Down Station

20

Something had changed, possibly because the guards now realised that they were no more valuable, and no more protected, than the prisoners they were keeping. The man who’d died◦– Dalip heard him referred to as ‘Charlie’ or ‘Old Charlie’◦– had been, if not well liked, not so unpopular that his singling out by the geomancer made any sense. His fate could have been theirs: they knew it, and resented it.

The harsh regime the prisoners had been kept under relaxed by degrees. Inside the cell block, the individual cells were only barred at night. They could talk to each other freely outside those times, as long as it didn’t interfere with their chores. The women were made to work in the vegetable plots inside the walls, fetching and carrying water, doing laundry in vats of boiling water, from sunrise to sunset. It was back-breaking, exhausting labour that would have been hard if it had been done for themselves or with the promise of pay.

Neither Stanislav nor Dalip were compelled to join in. The pit was deemed sufficient for them, but, led by the older man, they turned up every morning to do their share. Hoots of derision had joined the slaps and kicks which had been common enough to begin with. They tailed off as the prisoners got used to their roles. And now, a week later, casual violence was mostly redundant. Of course, the guards weren’t going to boil washing or weed between rows of cabbages. Then again, they’d thought they weren’t going to die in the pit either. That they might made them realise the geomancer didn’t care about them one way or the other: prisoners, guards, they were all the same in her mind.

The threat and the promise was that the regime grew to be normal, when it was anything but. Their lives consisted of mean meals, hard physical labour, beatings and captivity.

Dalip was with Stanislav in the pit, training with short wooden sticks instead of knives.

‘We must rebel. While the memory of Charlie’s death remains fresh,’ said Stanislav.

‘Before my next fight?’

‘Your next fight will be against something that you cannot hope to defeat. Remember that you are supposed to be scared. You are not. You are simply too angry at her to be scared. That is why she shut Charlie in with the boar. He was scared when you were not.’

‘But I was scared,’ Dalip protested.

‘She does not want ordinary frightened. She wants you to experience such terror that you piss yourself and run screaming for the door. You will not give her that, whatever they put in here with you.’

‘Don’t be so sure.’

‘And if it is the dragon?’

Dalip thought about that. They had all seen it early on: almost as if it had made a show of itself. Then it had been conspicuous by its absence. The sky above the castle was strangely blank without it. But the gates had remained open, and the guard not reinforced. It was still around, that was certain.

‘Well, maybe,’ he conceded. He ought to be terrified of it, but he was already thinking of ways of cutting it, if only he could get close enough.

Stanislav lowered his stick, not in a feint or a ruse, but in a way that meant they were no longer sparring. ‘Undress,’ he said, and when Dalip hesitated, he grunted: ‘Just do it.’

Dalip dropped his stick at his feet and wrestled the heavy zip down to his navel, then shucked the top half of his boilersuit. He pushed it down to his knees, and straightened up.

‘Look,’ said Stanislav. He walked around Dalip. ‘Look at yourself.’

Reluctantly, he did so. It was him. It was still him. Yes, he had visible muscles now, even at rest. He had broadened, and he stood taller even if he hadn’t actually grown.

‘This. This should not have happened. Not this quickly. Training, yes, over weeks and months, to make you strong and fast, will bring about such changes. Not days.’ He stood in front of Dalip, his hands on his hips, appraising him. ‘There is something else at work here.’

‘I just thought…’

‘You thought wrong. It is this place, with its wolves and its dragons and whatever else.’ He looked pensive for a moment, disturbed even. ‘I thought this was a new start. For all of us. Perhaps it would be better if we just went home, yes?’

He jerked his head, and Dalip pulled the boilersuit back on. They were still alone, and Stanislav took up a place under the geomancer’s balcony.

‘Let us make use of this gift you have been given,’ he said, and crouched down, feet planted wide, forearms on his thighs and hands cupped. ‘Go and stand by the wall opposite.’

When he was ready, he nodded.

