind us, the Duke says, ‘One moment.’

  We turn around and shuffle back into place. The Duke is grinning fiercely. He’s looking straight at me. My throat tightens and I look away. But when he speaks, I know he’s speaking to me, as clearly as if we were the only people in the hall. ‘You. You tried to warn him. Didn’t you?’

  I can’t help glancing up. And when I meet his gaze I know I don’t need to say anything. My stomach fills with ice.

  He nods, watching me. ‘I’m afraid that’s against the rules.’

  No. No. The panic rises up like flood water, battering at me, sweeping me off my feet. I feel sick. Because I know what he’s going to say before he says it.

  ‘So now it’s your turn.’ He’s grinning as though he’s going to go for someone’s throat. ‘After all, now you know how it works.’ He picks up the other half of his torn cloak and holds it out for one of the men, looking at me all the time. I want to turn and run, but there’s nowhere to go. My legs are going to give way. Someone pushes me forward and starts to wrap the cloth round my eyes. It’s happening so fast. I need to keep my sense of direction. But now they’re spinning me, roughly, so that everything whirls round me and I don’t know where I am. I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m so dizzy I can hardly stay upright.

  They let me go. The floor tilts sideways, levels, tilts the other way. I’m going to be sick. I take a deep breath, open my eyes and stare at black cloth. Maybe I should run, to get it over quicker. I take a step forward.

  Someone giggles, to my right. One of the kids, the one who was spitting bread at us. The little dark oily one. Which means –

  Which means I’m facing forward. I know where I am. Relief hits me, irrationally, like a warm wave. Why am I relieved? I’m still going to die. Knowing which direction I’m looking in isn’t much consolation.

  Except that . . . don’t be stupid. But there’s a voice in my head, now. It’s telling me I could do this, if I wanted. I could cross this floor without falling through it. I might be able to stay alive – to keep us all alive . . . I can’t help myself. I crouch, quickly, and run my hands over the floor in front of me before anyone has time to realise what I’m doing. Someone barks, ‘Oi!’ and the audience shouts derisively; but as I stand up I can feel hope prickling somewhere in the back of my head. Maybe I can . . . A diamond. So the line of arrowheads is about a hycht to my left. I stand still, breathing, making myself think. How did she get from the edge of the floor to the middle? It must be symmetrical. It must be built over a framework. It must be. So . . .

  The noise is building again. They’re impatient. But I have to get this right. If I can only remember . . . It was like a dance, like a strategy in shek, like a spider weaving. She stepped on the arrowhead, the star, two triangles, over the diamond on to the rhomboid on the other side. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to see it. Like a spiral, only not quite. Like a web, only not quite. Come on, think . . . The shouts are raucous now, aggressive, and I have to move soon or they’ll send her on to the floor to push me. All right. I take one step sideways, to where the central axis should begin. If I’m thinking straight. I feel my heart push against my ribcage. I walk forward. The floor holds.

  The star must be two foot-lengths to my right. I don’t give myself time to think about it. I take a long step: and I’m still standing, still alive. Be careful, don’t lose your sense of direction. Stay facing the high table.

  And the triangles must be – that way. For a moment my memory flickers, like the floor trembling under my feet. Was it that way? Or was it then that she stepped over the diamond? If I get it in the wrong order . . . I try to concentrate. The noise hasn’t lessened, if anything it’s getting louder, but I have to block it out. There’s a little cold flame of fear burning under my diaphragm. I ignore that too and focus on the shapes in my head. The arrowheads, the star, the triangles . . . And suddenly I can see it: as though it’s been drawn out for me on the inside of my skull, silver on white, gleaming, symmetrical. I can see it stretching away into the distance, repeating itself over and over. Once you see how it works it’s easy. It’s like a melody. It fits together.

  So it must be the triangles next. I turn carefully, letting myself judge the angle by instinct. One step on each. One. Two. And the world stays solid beneath my feet. Not far now. I can smell my own sweat; my cheeks are wet where it’s run down my temples. I can’t let myself think about that. I keep the pattern of the floor-tiles in front of my eyes, like a map. I know where I’m going. I have to trust my body to take me in the right direction. Now it’s step over the diamond, on to the rhomboid. A big step – but not too big, because I have to land on the right tile. Step. My ankle shakes as I put my weight on it. I feel the tile begin to give way. It’s too late to go back. I’ve got it wrong. That’s it. I brace myself for the fall.

