An Ember in the Ashes. Sabaa Tahir

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ clothes well, Master.’ The words are out before I can reconsider. The Tribesman’s mouth drops open, and the slaver regards me as if I’m a rat who has begun juggling.

      ‘And, um … I can cook. And clean and dress hair,’ I trail off into a whisper. ‘I’d – I’d make a good maid.’

      The slaver stares me down, and I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. Then his eyes grow shrewd, almost amused.

      ‘Afraid of whoring, girl? Don’t see why, it’s an honest enough trade.’ He circles me again, then jerks my chin up until I am looking into his reptilian green eyes. ‘You said you can dress hair and press clothes? Can you barter and handle yourself in the market?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘You can’t read, of course. Can you count?’

      Of course I can count. And I can read too, you double-chinned pig.

      ‘Yes, sir. I can count.’

      ‘She’ll have to learn to keep her mouth shut,’ the slaver says. ‘I’ve got to eat the cost of cleanup. Can’t send her to Blackcliff looking like a chimney sweep.’ He considers. ‘I’ll take her for one hundred and fifty silver marks.’

      ‘I can always take her to one of the Illustrian houses,’ the Tribesman suggests. ‘Underneath all that dirt, she’s a fine-looking girl. I’m sure they’d pay well for her.’

      The slaver narrows his eyes. I wonder if Mazen’s man has erred, trying to bargain higher. Come on, you miser, I think at the slaver. Cough up a little extra.

      The slaver pulls out a sack of coins. I fight to hide my relief.

      ‘A hundred and eighty marks then. Not a copper more. Take off her chains.’

      Less than an hour later, I’m locked inside a ghost wagon that is heading for Blackcliff. Wide silver bands that mark me as a slave adorn each wrist. A chain leads from the collar around my neck to a steel rail inside the wagon. My skin still smarts from the scrubbing I got from two slave-girls, and my head aches from the tight bun they tamed my hair into. My dress, black silk with a corset-tight bodice and diamond-patterned skirt, is the finest thing I’ve ever worn. I hate it on sight.

      The minutes crawl by. The inside of the wagon is so dark that I feel as if I’ve gone blind. The Empire throws Scholar children into these wagons, some as young as two or three, ripped screaming from their parents. After that, who knows what happens to them. The ghost wagons are so named because those who disappear into them are never seen again.

      Don’t think of such things, Darin whispers to me. Focus on the mission. On how you’ll save me.

      As I go over Keenan’s instructions again in my head, the wagon begins to climb, moving achingly slow. The heat seeps into me, and when I feel as if I’ll faint from it, I think up a memory to distract myself – Pop sticking his finger in a fresh jam pot three days ago and laughing while Nan whacked him with a spoon.

      Their absence is a wound in my chest. I miss Pop’s growling laugh and Nan’s stories. And Darin – how I miss my brother. His jokes and drawings and how he seems to know everything. Life without him isn’t just empty, it’s scary. He’s been my guide, my protector, my best friend for so long that I don’t know what to do without him. The thought of him suffering torments me. Is he in a cell right now? Is he being tortured?

      In the corner of the ghost wagon, something flickers, dark and creeping.

      I want it to be an animal – a mouse or, skies, even a rat. But then the creature’s eyes are on me, bright and ravenous. It is one of the things. One of the shadows from the night of the raid. I’m going crazy. Bleeding, bat crazy.

      I close my eyes, willing the thing to disappear. When it doesn’t, I swat at it with trembling hands.

       ‘Laia …’

      ‘Go away. You’re not real.’

      The thing inches close. Don’t scream, Laia, I tell myself, biting down hard on my lip. Don’t scream.

      ‘Your brother suffers, Laia.’ Each of the creature’s words is deliberate, as if it wants to make sure I don’t miss a single one. ‘The Martials pull pain from him slowly and with relish.’

      ‘No. You’re in my head.’

      The creature’s laugh is like breaking glass. ‘I’m real as death, little Laia. Real as shattered bones and traitorous sisters and hateful Masks.’

      ‘You’re an illusion. You’re my … my guilt.’ I grab Mother’s armlet.

      The shadow flashes its predator’s grin, and now it’s only a foot away. But then the wagon comes to a stop, and the creature gives me a last malevolent look before disappearing with a dissatisfied hiss. Seconds later, the wagon door swings open, and the forbidding walls of Blackcliff are before me, their oppressive weight driving the hallucination from my mind.

      ‘Eyes down.’ The slaver unchains me from the rail, and I force my gaze to the cobbled street. ‘Only speak to the Commandant if she speaks to you. Don’t look her in the eyes – she’s flogged slaves for less. When she gives you a task, carry it out quickly and well. She’ll disfigure you in the first few weeks, but you’ll thank her for it eventually – if the scarring’s bad enough, it’ll keep the older students from raping you too often.

      ‘The last slave lasted two weeks,’ the slaver continues, oblivious to my growing terror. ‘Commandant wasn’t happy about it. My fault, of course – I should have given the girl some fair warning. Went batty when the Commandant branded her, apparently. Threw herself off the cliffs. Don’t you do the same.’ He gives me a hard look, like a father warning an errant child not to wander off. ‘Or the Commandant will think I’m supplying her with inferior goods.’

      The slaver nods a greeting to the guards stationed at the gates and pulls my chain as if I’m a dog. I shuffle after him. Rape … disfigurement … branding. I can’t do it, Darin. I can’t.

      A visceral urge to flee sweeps through me, so powerful that I slow, stop, pull away from the slaver. My stomach roils, and I think I’ll be sick. But the slaver yanks the chain hard, and I stumble forward.

      There’s nowhere to run, I realize as we pass beneath Blackcliff’s iron-spiked portcullis and into the fabled grounds. There’s nowhere to go. There’s no other way to save Darin.

      I’m in now. And there is no going back.

       CHAPTER TWELVE

       Elias

      Hours after I’m named an Aspirant, I dutifully stand beside Grandfather in his cavernous foyer to greet guests arriving for my graduation party. Though Quin Veturius is seventy-seven years old, women blush when he looks them in the eye, and men wince when he deigns to shake their hands. The lamplight paints his thick mane of white hair gold, and the way he towers over everyone СКАЧАТЬ