The Fade

28

Each turn, after our second shift in the forge, they lead us to a small cave glistening with milk-veined stalactites, where hot water drizzles from the ceiling into a steaming pool. The men strip and sink into it with languid sighs and barks of approval. I sit on the edge, back against a stalactite, and savour the agony in my muscles. Better not to undress at all. I may have seen off one assailant, but I'm still the only woman among a dozen men who've been confined here for the Abyss knows how long. I'm not stupid.

Everyone still wears the clothes they were captured in, or in the case of those who were armoured, their underclothes. Most have dissolved into rags by now, so the prisoners work in a tattered motley or strip to the waist in the sweltering heat. The Gurta aren't concerned with prison uniform.

At least my clothing suits the temperature. I wear a sleeveless black top, to display the red and black skinmarking down my arms: the Cadre insignia on my left shoulder and Rynn's family sigil on my right, to indicate our marriage. Baggy black trousers end below my knee, with crisscrossed straps leading down to the sandals on my feet.

They took away the tools of my trade, though. The flash bombs, lockpicks, garrotte, throwing knives, all that stuff. And they took my blades, obviously. But I don't need blades to kill people.

I gather from the comments of the other prisoners that bathing is a blessing recently bestowed. Those who've been here longest say it's a privilege that's removed and restored with no apparent pattern. Randomness seems to infest our routine here. Sometimes we're led into the food hall but there's no food. Sometimes we have to work double or triple shifts at the forge. Once we were left alone in our cells for several turns, with silent guards dropping in bundles of sporebread every so often as the stench became steadily more unbearable.

There's a hollow we use for a latrine in the corner of the cave, which they make one of us muck out with a shovel whenever they come to release us. The unfortunate chosen has to clamber up the ladder with a seeping sack of human shit on their shoulder, after which they're escorted away to get rid of it.

I've been lucky so far, and I've not been picked. Gurta have a strange attitude towards females. They treat their own women with an odd mixture of adoration and brutal repression. But as a foreigner, too old for enslavement, I should have been killed by now. Perhaps my Cadre status confuses them. They don't have woman warriors.

Whatever. I don't care what they think, as long as it spares me from hauling the contents of twelve men's bowels up that ladder.

There must be a purpose to this constant shifting of schedules. It occurs to me that I could simply ask another prisoner and see if they knew, but I don't want to break my silence. To do so would be to accept that life is still going on for me, and I have to keep living it. It's a step I won't be able to take back.

After the bathing they take us to the quad. We travel up through the guts of the building to get there, and things grow fractionally cooler. There are no more caves but corridors, cut from local stone without any of the frills and flourishes for which Gurta architecture is famed. I've no idea of the layout of this place; I was drugged when we came in. But from what I've overheard, it's garrisoned, making me think that we're inside a fort of some kind.

We're allowed to see very little. The corridors are tight and dark, and the glimpses we catch of the rest of the prison only show other prisoners engaged in slave labour, as we are. In addition to the forge there are kitchens, a laundry, a mill and a reeking tannery.

And then there's the quad, which is the part I find strange. Here, they simply leave us alone. It's open to the air; we can see the cavern roof and feel the stirring of the hot breeze. The walls are sheer and windowless for twelve spans or so, and then there's an inset balcony where archers wander, alert for trouble from the prisoners below.

There are other people up there watching us too, dressed in grey robes heavy with ornamentation. They are predominately old, their white hair yellowing with age, and some have their eyes hidden behind the round brass goggles they use to correct their sight when it begins to fail. Their Elders don't practise body alteration like our chthonomancers do; it's against their beliefs. They'd rather let their children die of entirely preventable conditions. Thoughts like that used to cheer me up when all else failed.

The prisoners gather and gossip and play games for exercise. Fights break out, unchecked by the guards. Then a ring of chanting men surrounds the combatants, goading them on. The quad is where many scores are settled. Here, we're allowed free rein as long as we don't try to leave. A man was beaten to death here not so very long ago. The guards did nothing to intervene. But a similar incident occurred several turns later, and this time they were quick to come to the victim's defence. It appears some of us are more valuable than others.

Rynn is dead. Jai is beyond my reach. From the depths of my grief, the distance between us seems unfathomable.

I'm in a prison, but not one made of walls and gates. It's another period in the quad. The prisoners are in high spirits after their bath. They play-fight and tussle and tell jokes. Nereith and Charn murmur among a group of flint-eyed men; Nereith grins and I see his sharp Khaadu teeth, fang-like incisors for ripping meat. I sit, as I always do, against a wall. Left alone, as I wish to be. Sometimes I look up, a brief moment of animation; but most of the time I gaze at the flagstone floor, disconnected. I'm exhausted from the forge, too tired to think.

Bare feet shuffle into view. Skin deep black and shiny. I've heard that SunChildren secrete some kind of oil that helps them survive up there, on the surface. It gives a faintly bitter tang to his scent.

I wait for him to go away, but he doesn't.