  The floor stays steady. The breath rushes out of me. I’m imagining things. I breathe in and make myself count to five, yn, duuzh, ter, kyth, mearn, before I think about the next move. A couple more steps, and I’ve done it. I can pull off t
he blindfold, look the Duke in the face, and be granted my freedom. But those steps. Forward – is it? I concentrate on the pattern so far. Yes. Forward.

  Before I lose my nerve I stumble the last few steps. I almost trip, and I launch myself forward. My knees hit the ground and I find myself kneeling, my hands scratching at the floor, trying to find the edge of the marble. It’s there. I feel the place where it joins the brickwork. I’m safe. I’ve crossed the floor. We can go home – all of us . . . I hear myself breathing in great sobs, as though I’ve been underwater all this time. I pull off the blindfold, tugging at it until the knots yield. My eyes sting in the light and the smoke. My face is wet.

  The hall is weirdly quiet. Everyone’s staring at me; but no one’s cheering, or applauding, or even scoffing. I want to say, ‘Now let us go,’ but my mouth’s too dry.

  The Duke looks down at me, his face unreadable. Then he stands up. He beckons to me and walks out of the hall. One of the men-at-arms stands up too and follows at my shoulder. I don’t look behind me, but I feel him there as I go out of the hall. I go down a little corridor and through the open wooden door at the end of it. I don’t know what I’m expecting: my mind’s gone blank. When I go in the Duke is seated at a table, leaning back on a cushion, waiting for me. This must be his privy chamber. The man-at-arms waits outside the door and lets me go in alone.

  The Duke looks up at me and nods, as though I’d said something. ‘Clever boy.’ When I don’t reply he raises one eyebrow. ‘Do you understand Evgard?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ He pours a cup of wine and runs his finger smoothly round the rim. ‘How did you do that? Walk the floor blindfolded? Have you been here before?’

  ‘No.’ He waits until I have to say something else to fill the pause. ‘I just saw the pattern.’

  ‘Clever boy,’ he says again. He sips his wine, gazing into the middle distance.

  ‘I want you to let us all go.’

  The corner of his mouth tautens. There’s a glint in his eye. ‘No doubt.’

  I try to keep my voice flat. ‘You promised us our freedom. If one of us crossed the floor and looked you in the face.’ He throws his head back and laughs. ‘You gave your word.’

  ‘As if I cared for that . . .’ he says lightly. The look in his eyes is predatory, as though he enjoys watching me struggle to stay calm.

  ‘You promised us –’ I have to swallow. I can still see Thurat’s hands, clawing desperately at the floor as he fell. ‘So my friends – they died for nothing. And you’ll still . . . you won’t give us our freedom. You won’t send us home.’

  ‘Of course not. After all, we need slaves for the Winter Games.’ He has a gaze like a hook, that you can’t get away from. He stands up, and walks round the table to me. ‘But I think I’ll keep you alive, for a while. You’re rather interesting. Saw the pattern, did you?’ I try to step backwards, but he catches hold of my shoulder and holds me where I am. ‘Did they teach you that in Marydd, Clever Boy?’

  ‘My name’s Argent.’

  ‘Because of your eyes, no doubt? How apt.’ He strokes my cheek with a cold fingertip. His hand smells of attar of roses. It makes me want to retch. He must see the look in my eyes because he leans closer. ‘I wonder what else they taught you in – Skyph, wasn’t it?’ The ball of his thumb drags at my lower lip, pulling at the scab. I flinch, and he smiles that vicious, feral grin. ‘I think perhaps I should like to find out.’

  I shake my head. I can’t speak. I’m scared I’ll cry. I wish I still had my sheath-knife. I’d happily die if I could kill him first.

  He tilts my face towards his until there’s a finger-breadth between us. ‘Well, then, Argent,’ he says. ‘Show me what you’ve learnt.’

  Then he locks the door.

  .

  .

  Four

  Michael knew he should get up and unlock the door. He should pick up his bag and go to History, down the corridor and across the court where the flower beds were. It was Thompson’s Third Law: don’t bunk lessons, because someone will notice. Do everything you’re told. Don’t draw attention to yourself. The worse things got, the more you had to hold it together. But he just couldn’t make himself move. He was late already anyway. Father Sewell would be looking at his empty desk, shaking his head vaguely, murmuring about autumn colds and the influenza epidemic in 1918. He’d just assume that clever, inconspicuous Thompson was ill. Bunking off? Thompson? Surely not. A boy like him? And what do you mean, a personal crisis? A fight with a friend? But Thompson’s not the sort to have friends . . .

