The Fade

26

They put me back to work while I heal, pushing and pulling the metal screens through which that stinking mineral slop flows. I'm working opposite Feyn again. At first I'm afraid I'm going to be greeted with fawning gratitude or pity; or worse, as the cause of my injuries, he'll inflict his remorse on me. But he does none of those things. He greets me with a shy smile, the first I've seen from him. Then he applies himself the screens without a word. He pushes when I pull, he pulls when I push. I go easy and let him dictate the pace. I don't feel the need to hurt myself any more. I hurt enough.

We've been at it some time when words start bubbling out of me. I can't be silent any more; it seems stupid to remain so uncommunicative. I'm not going to stop living and I'm not going to spend the rest of my life in solitude. I need to say something, anything at all. So I say: 'I have a son your age.'

Feyn's heavily lashed eyes flick up from the trough of grey slurry and regard me. 'What name does he have?'

'Jai. He's a junior officer in the Eskaran Army.' The thought inspires more fear than pride, but I've become used to that.

'May I ask, what name do you have?'

'My name is Orna.'

He's quiet. I go on. Now I've started, I can't stop. I'm a talker, and these few sentences have opened the gates of a dam. I want to talk.

'You're a SunChild,' I say baldly.

'Some name us the Far People. In my own language we are named a'Sura'Sao.' He punctuates the rapid syllables with a clicking noise at the back of his throat.

'Is it true you live on the surface? That you never go underground?'

He laughs. 'That is not true. We do live on the surface, under the sky. We hunt and are hunted by the animals there. We eat Callespa's plants, and we sometimes travel beneath its suns. But we must also shelter like you do, in caves and in settlements that we build.' He looks up to the roof of the forge, invisible in the fug that curdles up there. 'Goi'shew is coming,' he says, his voice wistful. 'Soon my people will be on the move again.'

'Goi'shew? '

'The Season of Nights.'

'We call it Spore Season,' I tell him. 'Down here, the winds pick up and the fungi start multiplying. Mid-season in some places, the tides are thick with spores carried from across the sea.'

'I understand,' he says. 'I would like if you would correct me when I use your language badly. No teacher can copy talking to an Eskaran.'

'Substitute,' I say. 'No teacher can substitute for talking to an Eskaran. It means to put something in the place of another.'

A smile. 'I am learning already. I hope to be the first of my people to attend Bry Athka University.'

'Bry Athka? In Eskara?'

'Of course. Is there another?'

'You'll certainly cause a stir,' I tell him. He doesn't get it. I rephrase, slower. 'I mean, you will seem very unusual to us.'

'I see.'

'Many of us don't believe your people exist.'

He finds that hilarious. His laughter draws the attention of a passing guard, who snarls at him in Gurtan to get on with his work. Chastened, Feyn fixes his attention on the job, the smile gone from his face. But when the guard moves off, deeper into the black, hissing murk of the forge, he looks up at me, his lips curving wryly. I can't help smiling in response. It feels unfamiliar.

'We have a story about your people,' he says. 'Long ago, all people lived on the surface. Gurta, Eskaran, SunChild, Banchu, Khaadu were all one race, who we called s'Tani. It means ''Old Men'', in your language, but I am not sure if the translation means exactly what it should. The s'Tani were numberous-'

'Numerous,' I interrupt automatically. I shake my head at myself. 'Sorry. I'll keep quiet.'

'I want you to correct me.'

'We'll never get anywhere if I stop you at every mistake. I'll teach you properly later. Just go on for now.'

The boy is taken aback, so much so that he stops working at the screens and my rhythm is thrown. 'You will teach me?' he asks.

It's only by his reaction that I realise I just did offer to help him improve his Eskaran. And I meant it, too.

I'm starting to feel like me again. Something's dislodged and is working its way out, a mental splinter being expelled. Despite the pain of my injuries, I'm noticing that my limbs aren't so heavy any more. My senses feel more synchronised. No longer do I feel like a passenger in my own head, staring through fogged orbs at a world I've been removed from.

