The Ruthless Read online

  A shaft of Vexation’s light, richly red, punched through.

  ‘Look there!’ called one of the Gatherers.

  They rushed to the gap and Sa-at held himself still, hoping not to be noticed. ‘It’s worse than I thought,’ said Hil. ‘By the angle of sunslight, I’d say we only got a few hours. We’re further off than I thought too.’ She blew out a long breath through her lips.

  ‘Think we can make it?’ asked Rin.

  ‘Be tight.’

  Rin nodded. ‘Will be if you take the wrong way again, you great idiot.’

  There was a warmth to the words that took away their sting. Instead of getting cross, Hil squeezed his arm, changed direction and started walking.

  The group followed her on the ground, and Sa-at followed them in the trees, walking the tangled pathway of branches. Whenever Hil seemed to be going off course, he pushed the leaves aside to let Vexation’s light guide them.

  For hours they trudged. Fear kept them at a good pace, and soon, Sa-at was struggling to get ahead of them. But keep ahead he did, until they reached a part of the Wild where the trees thinned a little and his help was no longer needed. He watched them from a high branch. Though most wore similar clothes, he could easily tell them apart. As each one passed by he gave a little wave. None of them saw.

  Fortune’s Eye and Wrath’s Tear had already set, and Vexation was low in the sky. Hil looked up – straight past Sa-at – took a quick bearing, and hurried on. Nobody said anything. They could all feel the change in the air. Soon, night would fall and the Wild would stir in earnest. Grim-faced and determined, the Gatherers kept going, all of their attention on the floor at their feet. The forest had not started to move yet, but it was only a matter of time.

  Perhaps that was why they did not notice that only six of the group were still following Hil. Sa-at noticed. He had been counting them as they went. He turned on his perch, scanning the nearby area for any signs of the eighth Gatherer.

  There! He saw that one of the group had stopped further back, like a lone reed swaying in the breeze.

  He slipped silently from the tree and circled round so that he could approach from behind. Their breathing sounded laboured and they were making unhappy noises with each exhalation, as if in discomfort.

  Sa-at was just trying to decide whether to risk talking to them when they fell over.

  He watched them for a few moments, and when it was clear that the Gatherer wasn’t going to move, he crouched down nearby and rolled them onto their back.

  It was Tal, the one he’d helped before. There were no obvious injuries, no reason why he had stopped. Maybe he’s tired? Sa-at sniffed. Something didn’t smell right. Another sniff and he had located the source. He lifted Tal’s arm so he could get his hand into the man’s armpit. The stink of fear-sweat made him wrinkle his nose. Did all people smell this bad? His own armpits made a smell sometimes but it was nothing like this. In fact, Sa-at quite enjoyed smelling himself at the end of the day.

  He found the hole in Tal’s jacket and worked it wide until he could get his hands in for a feel. In the middle of Tal’s armpit, he found a stud of scar tissue, about the size of his middle finger, which was also the same size as the tip of a Spiderkin’s leg. Tal groaned when he pressed it.

  On the other side of the scar tissue would be a tiny strand of web. Attached to the web would be an egg, floating inside Tal’s body. When night fell, the egg would hatch and the baby Spiderkin would call to its queen to collect it. Sa-at ran a hand through his hair. He did not want Tal to die.

  With a flutter of wings, Crowflies landed next to him and pushed his hands aside with its beak for a closer look.

  ‘Can you get it out?’

  Sa-at held his breath while Crowflies inspected the entry point. After a few moments, it nodded.

  ‘Will you?’

  Crowflies looked from Sa-at to Tal and back again as it considered the question. Eventually it hopped over and tapped Tal’s thumb with its beak.

  ‘No. He needs his thumb.’

  Sa-at watched the beak hover, then tap an index finger.

  ‘No.’

  This time the beak came to rest on Tal’s eyelid.

  ‘No!’ Sa-at tugged at Tal’s earlobe. ‘This bit?’

  Crowflies shook its head.

  ‘What about both of them?’