Dalip understood what was required of him. He pushed himself off the wall and started his run-up. Speed was good: he needed forward momentum, but what he wanted was height. Timing was everything.

He lightly jumped off one bare foot and pressed the other firmly into Stanislav’s already rising hands. He straightened his leg and swept his arms up. He was flying. He clawed his fingers, caught the edge of the balcony, and the rest of his body smacked hard against the stone. The impact tore him loose, and he bent his knees before he broke his legs.

Stanislav grunted his irritation. ‘You must hold on.’

‘I can’t. I don’t think anyone could. I haven’t got a grip of anything at all, and when I hit the wall, my hands just slide off.’

‘Is there nothing you can hold?’

‘The top of the wall’s too wide. If,’ he said, staring at his target, ‘I went straight up, I could hang there, but then I’d have to pull myself the rest of the way.’

‘You can do that.’

‘Yes, and the steward would be hitting me with his cane all the time. And she: we have no idea what she can do.’

Stanislav scratched at his chin, where a white beard was showing through.

‘Can you go higher?’

‘Can you throw me harder? And move a bit away from the wall. Ideally, I’d want to hit the top when I wasn’t rising or falling. If I can get my elbows on it, I can push myself up and over, before they can react.’

They took up their new positions. Dalip would have to run faster now, and timing was critical. The first time, he was too tentative, and missed the wall completely. The second time, he left it too late.

When they’d both picked themselves off the ground and thought about blaming each other for their bruises, they tried again.

‘Concentrate,’ said Stanislav.

Dalip bit back what he was thinking, that this was all too much like school except there, if he’d failed a chemistry test no one would have had him killed.

‘Just, just do your bit.’ He bared his teeth in a grimace and launched himself at the tiny sweet spot contained within Stanislav’s hands.

His heel connected and he pushed off hard. At the same time, he was propelled upwards. If he missed this, it was going to hurt.

He reached up, always closing on the wall. Then his head could see over. He bent his elbows, spread his fingers wide like nets, and slammed them on top of the parapet. He was still moving forward. He was almost bent double over the wall before his legs hit it. He started to go backwards, and no matter how much he scrabbled, his weight was always off balance, always dragging him down.

He slipped down the face of the wall with a gasp of disgust and landed in a heap at the bottom.

‘You had it,’ said Stanislav, standing over him.

‘I know I had it! You don’t need to tell me I got it wrong. I know I got it wrong.’ He angrily waved away an attempt to pull him upright, and got to his own two feet. ‘Again.’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘No. Now. We practise until I can do it.’

‘But can you do it?’

‘Yes.’ Dalip was breathing heavily, and his humility regained momentary control. ‘Eventually.’

Stanislav chewed at his already bleeding lip. ‘Okay. Again.’

He didn’t manage it the next time either. The same thing happened. Almost, then he lost his grip on the smooth stone and the sharp edges. He couldn’t judge how many attempts he had left in him. He was tired. His legs hurt. He felt like he’d banged his ribs one too many times. And Stanislav couldn’t keep this up all day.

One more, then stop. Two more, then he’d slink back to his cell and lick his wounds.

He pressed his back to the wall on the far side of the pit, one foot against the stone work. Stanislav readied himself, gave him the nod, and tensed.

Dalip ran: step, step, step, then jump. He connected clean. He was in the air, and rather than trying to stay upright, he brought a knee up, turning his whole body sideways. His feet cleared the top of the wall, and he reached out with his hands, slapping the stonework as it passed underneath him.

He hit it hard, and rolled.

This time he didn’t fall far, just at the feet of the geomancer’s empty throne. He lay there for a moment, quiet and still, checking that he’d actually done it, and that he was alone.

The circular balcony wasn’t that deep, enough room for him to fit between the parapet and the chair, and the same space behind it. He could see a door, set into the wall in front of him. He pulled himself up and looked down at Stanislav. He glanced up, circled his finger and thumb for an okay, and purposefully stared in the direction of the pit door, which was merely ajar.

