The Traitor Game Read online

  Francis said, ‘You’re very predictable, Michael.’

  Michael said nothing.

  ‘I was just thinking . . .’ Francis leant forward and put his chin on his hands. ‘I had a thought about Evgard.’ Michael was about to shake his head, or stand up to leave, or say, ‘Just piss off, Harris . . .’ but Francis carried on speaking, raising his voice slightly as though he knew how Michael was going to react. ‘You probably don’t want to hear it, but I’m going to tell you anyway. I was thinking about it on the train, and I don’t see why it should go to waste. I think you’ll like it. The idea is, right, there’s this substance that they mine in South Evgard, say in Sangarth. It’s called Tempus’s silver. It’s like silver, only more precious. But it’s also called lightlead, because they can make glass out of it. And it has the property of slowing down the speed of light. So, it takes half an hour or so for the sunlight to get through a window made of it, but then it holds the light for longer, too. So if you have a west window made of lightlead glass, it’s still light inside when outside it’s been dark for half an hour. You can watch the sunset outside and then go inside and watch it again, through the window.’ Francis glanced at him, then back at the altar. ‘And mirrors . . . if you make a mirror out of it, it shows what was going on an hour ago. A whole hour, because the light has to go through the glass twice, through and bouncing back again . . . So you can look in the mirror and see no one, or someone else, or whatever. Someone having sex, or a murder, or anything.’

  Michael said, ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘I guess they’d have a lot of lightlead mirrors in brothels. So the next customer could watch. And the Duke of Arcaster probably has one on his ceiling. But they wouldn’t just be for time-lag porn or surveillance – I mean, you couldn’t really use them to spy on people, because you’d need to keep sneaking into their rooms an hour after you thought they were up to something, and that would be sort of pointless. You could use them to send messages – like sending a video, I suppose – and, I dunno, look at the back of your head.’ He added wryly, ‘And other useful stuff like that. But it’s precious, anyway. It’s the most expensive thing there is. And jewellery – because you could put it in a lighted room and then half an hour later when you were in the dark it would start to shine.’

  ‘It’s a good idea.’

  ‘It’s bloody brilliant.’

  ‘But I’m not interested.’ Out of the corner of his eye Michael saw Francis turn his head to look at him. He stared resolutely at the swords on the wall. ‘You’ll just have to tell your friends.’

  He heard Francis take a deep breath. ‘Michael. You’re being childish. Why don’t you just grow up and get over yourself?’

  Michael spun round to face him and hit his shoulder on the back of the bench. ‘Yeah, all right, I’m childish. But I hate you, OK? I hate you. So why don’t you just go and fuck yourself?’

  Francis blinked. ‘That’s a bit extreme.’ He stared at Michael, as though he was waiting for him to apologise, or laugh. Then he narrowed his eyes. ‘For God’s sake, Michael, you’re overreacting. Seriously, what’s your problem?’ He tried to smile and reached out a hand, maybe to ruffle Michael’s hair, maybe to touch his shoulder. ‘I mean, Jesus, I haven’t done anything to you.’

  Michael knocked his hand away as hard as he could. He heard Francis’s shocked in-breath as it hit the back of the bench, and the dull sound of bone on wood. ‘Haven’t you? Haven’t you done anything to me?’

  Francis stared at him, utterly, utterly still. There was silence, a pause that felt like it spread out into the whole cathedral, cold as stone. Then a blush spread up into his cheeks, staining his whole face the colour of blood. He looked away and swallowed. Michael stared at the skin over his cheekbones, the deep scarlet that looked uncanny on Francis’s skin. It was so strange he almost didn’t have room to be angry. Then Francis put his hands over his face and his hands were white, except for a long stripe of red where one of them had hit the bench. Red and white, Michael thought, like the Wars of the Roses . . . Francis stood up, slowly, carefully, like an old man. He gave Michael a long look of contempt as he walked away.

  Michael closed his eyes. He could still see Francis’s face, that crimson flush . . . Francis never blushed. He was always pale and cool and calm. But at least Michael knew, now. It was as clear as a mark on his forehead. And he’d won. You couldn’t argue with it. He’d won, and Francis had lost. Easily. Checkmate.

