Part 21 (1/2)

Nish yelped and tore his hand away. 'What are you doing?'

'You've got to have a mark,' said the boy. 'Without it, you're nothing nothing!'

Nish gave him his hand. The boy pressed harder, making a series of b.l.o.o.d.y cuts. Nish flinched.

'It's only a scratch,' Colm said scornfully.

'Heroes still feel pain, Colm.'

When it was done, Colm dabbed the surplus blood away, comparing the marks with the raised red welts on the back of his own hand. 'It's not very good, but it will probably look like the real thing, from a distance.'

'What if they check it and discover it's not?'

'You could run for your life, but it'll be worse when they catch you. Best thing is to just take the beating.'

'Why do the guards hate us so much?' Already Nish felt it was 'us' and 'them'.

'It's not the guards who will beat you in the workhouse. It's the boss refugees. They don't want any attention, in case their own schemes are found out.'

They were off again, up the stinking gully, then towards a large ramshackle building made of reused timber. It looked as if a dozen houses, all different, had been pulled down to make it. A sentry, dressed in clothes as ragged and filthy as the boy's, stood outside.

'How do we get in?' Nish hissed.

Colm did not answer but, after checking that the sentry was not looking, darted across the s.p.a.ce between the gully and the side of the building, lifted a couple of loose boards and wriggled inside.

Nish only just managed it, his shoulders being as wide as the opening. He emerged in a gloomy s.p.a.ce with timbers running along above his head, and more in front of him. Beyond were dozens of pairs of dirty feet. He was under a wide workbench that ran along the side of the building.

Colm turned right, crawling down next to the wall. Before long he stopped by a pair of grubby feet. Next was a smaller pair, clad in sadly stained and tattered slippers.

'Stay down until I say so,' he whispered in Nish's ear, and with a twisting movement like an eel on a hook, Colm was out, up and standing between the two pairs of feet.

'Where have you been, Colm?' came a weary, worn-out female voice. 'I've been worried sick about you.'

'Just around,' said Colm. 'I '

'Get to work, son.' The man's voice was equally lifeless. 'We're behind in our quota and your slackness '

'I've found him!' Colm hissed.

'Can you fix this one?' said his mother as if he had not spoken. 'It doesn't want to go together again.'

Silence, in which there was an occasional click or rattle, a m.u.f.fled curse.

'I've found the man who floated in on the balloon.'

'Lose him! They're looking for him and we don't want to attract attention to ourselves, boy. I've told you that a hundred times.'

'But '

'It's dangerous, Colm,' said the dead voice. 'Keep your head down. Do your work. Say nothing. Never catch anyone's eye.'

'I might as well be dead dead!'

'He's a spy! Or in the pay of the enemy. We could all die if he's linked to us. And there's your sisters to think of, Colm. It'll be worse for them. I didn't think I'd have to remind you you of that.' of that.'

'He's a hero!' Colm said stubbornly. 'He's going to help us get Gothryme back.'

'It's gone forever,' snapped the man. 'We're refugees and we will never get anything back. We're lucky to be alive.'

'We're unlucky unlucky to be alive,' said Colm. 'What's the point to life when we've lost everything, even our Histories?' to be alive,' said Colm. 'What's the point to life when we've lost everything, even our Histories?'

'We can't eat our Histories.'

'I'm going to go back if it takes me all my life. Gothryme is my due and I won't give it up.'

'Anything you can't carry on your back is worthless; it's like chaining yourself to a rock.'

'You don't even tell us our family Histories any more.'

'If you cling to the past, you'll never make a new future.'

'This man can help us. You should hear what he's done, father. He's a hero.'

Smack. Colm fell to his knees. For a second his eyes met Nish's, then he climbed to his feet again.

'I won't won't hear another word, son,' said the father. 'The man is a liar and you're a little fool for being taken in by him.' hear another word, son,' said the father. 'The man is a liar and you're a little fool for being taken in by him.'

TWENTY.

Nish pulled himself against the wall, where it was darkest. His pockets were empty. He had not a copper nyd to his name, nor anything else he could use to buy or bribe his way out. He had no weapons, no means of defending himself. All he had were his wits. He might have given way to despair, but lately Nish had thought his way out of a number of difficult situations. Leaning back, he closed his eyes and went through his options. He could only see three.

Declare himself to the guards at the gate, tell them who he was and where he had come from. Likely result: a merciless beating and being thrown back into the camp, where the powers that ran it could well give him another beating. It didn't seem worth the risk.

Try to get over the palisade in the night and escape. Colm's little remark made that into an unpalatable option, though Nish knew that guards were seldom as vigilant as rumour had it. On a dark night, or a rainy one, there must be a chance.

Failing that, let's see what he could do with the boy. Colm had proven trustworthy but Nish was wary of pressing him too hard. Family always came first.

He spent the whole day under the table. It grew increasingly hot and humid until Nish could think of nothing but cool water. His last drink had been with the scrutator the previous day. Had he really come all this way in only a day? He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious. It felt like another year; another life. The scrutator would not be back to the manufactory yet, and Ullii ... Poor Ullii. How was she coping? He could still hear her screams.

The hours dragged by. The building stank of unwashed bodies. There was not a breath of fresh air to be had and he felt as if he were suffocating. Nish looked up at the underside of the bench, where the grain of the timber made sawtooth patterns reminiscent of the crest of a lyrinx. He swallowed.

Considering so many people worked here, the workhouse was uncannily quiet. All he heard was the shuffle of feet, an occasional clearing of the throat and the muted tap and click of mechanical parts being put together. Nish manoeuvred an eye to a gap between the boards, looking up along the bench. The workers were putting together small clockwork mechanisms, possibly for something like a clanker.

Thwack. Someone let out a reedy scream, quickly cut off.

'Half-rations for three days. Work harder!' The voice was close by.