He wouldn’t have long. He circumnavigated the narrow balcony with its low ceiling, found no surprises, and ended up back at the only door. It was closed with a latch, which he lifted very slowly. He pushed, inching the door away from the jamb, listening at the crack he’d made for any sounds from the other side. The hinges groaned, and he ceased all movement. Nothing. No sudden clatter or shout of alarm.

He dared himself to push a little more, when he heard Stanislav’s extravagant throat-clearing. They hadn’t agreed on a warning, but it couldn’t be anything but. No one must know that he could escape the pit, until the moment he did so. Dalip pulled the door shut and sprinted for the edge. He lay on the top of the parapet, and swung himself over. His nervous fingers slid, and he fell the rest of the distance to the floor, which was where Pigface found him.

He turned his gaze between Dalip and Stanislav with an expression of disdain. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Dalip looked like he was resting, propped up against the wall. Stanislav had his stick in his hand, as if berating the boy for being weak. He snorted, and turned his back on them.

‘You’ve had enough for one day,’ he said.

‘We decide that,’ said Stanislav. He threw his stick at the door, where it clattered near to Pigface’s head.

‘Push it too far, Slav, and I swear I’ll do you.’

Stanislav shrugged, flexing his shoulders. ‘Come, then. It will end up as before, with my hand on your throat and you gasping for air.’

Pigface half-turned, and hesitated.

Dalip picked himself off the floor. ‘We shouldn’t be fighting each other. We know who the enemy is.’

‘And who’s that, little lion man?’

‘Your mate Charlie worked it out, didn’t he?’ He dusted himself down. ‘I’m just sorry I wasn’t quick enough to save him.’

Nor quick enough to save himself from waking up in the night, cold but sweating, as a phantom boar tore through his own guts.

Pigface took the apology with a shrug. ‘Stupid bastard got himself stuck the wrong side of the door, didn’t he?’

‘You know that’s not what happened,’ said Dalip. ‘She trapped him in here, held the door shut, then watched him die. Maybe you should ask her why she did that.’

Genuine fear washed over Pigface. He shuddered and shook his head.

‘I’m not stupid.’

Stanislav grunted. ‘No? Stupid enough not to realise that you are a slave like us. Can you leave the castle for somewhere else? No? Then you just have a better class of prison.’

Again, Pigface turned to leave, and couldn’t quite bring himself to go.

‘What is it? You want more?’ demanded Stanislav, but Dalip waved him quiet.

‘When’s the next fight?’ he asked.

‘No one knows. She’s been in her rooms, last few days. She’ll tell us when it’s time.’

‘What about the steward, the man with the cane?’

‘He’s around. More than usual.’

Dalip beckoned Pigface closer. After a moment’s reluctance, he crossed the pit floor, but still remembered to stand out of lunging range.

‘Is this the life you want for yourself? When you ran from whatever was trying to kill you in London, and you had your new start, is this what you imagined?’

Pigface worried at the ball of his thumb with his crooked teeth and listened very carefully.

‘Because this isn’t what I want. I want to go back home, but if that’s not possible, I won’t live like this. I didn’t run from the fire to become a pit-fighting slave in some witch’s dungeon. Do you understand?’

The guard nodded slowly.

‘You can get in the way, you can ignore us, or you can help us. Up to you. Just remember what happened to Charlie before you run off to the geomancer.’ Dalip bent down and retrieved his stick. ‘You’re as expendable as we are.’

Pigface left the room this time, shoulders slumped, back bent.

‘It will not work,’ said Stanislav. ‘I have met men like that before. They are broken. They prefer living in their own shit than the trouble of cleaning themselves off.’

‘If we don’t have to fight them too, it’ll be easier. Easier still if they’re with us.’

‘You cannot count on Pigface, or any of the others. Our plan will not include them because they will let us down.’ Stanislav punctuated his speech with finger-jabs into Dalip’s chest.

He knocked the man’s hand away. ‘I don’t know where you get this from, but not everybody is a…’

‘Bastard? There are two kinds of men. Corruptible bastards and incorruptible bastards. That is all.’