It feels wrong to abandon my grief, even the slightest bit. I am still grieving; I can't think of Rynn without a sensation like my chest being squeezed. But it's lost its power to destroy me. There's something else, slowly overwhelming my sorrow. I know it's there, but I can't put a shape to it yet.

And then there's Jai. Jai, somewhere on the front line. Jai, and a letter I have hidden in a drawer at home. A letter nobody knows about but me.

'Are you well?' Feyn asks, concerned by my silence.

'I'm fine,' I say. 'Yes, I'll teach you.'

'Perhaps I will tell you of the s'Tani later,' he says. He knows that my mind is in too many places right now, that I'm not listening. I'm surprised by his perceptiveness.

We work in silence for a while, and for the first time, I wonder what we're actually achieving with this constant push-pull of these cross-hatched metal screens. Breaking up lumps in the flow of slurry? Agitating the mixture so that it doesn't clot? I've never been a scholar, I don't understand these things. But I suddenly want to know. Because otherwise what we're doing is pointless. I didn't mind that before, but now I'm beginning to. Gendak summons me again the next turn, considerately bypassing the beating and drowning warm-up this time. I'm led to his study with a knife pressed to my kidneys, escorted by armed guards. Once there, I'm strapped into the chair again. The guards don't leave until they're certain I can't get loose. Even so, Gendak doesn't come too close. He sits some distance from me. Taking no chances.

'Why are you talking to me?' I ask him.

'You're unusual. A Cadre woman. It is not your custom to send women into battle.'

'Cadre are special cases. Sometimes they use us on the front line.'

'Are there many like you?'

'A few,' I say. I'm feeling less cooperative than I was last time. He's luring me with questions that he could easily answer himself. He's trying to make me relax, to trust him. Soon he'll start working towards more sensitive information. I decide to take control of the conversation.

'Where are the other women?'

'We do not take grown women. If they are young enough, those we capture on our raids are taken as slaves. We bring them up in our homes and they function as servants. We have many such servants here.'

That's interesting. I haven't seen any. I presume he means outside the prison.

'And if they're not young enough?'

'They are killed. Women are too much trouble to keep as prisoners. They incite the men to violence.'

'And me?'

'As I said, you are unusual. The soldiers did not quite know what to make of you. So you were brought here.' He cracks his knuckles absently. 'You are only alive now because of me. There are many who would prefer it otherwise. You have already caused us trouble.'

'So why not give me my own cell?' I wonder if this is an idea worth chasing. Less guards would mean an easier way out.

'If it was possible, I would. My influence is not great.'

We fall to silence again. I stare at him. Waiting. Let him talk.

'You must understand: our society visits the severest penalties on those who reject the Laws. Your clothes, your politics, your sexual promiscuity… by our culture, you are animals. There is no issue of cruelty. You are seen as beneath us.'

I recognise he's trying to be conciliatory and explain things from an objective point of view, but I can't help responding with venom.

'We don't reject your laws,' I say. 'They're not even worthy of rejection. The word of one insane Gurta counts for nothing to us.'

Gendak's face has darkened. Mocking their most revered leader really pisses them off. 'Only money counts to you. The wealthiest is the most powerful. That is the nature of plutocracy. Your society is ruled by merchants, not morals.'

'And yours isn't brave enough to question tradition. You follow the obsolete rules of the first person who thought to enshrine his morals in literature. How can people of such art and culture cling so tightly to something so obviously backward?'

He wants to snap back at me, but he knows I'm goading him. I see him swallow his words down, and his reply, though rigid, is not angry.

'What would you do with our women, were our positions reversed?'

'Who knows?' I say. 'They've a convenient habit of committing suicide rather than letting themselves be captured.'

'It is called maazu. They would rather die than allow themselves to be dishonoured. That is their choice. That is the nobility of the Gurta woman.'

'Very noble. I hear your people's coming-of-age gift to your women is a phial of poison, to be worn around the neck on a chain. So what happens if they don't choose to use it?' As if I didn't know.

'They would be cast out or executed.'

I raise an eyebrow and stare at him meaningfully.

'It is their duty to choose death rather than a life lived in shame,' he says.

'And who determines what's shameful?'