  He should have felt triumphant. But he didn’t. He felt empty, adrift, like he wasn’t really there . . . He looked up to his left, to the window, and gazed into the blazing sunlight. He let the light hit the back of his skull. He tried not to blink, and squinted, as though he was standing somewhere high up, staring into a dazzling, blinding abyss. Black stars swam across his vision, like something starting to surface. It was like the beginning of a dream. He felt dizzy, as though he was fighting vertigo, as though he was somewhere else.

  He thought, Evgard. It was there, pushing at him, not letting go. He thought, No, please, I don’t want to feel anything, I don’t want to . . . but it was there. He couldn’t argue with it. And anything was better than the real world.

  The light flooded into his face, stinging his eyes like acid, bleaching everything. Michael thought, OK then. I won’t fight it. I’d rather be anywhere than here. He kept his eyes open and tried not to look away.

  .

  .

  Ef

  non ciccus sed cor . . .

  The sun’s so bright it’s almost like being blind. It’s all I can see: light and light and light, dazzling, colourless, filling my head like water in a bowl. It’s like a blazing fog, dropped across the landscape. If it wasn’t for the sunlight I’d be able to see for miles. There are black stars growing in front of my eyes, unfolding like fists and closing again, but I keep staring, forcing my eyes to stay open, because somewhere behind that glare of silver there are frozen marshes and a crumbling coastline, there are black-thatched villages and people that speak Mereish. Somewhere under that shining pall there’s Ryn and my father, my grandparents, there’s my village. My heird: my hearth, my home, my heart. They’re so far away it would take days to get to them, but that doesn’t matter. I know if I look hard enough I’ll see them. If I can keep my eyes open, if I can stare at the sun without blinking . . . then I’ll see them. Just for a second, maybe, before my eyes burn out; but it would be worth going blind for.

  It’s no good. I blink and blink again. My eyes are stinging and I can feel water on my eyelashes. I put my hands over my face for a moment, and when I look up again, towards the sun, I can’t hold my gaze for longer than a second. So I look down, instead.

  At the base of the tower, a long way away, there’s a narrow walkway of grey stone, with a high wall on the other side. The shadow from the wall makes the stone look almost black. Beyond that wall there are a few shabby buildings, made of wood and daub, huddled closely together, a barterplace where a few people are already building bonfires and setting up stalls, and then the long lines of warehouses. I’ve been inside one of those, years ago, when it was my father’s turn to bring the wool in for trading. I remember how much it frightened me: the long rows of blue-grey bales of wool, the bitter smell, like blood, the high dark roof – as though it had been built by something not human, something too big to live in a house. But later that afternoon my father found me, so he says, curled in a nest of new-dyed wool, fast asleep, with the marsh-reed dye coming off on my face. He would tell the story sometimes, laughing at me. ‘Had a purple cheek for days afterwards, you did . . . And when I brought you back, everyone looked askance. They thought it was a bruise, you see. And I was that worried to have lost you, I could have hit you . . .’ Then he’d draw his hand back in a big exaggerated motion and I’d hear it whistle through the air. I’d grin and stand my ground and my father would stop his hand before it touched me, letting it tap on my cheek so softly I could hardly feel it, and he’d pretend to grunt with the ex
ertion. Now I suppose my face must look like it did then, stained lilac-blue from temple to jaw. Only this time it is a bruise. If he could see me my father would be furious, half mad with anger and helplessness and shame. Ryn would look at me in wonder, that I’d let anyone do it to me. And my grandmother . . . It hurts too much to think about what my grandmother would do. I’m glad they think I’m dead, because it would only make it worse, to know they were worrying about me. There’s an old Mereish saying, ester yuin halb, ester solon liever by: when you’re beyond help, it’s better to be on your own.