‘What are we, then?’

‘We make common cause. Pigface has already shown his true self, so we do not trust him.’

‘Why should I trust you, then? I mean, I don’t really know you. We just happened to be in the same shift. That, and we survived together.’

Stanislav walked away, ostensibly to retrieve his stick. He scooped it up, and idly scraped the thin end against the wall.

Dalip persisted. ‘Like where did you learn to fight with a knife? Some of the things you say, they’re… hard. Like nails hard.’

‘My history is the other side of the door, and that is where it will stay. The wolfman was right when he told us all that matters is what we do now. You ask me to help you train, yes? How and why I can do that, is something you do not need to ask.’

Dalip wanted to know. He wanted to know how a railway engineer with an Eastern European accent and a better command of English than most English people knew which end of a pig to stick with a knife. He also didn’t want to know, because none of the scenarios that he was constructing were ones in which Stanislav had been a good, decent man. By not knowing the truth, he didn’t have to make a decision.

And, he discovered, he was content with that.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s none of my business.’

‘That is not true. However, it is not relevant for now. When we have killed the geomancer, her dragon and her steward, freed the slaves and escaped from the castle, then perhaps we can talk more.’ Stanislav raised his stick. ‘One more bout.’

‘I’m tired.’

‘You think that matters to your enemies? You think they will wait while you have a little sleep, a meal? When you can fight exhausted better than they can fresh◦– then we can stop.’

Dalip ached. He was tired and hungry and dirty. His hair, normally washed and combed every morning, was a bound rope thick with oils. His boilersuit was becoming stiff with sweat and dirt. His kachera… he was ashamed of them. He should be clean. It was one of his sacred duties.

And this man, this gadfly, wouldn’t let him rest. Dalip wasn’t lazy. He worked hard, at everything, as was right and proper. A moment’s respite was all he wanted.

‘First strike?’

‘Then make sure it counts. None of your dabbing at me.’

Dalip assumed his stance, and so did Stanislav, and they began to circle each other. Now, the older man seemed tireless: relentless would be a better word. Driven. Determined never to lose. He was the same last thing at night as he was first thing in the morning, pushing himself, and pushing Dalip. He saw any slackening of the regime as intolerable weakness.

Dabbing indeed. He’d show him dabbing.

They feinted, lunged, dodged, retreated. Dalip remembered what Stanislav had said about getting tired, and making mistakes. He was already tired, so he ought to just close and attack, but the older man was still a stronger and faster and moreover, a filthier fighter. There was nothing pure about his style◦– whatever worked.

Then he was aware of being watched; a slight change in the air, a presence behind and above him that Stanislav in his singular focus hadn’t spotted.

In that moment, he was distracted, and his opponent struck, trying to tangle his feet and push him back against the wall. Dalip fell, but rolled out of the way before the stick poked his stomach, or his neck, or his groin, or his kidneys, or sideways into his ribs. So many ways that he was vulnerable, so many ways to be killed.

‘She’s here,’ he said, and Stanislav, thinking it might be a trick, ignored him and tried to rush him again. In his haste, he left himself open. Dalip dropped, thrust his arm up and delivered a palpable blow that would, had it not been a blunt piece of wood, gone up under the sternum and into the heart.

It was one of the few times he’d won: it left Stanislav winded, and him with sore fingers.

‘She’s here,’ he repeated, holding out his hand for Stanislav to grasp.

And she was.

Even by the candlelight, it looked as if she’d been beaten. Her face was battered, two black eyes, one she could barely see out of, a ragged purple cut on her pale forehead, her jaw swollen and seemingly misaligned. Her hair, normally straight and golden, was dishevelled and patchy, as if clumps of it had been cut or torn out. What could be seen of her shoulders and chest were mottled in colours from black to yellow.

She was staring down at the two men, just as they were staring up. Then she turned and left, slowly, painfully. The door up on the balcony opened, then closed again.

‘Soon,’ said Stanislav. ‘As soon as we can. We may not get a better chance.’