'The Laws,' he replies.

'Yes,' I say. 'And they tell you how to dress, how to conduct your rituals, how you should behave, what weapons you can carry, what words you should use and when, what kind of woman you should take as a partner… When did you people stop thinking for yourselves?'

'You have read the Laws?' he exclaims in surprise.

'A translation,' I lie. I read the whole thing in Gurtan. A litany of conditions governing all aspects of life, written by an ancient Gurta despot and enforced with brutal punishments. Maal's line lasted for twenty-five generations, until natural causes put an end to it. Each descendant ensured the people kept to the Laws. Over time, they became the blueprint for a society too sacred to alter or argue. The traditions are still upheld by the Elders and the Lawkeepers, and the punishments haven't got any less severe as far as I know. Trying to discuss the merits of Maal's Laws with a Gurta is pointless; to them, they're as necessary to life as the beat of their hearts.

He pauses for a time, studying me. I'm used to the pauses by now. I'll talk to him as long as I don't think he's learning anything from me. Maybe I'll learn something from him. Perhaps he really is interested in hearing my point of view, or perhaps he's searching for knowledge that they could use against us. I'm prepared to play for now. Besides, he's made it very clear that failure to cooperate would lead to a withdrawal of his protection. I doubt I'd be allowed to live long if that happened.

'Tell me about Bondsmen.'

'A Bondsman is somebody who has sworn a lifedebt to a particular Clan,' I reply, somewhat formally. 'Often, when a person borrows a sum of money from a Clan or otherwise asks for a favour, their repayment can be secured with service. If they fail to repay the loan or the favour in kind, they enter lifedebt. The severity of the debt determines the length of the debt in generations. My own lifedebt only applied to me. The most severe can last for seven generations.'

'Then your children are slaves? Do you have children?'

'No, and no,' I lie. I'm not telling him about Jai or Rynn. There are some things I don't want to discuss with him. 'Nobody forces you to take on lifedebt. You make the choice.'

'The child does not have that choice.'

I think of Rynn, how he was born into Bond, how angry it made him. 'Every child has to deal with the circumstances of their birth.'

'And how did you incur your lifedebt?'

'It was willingly taken, not incurred. Clan Caracassa did a great service for me when I was ten years old. In return, I swore my lifedebt.' I can't help sounding a little proud of it. I twist in the chair to show him my bare shoulder. 'This skinmark shows the Clan I'm sworn to. The one on my face means I'm a Bondswoman. No other Clan will employ me; not even minor merchants or labourers would risk it. Without Clan Caracassa, I'd probably starve.'

Gendak sits back and regards me with those pale, dead Gurta eyes. Some misguided romantics have called the Gurta elegant, fey, statuesque. I see only an unhealthy pallor, eyes like cataracts. I find their fluttering language not poetic but sinister and repulsive. People talk of trying to understand their enemy. I do understand them, and I hate them all the more for it. Rynn would say something eminently sensible, if he was here: you see only what you want to see. You want to hate them for what they did to you. That was true before he died, and it's doubly so now.

'It seems to me you have a system of indentured servitude, as alien to us as our ways are to you,' Gendak says carefully. 'We, at least, do not enslave our own kind. Perhaps, in the end, there is no right or wrong, only perspective.'

'No,' I reply. 'There's only history. Whoever wins this war gets to be right.' The food hall is a rectangular stone chamber with nine long tables, surrounding a central fire where the prisoners' meals are boiled or grilled or spit-roasted. It's even hotter than the cell. I feel claustrophobic and restless. Aside from my little excursions to Gendak's study now and then, my life is a random sequence of forge-food-quad-cell. We see no other parts of the prison.

This turn we're fed a stew with fat spore dumplings floating in it, surrounded by chunks of gristle and fat. I'm not fussy. It gives me strength. For a long while I only ate because it was easier to do so than to refuse, but now I bolt it down. I talk to Feyn with my mouth full, waving my spoon around as I talk. I don't know what's got into me: suddenly, I have energy, and I want this food. I can actually taste it. Not that that's a good thing in this particular instance.