  And I am on my own. For the first time in days. As I sneaked out of the Duke’s apartments it felt like an escape – the sudden, raw relief of being alone – but it isn’t, not really. There’s no one hitting me, or taunting me, or telling me in lip-smacking, brutal detail what happened to the others in the Winter Games, but I can’t get out of the castle. And when the Duke gets bored he’ll send people to find me. They’ll call to their hounds to follow my scent, sound hunting horns in the galleries, and drag me back to him like a prize. If I struggle they’ll hit me until I stop. I can’t escape. I know that by now, and the Duke knows that I know. The guard caught my eye as I left the Duke’s chamber this morning, and shrugged. He didn’t need to stop me. He knew there wasn’t anywhere for me to go.

  Except here. The top of this tower. The only escape there is.

  And it’s as though nothing exists but me and the dark paving-stones at the foot of the tower. Nothing else matters: only the ground, and gravity, and the space in front of me. I don’t need to look down. I can feel it there, the way you can feel your way round a place you’ve lived in all your life. I can stare into the light and the clean, cold air, the fresh early-morning winter silence, and step out, knowing it’s underneath me. No one can take that floor away. It’s ready to catch me, impersonal and cold and sure.

  I’m not scared. Not any more. It’s as though there’s nothing left to be scared of. I take a deep breath. When I breathe out I’ll walk forward.

  Behind me someone says thoughtfully, ‘It’s the falling that would frighten me. Not the landing – only the falling.’

  His voice is so like the Duke’s it brings a bubble of nausea into my throat. I nearly step forward just to get away from it. But I stop myself, just in time, and turn to look. After all, I’m so close to the edge that he wouldn’t be able to prevent me from jumping if I wanted to. And there was something in his voice, in spite of the dry Evgard consonants: something warm, almost as though he were human.

  I’ve seen him before somewhere. For a second I can’t remember where. Then it comes to me: at the feast, that first night. He was the boy sitting at the high table, the one who never looked up. He was the only person in the room who wasn’t watching when Thurat fell, who didn’t lean forward in excitement before they blindfolded me. I remember suddenly that he was the last thing I saw, before I crossed the floor: pale as a statue, staring down at his hands, knotted together on the table in front of him. Now his face is quizzical and cool, as though someone’s just given him a shek problem to think about. He frowns. ‘I mean, what if you changed your mind on your way down?’

  ‘I wouldn’t.’

  He nods, as though he believes me, and shrugs with one shoulder. ‘I just think there must be a better way. So there wouldn’t be any danger of it. And that would hurt less.’

  I shift my weight so that he can see both sides of my face. ‘I’m not scared of how much it would hurt.’

  He moves his head sharply, as though he wants to get a better view of my bruise; then he checks himself. He presses his lips together and looks down. ‘No.’

  ‘Please go away.’ There’s no point saying please in Evgard. I know that now. But I’ve got nothing to lose. If he laughs and says something obscene I can jump.

  He nods slowly. He starts to turn. I look back down at the walkway. From here it looks as though it’s the width of my hand. He says, ‘I can give you poison, if you want.’

  It’s a sick Evgard joke. It has to be. When I look at him he’ll laugh, throwing his head back. But he doesn’t. He hunches his shoulders awkwardly and looks at the ground: as though he really means it, as though he feels guilty for offering. I take a step towards him, keeping one hand on the edge of the window. ‘You don’t mean that.’

  He meets my eyes. ‘You’d have to take it somewhere else, on your own. You couldn’t die in my rooms. My father would kill me if he found out.’ He grins wryly. ‘But it might be . . . better. You’d just go to sleep and not wake up.’ His gaze flicks to the window and back to me. ‘At least you wouldn’t be all spread out like an egg.’ Tentatively he reaches a hand out to me, to help me down from the ledge.

  I don’t take his hand. But I do jump carefully down off the ledge and step towards him. It’s like the beginning of a fight: if he makes a false move that’s it. No second chances. But he stays very still, the way you wait for an animal to approach. And he keeps a decent distance, turning on his heel to lead the way before I get too close to him. I walk behind him warily, wondering at myself. Why didn’t I jump when I could? There’s something about him that makes me uneasy. But I follow him anyway, remembering the way he offered his hand, casually, as though it meant nothing.