  There was a pause, then Crowflies nodded. It worked its head into the hole in Tal’s jacket, paused, then stabbed into his armpit. Sa-at saw the Birdkin’s throat swell as its proboscis thrust out.

  Tal called out in pain and tried to twist away but Sa-at held him down while Crowflies worked.

  The red-tinged sky faded to grey and then Crowflies pulled back, something trapped and wriggling within its beak. The Birdkin regarded the thing’s tiny legs with interest. There was a crunch and a small but audible pop, and the wriggling stopped. Crowflies tipped its head up and swallowed.

  ‘Did you stop the blood?’ asked Sa-at.

  Crowflies gave him a look.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He turned away while Crowflies took its due, only turning back when the wounds were pinched closed. Both earlobes were gone, snipped away so smoothly it was as if they were never there. Tal was groaning and muttering to himself, though his eyes were only half-open. It seemed as if his body were awake but his mind still lurked in some dream. He allowed Sa-at to pull him up and lead him stumbling the way the group had gone.

  It was fully dark when they reached Sagan.

  There was a space where there were no trees and the ground was scorched black by old fire, abandoned land that bridged the gap between the edge of the Wild and the fences and fields where Sagan began. Lights burned orange along the tops of the fences, and as Sa-at pushed Tal towards them, he heard people shouting.

  ‘Over here! I see Tal! I see Tal!’

  More of the lights began to move, until they had picked Sa-at from the darkness. He squinted his eyes against the sudden glare and waved. Tal raised his hands over his face and groaned.

  ‘He’s in pain! And what’s that feathered thing next to him?’

  Sa-at tried to think of something to say but, again, the words would not come.

  Others were speaking though. ‘Something has him!’

  ‘Don’t let it take Tal!’

  There was movement at the fence, though Sa-at couldn’t make out what it was. He wanted to say his name the way the Gatherers had back in the Wild. That he was Sa-at and he was safe. And then they would smile at him and touch his arm. He wanted it so badly but he could not find the words. It was as if all the breath for speaking had fled his body.

  So instead he smiled and gave Tal a gentle push towards Sagan. The young man managed several awkward steps before tripping and falling over.

  ‘It’s killed Tal!’ shrieked a voice.

  ‘Get it!’ shouted another.

  A stone landed in the dust by Sa-at’s feet. Then another. He held up his hands in surprise and felt something sharp smack into his palm. It stung and he cried out.

  ‘Good shot, Rin! Keep at it.’

  He took a step back as another stone hit his shoulder. That stung too, and his eyes pricked with tears.

  Fear overcame shock, making him turn and run. The stones and shouts followed him, back across the barren ground and into the dark of the Wild.

  Satyendra strolled across the courtyard, slowing as he reached the centre. On cloudy days this was his favourite place in the castle. An open space as far from the oppressive walls and the hated crystals as it was possible to be.

  It would be even better if there was nobody else here.

  He was good with people, but they brought out the worst in him, and he often wished he had been born elsewhere. A quiet settlement on the edge of a Godroad, or one of the watchtowers on the border where he’d only have the landscape for company. Within the confines of Lord Rochant Sapphire’s floating castle, privacy was hard to come by.

  Some of the apprentice hunters were playing ‘snare
the demon’, a game in which one person was the titular demon and had to get from one side of the courtyard to the other. The other players were the hunters, and their job was to grab the demon. If three hunters got hold of the demon at once, they won.

  When they saw Satyendra they called out to him, begging that he join them. It had always been like this. As the Honoured Vessel for Lord Rochant Sapphire’s next life, he was special, elevated above the others. Everyone wanted to sit next to him at mealtimes or pair up with him while training. He was an auspicious being, a lucky charm, and they loved him for it.

  Almost as much as he loathed them in return.

  Apparently, he had impressed even as a baby. He was born under the same alignment of the suns as the Sapphire High Lord, Yadavendra, and had impressed the man so much, that he had been gifted with a name of equal status and length as the other high lords. Clearly, Yadavendra had low standards. As best Satyendra could tell, he had been honoured for not crying. His mother always went on about how quiet and brave he was as a baby. How ridiculous. They praised me because I did nothing. That’s no achievement. Perhaps they’re hoping I’ll be just as quiet at the end, when I’m sacrificed for the good of the house.

