An Ember in the Ashes. Sabaa Tahir

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СКАЧАТЬ of you,’ the Mask says.

      Then he strikes, a flash of copper and silver lightning out of an empty sky. In the time it takes me to gasp, the Mask has shoved my brother’s face into the sandy ground and pinned his writhing body with a knee. Nan’s knife falls to the dirt.

      A scream erupts from me, lonely in the still summer night. Seconds later, a scimpoint pricks my throat. I didn’t even see the Mask draw the weapon.

      ‘Quiet,’ he says. ‘Arms up. Now get inside.’

      The Mask uses one hand to yank Darin up by the neck and the other to prod me on with his scim. My brother limps, face bloodied, eyes dazed. When he struggles, a fish on a hook, the Mask tightens his grip.

      The back door of the house opens, and a red-caped legionnaire comes out.

      ‘The house is secure, Commander.’

      The Mask shoves Darin at the soldier. ‘Bind him up. He’s strong.’

      Then he grabs me by the hair, twisting until I cry out.

      ‘Mmm.’ He bends his head to my ear, and I cringe, my terror caught in my throat. ‘I’ve always loved dark-haired girls.’

      I wonder if he has a sister, a wife, a woman. But it wouldn’t matter if he did. To him, I’m not someone’s family. I’m just a thing to be subdued, used, and discarded. The Mask drags me down the hallway to the front room as casually as a hunter drags his kill. Fight, I tell myself. Fight. But as if he senses my pathetic attempts at bravery, his hand squeezes, and pain lances through my skull. I sag and let him pull me along.

      Legionnaires stand shoulder-to-shoulder in the front room amid upturned furniture and broken bottles of jam. Trader won’t get anything now. So many days spent over steaming kettles, my hair and skin smelling of apricot and cinnamon. So many jars, steamed and dried, filled and sealed. Useless. All useless.

      The lamps are lit, and Nan and Pop kneel in the middle of the floor, their hands bound behind their backs. The soldier holding Darin shoves him to the ground beside them.

      ‘Shall I tie up the girl, sir?’ Another soldier fingers the rope at his belt, but the Mask leaves me between two burly legionnaires.

      ‘She’s not going to cause any trouble.’ He stabs at me with those eyes. ‘Are you?’ I shake my head and shrink back, hating myself for being such a coward. I reach for my mother’s tarnished armlet, wrapped around my bicep, and touch the familiar pattern for strength. I find none. Mother would have fought. She’d have died rather than face this humiliation. But I can’t make myself move. My fear has ensnared me.

      A legionnaire enters the room, his face more than a little nervous. ‘It’s not here, Commander.’

      The Mask looks down at my brother. ‘Where’s the sketchbook?’

      Darin stares straight ahead, silent. His breath is low and steady, and he doesn’t seem dazed anymore. In fact, he’s almost composed.

      The Mask gestures, a small movement. One of the legionnaires lifts Nan by her neck and slams her frail body against a wall. Nan bites her lip, her eyes sparking blue. Darin tries to rise, but another soldier forces him down.

      The Mask scoops up a shard of glass from one of the broken jars. His tongue flickers out like a snake’s as he tastes the jam.

      ‘Shame it’s all gone to waste.’ He caresses Nan’s face with the edge of the shard. ‘You must have been beautiful once. Such eyes.’ He turns to Darin. ‘Shall I carve them out of her?’

      ‘It’s outside the small bedroom window. In the hedge.’ I can’t manage more than a whisper, but the soldiers hear. The Mask nods, and one of the legionnaires disappears into the hallway. Darin doesn’t look at me, but I feel his dismay. Why did you tell me to hide it, I want to cry out. Why did you bring the cursed thing home?

      The legionnaire returns with the book. For unending seconds, the only sound in the room is the rustling of pages as the Mask flips through the sketches. If the rest of the book is anything like the page I found, I know what the Mask will see: Martial knives, swords, scabbards, forges, formulas, instructions – things no Scholar should know of, let alone re-create on paper.

      ‘How did you get into the Weapons Quarter, boy?’ The Mask looks up from the book. ‘Has the Resistance been bribing some Plebeian drudge to sneak you in?’

      I stifle a sob. Half of me is relieved Darin’s no traitor. The other half wants to rage at him for being such a fool. Association with the Scholars’ Resistance carries a death sentence.

      ‘I got myself in,’ my brother says. ‘The Resistance had nothing to do with it.’

      ‘You were seen entering the catacombs last night after curfew’ – the Mask almost sounds bored – ‘in the company of known Scholar rebels.’

      ‘Last night, he was home well before curfew,’ Pop speaks up, and it is strange to hear my grandfather lie. But it makes no difference. The Mask’s eyes are for my brother alone. The man doesn’t blink as he reads Darin’s face the way I’d read a book.

      ‘Those rebels were taken into custody today,’ the Mask says. ‘One of them gave up your name before he died. What were you doing with them?’

      ‘They followed me.’ Darin sounds so calm. Like he’s done this before. Like he’s not afraid at all. ‘I’d never met them before.’

      ‘And yet they knew of your book here. Told me all about it. How did they learn of it? What did they want from you?’

      ‘I don’t know.’

      The Mask presses the shard of glass deep into the soft skin below Nan’s eye, and her nostrils flare. A trickle of blood traces a wrinkle down her face.

      Darin draws a sharp breath, the only sign of strain. ‘They asked for my sketchbook,’ he says. ‘I said no. I swear it.’

      ‘And their hideout?’

      ‘I didn’t see. They blindfolded me. We were in the catacombs.’

      ‘Where in the catacombs?’

      ‘I didn’t see. They blindfolded me.’

      The Mask eyes my brother for a long moment. I don’t know how Darin can remain unruffled beneath that gaze.

      ‘You’re prepared for this.’ The smallest bit of surprise creeps into the Mask’s voice. ‘Straight back. Deep breathing. Same answers to different questions. Who trained you, boy?’

      When Darin doesn’t answer, the Mask shrugs. ‘A few weeks in prison will loosen your tongue.’ Nan and I exchange a frightened glance. If Darin ends up in a Martial prison, we’ll never see him again. He’ll spend weeks in interrogation, and after that they’ll either sell him as a slave or kill him.

      ‘He’s just a boy,’ Pop speaks slowly, as if to an angry patient. ‘Please—’

      Steel flashes, and Pop drops like a stone. The Mask moves so swiftly that I don’t understand СКАЧАТЬ