  When we get to his rooms he lets me catch up, so that the guards won’t challenge me, and rests the palm of one hand on my back as I go through the door; but he drops his hand as soon as the door closes behind us. He goes straight to a chest next to the fireplace and unlocks it with a key hanging round his neck. When he turns to me he’s pulling a knot of black fabric undone in his fingers. Then he holds out a little dark nub of something. ‘Somnatis. Otherwise known as king’s mandragora. Completely painless. In small doses –’ he rubs the ball of his thumb over the pellet and licks it, ‘it induces a sort of deep relaxation, which is quite pleasant. It’s pretty valuable – you can get ten liae of gold for something this size. A lot of people take it every day. But if you take enough you go into a deadsleep and die.’

  ‘How much is enough?’

  ‘This would be, easily.’ He reaches out and drops it into my hand. It’s black and greasy, like old leaves squashed into a paste. It smells pungent and sweet.

  ‘I don’t have ten liae.’

  He laughs, then bites his lip. ‘I didn’t mean – never mind. You’re welcome to it. You need it more than I do. Only . . .’ He pulls absently at the chain round his neck. He’s looking at me the way Ryn’s father sometimes did, when he was worried I was a bad influence. ‘Only – don’t take it all unless you’re sure.’

  ‘I am sure.’

  ‘Of course.’ He turns away and scuffs around in the rushes on the floor with his foot. ‘It’s up to you.’ He smears a sprig of hartwort into the stone with the toe of his boot. ‘I know what it’s like for you. Maybe if I were you I’d do the same. If you have to, then you have to . . .’ He glances up and away again. ‘It’s just . . . my father, he’d probably do this. He’d give you poison, just to see your face – for the power. He’d enjoy it.’ His voice is cold but there’s a sudden colour in his face. ‘I think it would turn him on.’

  ‘Your father . . . ?’ He looks up for a moment, as though he can’t help it, and I see the likeness in his face. Of course. The Duke . . . the eyes, like glass catching firelight, the thin mouth. And the voice. His father . . . It’s so clear I wonder how I didn’t notice it before. Because if I’d known . . . I stare at him, struggling against the panic, the hatred that rises in my gut like icy water. I shouldn’t have trusted him. I shouldn’t be in the room with him. I should be at the bottom of the Ghist Tower, spread out on the walkway like – what was it he said? – spread out like an egg. He is the Duke, thirty years younger. Except for the look in his eyes . . . I’m shaking. I can’t speak. I have to get out. I have to get out now.

  My mouth tastes bitter. I clear my throat and feel the bile on the back of my tongue. Then, suddenly, the fury makes me reckless. I meet his eyes, holding his gaze for as long as I
can; then, deliberately, I lean forward and spit on the floor at his feet. I throw the bulb of poison back to him and turn to leave. Just now, just for this moment, I’m not scared. But I know I should be. The penalty for spitting in his presence must be death, at least.

  ‘Wait.’ He reaches out one hand to catch the poison, but his eyes are still on my face, and it slips through his fingers. But he doesn’t bend to pick it up. Instead he’s there at my elbow, pulling me round to face him. ‘Don’t go. Don’t. I’m his son and I don’t have any choice about that. But what I’m trying to say is – I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I want to help.’ I try to pull my arm away, but he’s strong, stronger than he looks. ‘Listen. Listen to me.’

  He grabs my other arm and pulls me round to face him, roughly, so a wave of black sickness goes through me, a kind of furious horror at his touch, making me reel backwards, weak at the knees. It’s hard to breathe. For a second his grip tightens; then, suddenly, he drops his hands and steps away, putting a hycht of space between us. His expression has changed. There’s a silence. He swallows. ‘My father is . . . I hate my father. Honestly. Whatever he’s done . . .’ He takes a deep breath, watching me. It’s almost a question. I don’t answer; but when he starts to speak again, it’s as if my silence was enough. ‘He’s a – a varesh mordyth meidburuchtts.’ A bloody murderous virgin-ravisher.

  I hear myself make a noise that’s almost a laugh. And for a moment it almost is funny: the way he shapes the words so carefully, keeping his eyes on my face, as if he’s expecting me to correct his pronunciation. Then I look away, feeling an ache in my throat and a tight grin on my face that isn’t quite a grin.