Feyn seems delighted by my transformation, and the fact that he has someone willing to speak to him. Both of us have habitually eaten alone and in silence until now. We're drawing gazes from the rest of the prisoners.

Encouraged by his interest, I talk about this place. I've picked up a lot from the conversations I've overheard from other prisoners. The guards don't trouble to be secretive, either. They assume their language to be incomprehensible to us.

Feyn has been ostracised since he got here, and he is remarkably ignorant about the prison. I wonder if he's simply not troubled himself to look for answers. He strikes me as strangely passive, given his situation.

So I tell him what I know. We're inside a Gurta fort called Farakza, on the edge of the Borderlands. The prison lies at its heart: the forge, laundry rooms, mills and so on. The academics are quartered nearby, and our cells are in the caves beneath the fort.

What I had learned from Gendak was common knowledge among the prisoners: they keep us alive to study us, to practice chirurgery, to use us as test subjects for their experiments. Gendak's attention seems benevolent in comparison to the horrors rumoured to await the most unfortunate: live dissections, agonising medical trials of new drugs, vile chthonomantic procedures that leave their victims warped and ruined. The Laws forbid Gurta to practice bodily alteration upon their own people, but it makes no provision for the protection of foreigners.

There is talk of an Elder coming to Farakza soon, the Gurta equivalent of our own chthonomancers. But whereas our chthonomancers wield no political power, their Elders are the custodians of the Laws, responsible for their preservation. They are the fists of Maal from beyond the grave, their authority unquestioned. It's through them that the words of one long-dead man still dominate the lives of an entire society today.

The prisoners are worried. Death is only death, but a living death is a terror beyond anything the chirurgeons could inflict. There is talk of pitiful, mewling things still chained in the depths from an Elder's last visit.

'It makes sense of things a little, a least,' I say to Feyn. 'The way they watch us in the quad, the way they keep on altering our schedule so we never settle. The way they wouldn't let us bathe for a long time. They're watching how it affects our moods; they're watching how we interact in our free time.'

'That would seem likely.'

'Studying us like insects,' I mutter. 'Give me a knife and ten minutes alone with one of those chirurgeons and I'll show them what a real dissection is.'

Feyn's eyes flicker away from me, made uneasy by my tone. 'They hurt you in the past,' he says. 'They are more than just enemies to you.' He has an uncanny ability to see right through me. He understands me with only the barest of clues.

'They killed my husband,' I say. And the words are out, over my tongue, past my teeth, before I can stop them. I've said it aloud. My throat closes up, too late to stop it, and my eyes prickle. I look down furiously at the table. Not going to cry.

He's silent for a long time and I don't look at him. Finally, he speaks. 'I see,' he says, and I think he does. 'But they did not kill your son.'

I look up at him. 'You don't know anything about my son.'

'I know you are not dead,' he replies, and he's so infuriatingly certain of himself that I want to jump across the table and throttle him. 'And perhaps you pretend that you are.'

'Who are you to say something like that to me?' I snap. 'You've given up! You just lie there and take it.'

'I have not given up anything,' he says. 'I am waiting. You have given up.'

I slam my hands down on the table in frustration, half-rising to my feet. 'I never fucking gave up!' I shout. And even though the prisoners next to me are staring, he's just gazing at me like a patient parent waiting for their child's tantrum to diminish. I feel stupid and embarrassed. I sit down again. Spoon some food into my mouth. Gradually conversation resumes around me. The guards relax.

I eat in silence for a time, thinking hard thoughts. Unforgiving thoughts. I've been shamed into looking at myself, and I don't like what I find.

I've been selfish. I held on to my misery for too long. I've been so wrapped up in Rynn's memory that I forgot who I was. Hiding, healing, cushioned by grief. But enough is enough.

I have responsibilities. I have duties. I have a life to get back to. I have a son who probably thinks I'm dead by now, but I'm not dead. I'm fucking Cadre. Nobody keeps me locked up.

Feyn watches me, and I know he knows what I'm thinking. Satisfied, he turns his attention to his food, leaving me brooding, burning, obsessed.

I'm going to get out of here.