Free Sapphique - Incarceron 02 by Catherine Fisher Page B

there was nowhere to go. Rix grabbed her hand with his black-gloved fingers. 'Hold tight,' he hissed. Aloud he said, 'Stand well back, sir.'
    He raised his hand, clicked his fingers. And the floor collapsed.
    Attia fell through the trapdoor with a suddenness that knocked the breath out of her; crashed on a mat stuffed with horsehair.
    'Move!' Rix yelled. He was already on his feet; hauling her up he ran, crouched under the planking of the stage.
    The noise above them was a fury; running footsteps, shouts and wails, a clash of blades. Attia scrambled over the joists; there was a curtain at the back and Rix dived under it, tugging off wig and make-up, false nose, fake sword. Gasping he whipped his coat off, turned it inside out and put it back on, tied it with string, became a bent, hunched beggar before her eyes.
    'They're all bloody mad!'
    'What about me?' she gasped.
    'Take your chance. Meet outside the gate, if you make it.'
    And he was gone, hobbling into a snow tunnel.
    For a moment she was too furious to move. But a head and shoulders came down the trapdoor behind her; she hissed with fear and ran.
    Dodging into a side cavern she saw that the waggons were gone, their tracks deep in the snow. They hadn't waited for the end. She scrambled after them, but there were too many people down that way, people surging out of the dome, some fleeing, some a mob smashing everything within reach. She turned back, cursing. To have come all this way and even to have touched the Glove and then to lose it to a baying crowd!
    And in her mind the red slash of the slave's throat opened over and over.
    The tunnel led out between the snow-domes. The settlement was in chaos; strange cries echoed, the sickly smoke burnt everywhere. She ducked into a quiet alley and ran down it, wishing desperately for her knife.
    The snow here was thick, but hardpacked, as if from many feet. At the end of the lane was a large dark building; she ducked inside.
    It was dim, and icy cold. For a while she just crouched behind the door, breathing hard, waiting for pursuers. Distant shouts came to her. Her face against the frozen wood, she stared through a crack.
    Nothing but darkness caine down the lane. And a light, falling snow.
    Finally, she stood, stiff, brushing ice from her knees, and turned.
    The first thing she saw was the Eye.
    Incarceron gazed at her from the roof, its small curious scrutiny. And under it, on the ground, were the boxes.
    She knew what they were as soon as she saw them.
    A stack of coffins, hastily built, stinking of disinfectant. Kindling was piled all around them.
    She stopped breathing, flung her arm over nose and mouth, gave a wail of horror.
    Plague!
    It explained everything; the people falling, the cowed and muffled silence, the desperation for Rix's magic to be real.
    She stumbled out backwards, sobbing with dread, grabbing snow, scrubbing her hands, her face, her mouth and nose. Had she caught it? Had she breathed it in? Oh god, had she touched anyone?
    Breathless, she turned to run. And saw Rix.
    He was stumbling towards her. 'No way out,' he gasped. 'Can we hide in there?'
    'No!' She caught his arm. 'This is a plague village. We have to get out of here,'
    'So that's it!' To her amazement he laughed in relief. 'Just for a minute there, sweetie, I thought I was losing my touch. But if it's just—'
    'We could already be infected! Come on!'
    He shrugged, turned.
    But as he faced the darkness he stopped.
    A horse stepped out from the smoky shadows of the lane, a horse dark as midnight, its rider tall, wearing a tricorn hat. He wore a black mask with narrow eyeholes. His coat was long and his boots supple and fine. He carried a firelock, and now he pointed it with practised skill straight at Rix's head.
    Rix froze.
    'The Glove,' the shadow whispered. 'Now.'
    Rix wiped his face with one black hand, then spread his fingers. His voice adopted its cringing whine. 'This, lord? It's just a prop. A stage-prop. Take anything from me, sir, but