  And how right he was. Michael grinned to himself, fiercely, pushing the misery away. Stupid, Michael, stupid. Letting yourself think Francis was actually a mate. Letting yourself like him, letting him into Evgard. I mean, Christ, Thompson, what were you thinking? Why didn’t you take a few pornographic photos of yourself and hand him the negatives, while you were about it? Or handcuff yourself naked to a lamp-post and give him the keys? He actually laughed aloud, but it made his stomach hurt. And when he closed his eyes again he felt a kind of despair swelling up into his throat. He’d rather he was chained naked to a lamp-post. He’d rather there were pornographic photos of him on the Internet. He raked his fingertips down over his forehead, hard, pressing against his skull. You dare cry, Michael Thompson . . . He said to himself, If I let myself cry I swear I’ll go to the science labs and turn on the gas taps and sit there and wait for the whole bloody thing to blow.

  He swallowed, and the lump in his throat eased. Better. Suddenly he desperately wanted to smoke. And he couldn’t sit in a toilet cubicle all day. For one thing, someone might see his feet under the partition and call a teacher in case he’d OD’d or slit his wrists, like the kid at the comp. He’d thought about that, but he’d never been brave enough. And that wasn’t how he’d do it, anyway. Imagine dying in the stink of other people’s shit, looking at their graffiti. Imagine your last sight on earth being FITCH-MARTIN TAKES IT UP THE ARSE. Although that might make it easier, in the end, especially if you happened to be Fitch-Martin.

  He picked up his bag, unlocked the door, and made his way out into a deserted corridor. It was so quiet at St Anselm’s. At the comp it was always noisy. You never knew if there were people waiting for you just round the corner, or coming up behind you, ready to jab their elbow into your kidneys as they passed, disappearing round the corner before you even felt the impact. But here – you could stand still and listen, and if there was someone there you’d know. You’d hear them breathing.

  Sometimes he’d play a game with himself, listening, choosing alternative routes, trying to avoid seeing anyone at all on his way to the classroom. But now he took the most direct route to the front gates, not caring who saw him. He walked past the classroom where Francis was doing Geography. He didn’t mean to look through the window in the door, but he did, and with a shock he met Francis’s gaze as he looked up idly from his work. Michael’s feet carried him past before he had time to pause or wonder whether to nod or smile. But it shook him. Francis had looked – well, normal, ordinary, the way he always did, raising his eyebrows briefly in a greeting. Michael wondered what his own face looked like. Surely he looked different. Surely Francis couldn’t look at him and not know something had changed? Jesus, how could Francis look so cool, so unruffled, so – Michael searched for the word – so mild? But then, he must have been doing that for weeks. He must be pretty good at it by now.

  Michael stopped on the stairs and gripped the banister, tightly, as though he needed to hold himself steady. He stared at the A-level Art project on the landing and made himself feel nothing. He was tired. Not upset, not furious, not desolate. Just really, really tired. Francis had been lying to him for weeks. Everything they’d done together, the work they’d done on Evgard, everything, was a sham. Just something for Francis to amuse himself with and show to his mates, laughing. Yeah, he’s a real loser. Look, he makes all these maps, and family trees, and he writes poetry, how sad is that? Yeah, well, I go
along with it, I think it’s hilarious. The poetry? Sure, if you’re interested I’ll nick some to show you.

  He’d kill him. He’d kill him. For a moment, involuntarily, Michael saw himself taking a drag on a cigarette so that the end glowed red, and then deliberately grinding it down on the back of Francis’s hand. He pushed himself away from the banister and stumbled down the stairs in a kind of panic, as though he was running away from something. God, he just needed to get home, that was all. He made himself sign out, smile carefully at the receptionist and saunter out of the school gates, like he was perfectly happy, like he was in control.

  When he got home he went up to his room. He sat on the floor against the bed, staring at the double-locked box that held the Book and everything else to do with Evgard. But Francis had managed to show it to someone – sneaking it out of the room, probably, the way he’d stolen that map, the first time . . . He wondered what they’d seen, Francis’s mates. Everything? Or just the odd little titbit, a particularly inept drawing or a map, maybe, one of his mock-scholarly articles about the Mereish language or the way they counted in base twelve? He felt his cheeks burn. All right, so it was sad, so he was a loser. Worse than that. He saw himself, suddenly, the way Francis’s mates – no, the way Francis must see him. Not just a victim, the way he’d been at the comp. He was a freak, he was laughable. He thought: I’ll never be able to look him in the face ever again. I want to die.