'Help me?' he says.

It's the first time I've heard him speak. His voice is soft and clambers over the words awkwardly. Eskaran is not his first language, nor one he's accustomed to using.

I look up. His brow and lip are swollen, and he's holding himself awkwardly. He's wearing bruises under his thin shirt. Maybe a cracked rib.

Charn gets him in the quad, and on occasion in the cell. Likely it's because he's alone, and small, and alien. Nobody is on his side, so there's no fear of recrimination. He'll be bullied into a corner, hit rapidly several times, kicked when he goes down. It's done quick and neat, with no real malice. I don't think the boy knows why it's happening. I don't think even Charn knows why he does it.

'He is afraid from you,' the boy says. 'He speaks of you as Cadre. I have heard it. Fear is heard when he speaks.'

I look him over. There's something appalling about the sight, battered as he is. He's handsome, in a feminine kind of way: he looks like an obsidian sculpture. The bruises disfigure him, blasphemies against the clean lines of his face.

'Feyn is the name I have,' he says, when I don't reply.

I'm silent for a time. Then I hear myself speaking, as if from a distance: 'I can't help you, boy. Go away.' But what I mean is: I won't help you; stop intruding on my perfect misery.

His face is unreadable. Then he nods, as if he understands. I want to tell him that he can't understand, he's not old enough to know love as I have, the pain I feel; but there's no point. He walks away from me, holding himself.

I glance over at Charn and Nereith, and their gazes flick away from me. Our exchange has been noted. Next shift in the forge I ask to swap with one of the coke-shovellers. Partly it's because I've become stronger, and the constant push and pull of the screens isn't gruelling enough. I want the extra punishment. But mostly it's because I can't bear looking at that SunChild boy.

The prisoner is happy to oblige. My job is pretty cushy compared to his.

There are six of us at the furnace, scooping coke into its roaring, smoky maw. One of them is Nereith, the Khaadu man. I ignore them all, putting my back into the work. The heat from the furnace draws sweat and dries it quickly. The faces of the men around me are grimy with black dust. They talk to each other as they shovel fuel from the pile into the hungry flames. They laugh and make crude jokes about their captors, they bitch about other prisoners, they reminisce about what things were like back home. They mock Nereith in a comradely way, calling him a cannibal. He shows his teeth and suggests how he might eat their mothers.

I'm getting stuck into the pile and am about to sling another shovelful into the furnace when the Khaadu grabs my arm.

'Not like that.'

I stare at him blankly.

He points at my shovel. 'Scoop from the middle of the pile, not the bottom. Your shovel is full of dust.'

I still don't understand.

'If you throw that into the furnace it'll ignite and blow back,' he says. 'You'll burn someone.'

Slowly, I turn away, shake off the shovel, take another scoop. This time my shovel is full of coke rocks. Nereith grunts in satisfaction and gets back to work.

I keep my eye on the Khaadu man. There's something about him. It's an instinct born of dealing with the dangerous, from aristocratic killers who murder by signing a contract, to fireclaw dealers with a blade and nothing to lose.

He's stripped to the waist; well-defined muscles; no fat on him. Entirely hairless, like all Khaadu, and his head is skinmarked with long red strips that follow the curve of his skull. Larger red strips run down his back. They're something to do with his social caste, but I've not met enough Khaadu to recognise his status. Their cities are far away from ours, through labyrinthine cave networks, Umbra-haunted fungal forests and sulphurous rock plains where poison gases leak from the ground. They don't visit Eskara very often.

But it's his teeth that draw the attention: long, sharp, fanged like a predator. Khaadu are a race of consummate carnivores. They prefer to eat their food still wriggling. The exception is when they eat their dead, or the bodies of their enemies. It's a ceremonial thing.

The Overseer makes his tour of the forge at the same time every shift. It's the only regular event we have. He emerges from his rooms, high in the smoky darkness, and descends to the floor, where he makes his way among us with an air of casual authority. He's a neat man, tall for a Gurta and straight-backed, his white hair swept back from his temples. It's impossible to stop his uniform from wilting in the heat but he does his best. The guards call him Overseer Arachi. He speaks good Eskaran when he tries, but he rarely talks to the prisoners. In fact, his inspection visits seem to be a matter of routine rather than anything else; I've never seen him actually do anything apart from tap bits of machinery and mutter about good, solid iron. The guards tolerate him and then call him names behind his back; they find his strutting comical.

The guards themselves idle about, bitching about this and that. We're not watched closely. Only the blacksmiths are well attended. In a forge where weapons are made, it makes sense to ensure no finished blades get into the hands of the prisoners.

This shift the Overseer has company. Four guards, and a man in heavy black gloves and a sooty smock, his lower face covered by a mask. I remember him, vaguely, from my drug-hazed induction to the prison.

They stop near me. The masked man indicates one of the coke-shovellers: a young man with lank brown hair. Two guards grab him; the others draw blades and push the rest of us back. The young man goes pale, then begins to scream. One of the other prisoners, holding a shovel, lunges to intervene; his companion bars his way with an arm. His jaw is tight with anger, but he knows it's suicide to get involved. There are a dozen more guards nearby, and they all have swords.