  And with the next proper alignment of the suns only a day away, the end seemed far too close for comfort. He had to find a way to postpone.

  One of the apprentices moved into his path. Though he’d known them all for years, in his head he referred to them by feature rather than name. This apprentice was called Pik, but he had dubbed them Nose, for obvious reasons. ‘Want to play, Satyendra?’

  He buried his irritation deep, and put on a mask of reluctance. ‘I’d love to but Story-singer Ban is expecting me.’

  ‘Just one game, please.’

  ‘Please!’ echoed the other apprentices.

  ‘I don’t know. He won’t like it if I’m late. Lord Rochant was known for his punctuality.’

  His primary duty as an Honoured Vessel was to be like a mirror to Lord Rochant in thought and deed in order to enable an easy rebirth. It was implicitly understood that everyone in the castle was supposed to assist him in this, and for years Satyendra had been using it to his advantage.

  As he expected, the apprentice hunters backed off, disappointment plain on their faces, and, for a delicious moment, their shared sadness washed over him, like the scent of cooking from another room, making his mouth water. A secret part of him stirred, and demanded to be fed.

  I should move on, he thought. Ban hates it when I’m late, and if I play, I’ll need to win.

  There was a terrible pressure in being Lord Rochant’s Honoured Vessel. For it seemed Rochant had been hatefully good at everything: flying, tactics, lawmaking, diplomacy, hunting, art. His legacy was like a shadow that dwarfed Satyendra’s achievements. How was he supposed to match somebody with lifetimes of experience? Somebody known for their wisdom. Who never lost.

  It was impossible. Better to sidestep the issue of the game entirely and go to his lesson.

  He walked on a few paces, pretending reluctance, before stopping. It was too late. He wanted to feed. Needed to. He would play and win and make them sad. Then he would drink it in. The plan had already formed, any flaws hidden by an irresistible need. His back was to them now and he could not help but lick his lips in anticipation.

  ‘Could I play the demon?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ they replied, a little eagerness returning to their eyes.

  He made a show of thinking it over. ‘I suppose I could stay for one game, but it would have to be quick.’

  The apprentices rushed to their starting positions, spreading out across the courtyard, while Satyendra walked to the far wall.

  ‘Ready?’ they asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, then, as they started to run towards him, added: ‘No. Which demon am I going to be?’

  The apprentices stopped, confused. One of them said, ‘What?’

  ‘I need to know which demon I am.’

  Though the game did not normally require the demon to be named, all of the apprentice hunters had grown up being taught about the inhabitants of the Wild. Suggestions came thick and fast:

  ‘Be one of the Red Brothers.’

  ‘Be a Watcher!’

  ‘Be a Kindly Father!’

  ‘Be the Stranger!’

  ‘Be Murderkind!’

  Satyendra shook his head. ‘No, I’m going to be the Scuttling Corpseman.’

  ‘But, the Corpseman is dead,’ replied Nose. ‘Lord Vasin killed it.’

  ‘No he didn’t, he cut off its arm, and anyway, this is a game so I can be who I want. Be careful though,’ he warned, ‘the Corpseman kills any hunter it catches alone.’

  While they were digesting that, he started running down the left side of the courtyard, and with a whoop, they came after him.

  Most of the apprentices were full grown, with adult frames that hadn’t yet filled out, and faces that still contained an echo of childhood. At seventeen, Satyendra was not the fastest nor the strongest of them. He was small like his mother, but he had her steel, and one other advantage. For Satyendra was different. Not just because of his status but because of something deep inside him, something fundamental. He didn’t understand why or how, but he knew, in a way that he never articulated, that something inside of him was twisted.

  As far as he could tell, the majority of people in the castle did not lie. It did not even occur to them. For Satyendra, deception was a part of everyday life. Every pleasantry was a lie. Every smile. Every kind word. It was a daily necessity to keep his secret. A lifetime of practice had made him the best deceiver in the castle.

  And so, in the game, he lied. As he approached the first pair of apprentices, his body told them he was going left, and when he went right instead, they were wrong footed. He used the same trick on the second set. The third set were expecting a feint, they watched his eyes instead of his body.

  They might as well scream their plans at me, so bright is it on their faces.

  He told them with his body that he was going left, but hinted with his eyes that he was going right.

  They believed his eyes, and he sailed past them.

  Too easy!

  He was halfway across the courtyard when he heard his mother’s voice from one of the upper windows. He was being called. Pretending not to hear, he put his head down and ran for the finish.

  Chunk, one of the older apprentices came charging up behind him. Satyendra tried to weave to throw her off, but she was so much bigger and so much faster that it didn’t matter.

  All he had to do was keep going a little further. The wall grew larger in his vision. Under the clouds, the sapphires set in the stones seemed dull and dark.

  Just a few more steps!

  The more it looked as if he was going to win, the more he could feel the frustration of the other apprentices, like a dam about to break. He wanted the sadness underneath, he needed it.

  As his pumping arms swung out behind him, he felt a hand close on his wrist.

  ‘Got you!’

  No!

  Chunk pulled him backwards, away from the wall. His fingers had come tantalizingly close, another inch or two and he would have won. They skidded together, both working hard not to fall or get their legs tangled.

  Satyendra could feel his momentum being stolen and it enraged him. He had to win!

  ‘I’ve got him!’ she called.

  He twisted to get free but her grip stayed firm. When he tried to drag her towards the wall she simply leaned back and he was unable to shift her weight. The other apprentices were running over. If any two of them got their hands on him then he would lose the game. Their frustration had vanished, their sadness become like a memory of mist. His hunger clawed at him.

  His mother’s voice called again, louder this time.

  Neither of them paid the Honoured Mother any attention. Chunk grinned at him and he grinned back.

  He was still smiling as he pressed his foot against the side o
f her knee and pushed. Braced as her leg was, it was easy for him to pop out the joint.

  Her smile vanished into a scream.

  The mix of surprise and pain was heady, and Satyendra drank it in. Their suffering like a physical thing, nourishing. Around him, everything came into sharper focus. He felt more alert, more alive. It was as if he’d been in a desert and forgotten how sweet water could taste. A part of him knew that this was going to make trouble down the road but when the rush was on him it was hard to care.

  Her grip on his wrist was still strong, the shock making her squeeze even tighter. It didn’t matter. His strength grew as hers waned, and he broke free easily and took the last step to the wall.

  While the apprentices were gathering around Chunk he touched his fingers to the cool stone. ‘I win!’ he declared.

  When he turned back the others were staring at him. Most were dumbfounded but three were advancing with violent intent.

  They look angry, he thought. Angry enough to forget the rules. Perhaps they were going to actually strike him this time. Let them try! He thought, I can do anything! Though bolstered by another’s pain, he knew that the odds were not in his favour. Behind his bold smile, a worm of sanity crept in, telling him he should apologize or beg, anything to stop the incoming beating. His fear smothered the rush, and the closer they got, the more he wished that he had not put himself in the corner of the courtyard.

  His mother’s voice cut across the scene, half speaking Satyendra’s name, half singing it, stretching out the sound into several long notes. The apprentices froze in place immediately as the word seemed to bounce from the walls. Even the sapphires laced throughout the structure began to hum softly, setting Satyendra’s teeth on edge.

  He hastily took his hand from the stone. ‘I am here.’

  His mother seemed to glide towards them, her icy expression capped off with a delicate frown of displeasure. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  Satyendra assumed a respectful pose. ‘We were playing hunt the demon. The other apprentices didn’t like that I won.’

  ‘He only won because he cheated!’ exclaimed Nose, pointing at Chunk who was still groaning on the floor. ‘Honoured Mother Chandni, look what he did.’