One of the guards clubs the struggling man with the pommel of his sword, stunning him into submission. He is quickly dragged away. The man in the smock sweeps us with his eyes and then departs after them.

I look at the Khaadu. He sees the question in my eyes.

'That was one of their chirurgeons,' he says. 'They're going to dissect him.' Back in the cave, Charn beats the boy again. Nobody says a word. He's a big man, probably the strongest here, and in a prison men flock to strength.

I'm lying with my eyes closed, but despite the weight of exhaustion on my bones I can't find the darkness I need. The boy keeps me awake. First with his cries of pain as Charn punches and abuses him, and later with his muffled whimpers as he tries to stifle his weeping so as not to attract attention. Curled on the hot, damp rock, I try to stop myself thinking but it won't happen.

This was a bad turn. I gave up my solitude by speaking, and it was the boy who made me do it. What's worse, he was asking something of me. Asking me to help him. Why won't they leave me alone? I've got nothing and I don't want anything, because I know that to have and to lose is worse than not having at all.

The boy is crying. He's no child, almost a man in fact; can't he control himself? Can't he shut up?

Then I notice that I'm crying too. I only realise by the cool touch of saltwater on my cheek. I don't make a noise, but huddled in the dark of that prison pit, I'm crying. I wait for my tears to run dry before I get up and walk across the floor towards Charn. One of his companions sees me coming and gets to his feet. Charn and another man follow. The others in the cave stir, shadowy rustlings in the corners: they're not used to seeing me move with purpose. In lieu of a name, I've heard some of them refer to me as 'the fade', after the dark apparitions that drift listlessly through Banchu corpseyards. If I had the heart, I'd laugh: the term is one I'm very familiar with, though it has a different meaning among those of my profession. But I'm not drifting any more.

The two men with Charn are shorter than he is, but both are stocky, and one of them looks quick. They're geared up for trouble. Charn has his arms crossed, a smirk on his face. He's not showing fear, but he's nervous. I can tell. Torchlight from above casts heavy shadows down their faces.

They're expecting a negotiation. A power show. Charn is the big man, he thinks I'm coming to him to talk terms. It's all about respect and power and face. But I'm not a man; I don't play man's games. So I beat the fuck out of them instead.

I take the quick one first. Rabbit punch just under his nose, stamp hard on his upper leg, dislocate his hip joint. The other man genuinely wasn't prepared for violence, so he's still barely moving when I backhand him across the face and put a knee in his solar plexus. He falls to the ground gulping air. I stamp on his lower back hard enough to snap a rib.

The other man has gone down on one knee, cheeks bloodless with the effort of suppressing a scream. For good measure, I kick him in the jaw, breaking it. I'm making a point here.

Charn licks his lips, takes a step back. He's scared that if he hits me I'll hurt him worse, but he knows that the only chance he has is to get the first blow in. When he finally plucks up the guts to take a decent swipe, I catch his fist in my hand and nerve-punch his forearm. I've had the same done to me before, at the Academy. The pain is excruciating; it'll be dead and useless for several turns. His scream is embarrassingly high for such a big man.

I grab his nose between my knuckles and twist my wrist. Gristle crunches. He really screams now, flails away from me, falls to the floor clutching his face. That's for what you tried to do to me when I was drugged, I tell him silently.

And suddenly something comes swelling up and fills me, pushing the numbness aside, something harsh and bright and burning. Hate. But it's not directed at Charn; it's for myself. Because I failed to save the man I love. Because I let the Gurta take me. Because I wasn't good enough again.

I stand over the man who thought he could rape me. He's done. All the fight has gone out of him. My point has been well made.

He gets up onto his knees, so I hit him again. The first blow doesn't have a lot of conviction behind it, but it feels good. The second one is harder. He collapses, prone. So I kick him, hard, in the guts. He whimpers, flinches, moans. Doesn't even try to crawl away.

It's that submission that really unleashes me. The way he just fucking gives up, surrenders to me. Something breaks at the sight, and I lose control. I lay into him with fists and kicks, stamping on him, raining blows that are barely aimed. Spittle and gore fly from his lips; he yells and shrieks and cries as I batter him. I hardly hear the voices of the guards, shouting down at me from the caged mouth of our cave.

Then the boy puts a hand on my shoulder. The touch is gentle, letting me know he's not an attacker. It stops me more effectively than force.

'No more,' he says quietly.

I look at the bloodied mess at my feet. The hate has exhausted itself for now. I feel nothing.

The guards withdraw, content that the disturbance has ceased. They don't care enough to climb down and deal with it properly.

I step back to address the cave. My voice feels rusty from lack of use.

'Nobody touches the boy,' I say, and then I go back to my spot and go to sleep. The moans of the men I've just injured don't keep me awake like Feyn's sobbing did.