The stab of pain he felt made him reply abruptly, without thought.
The bag of powers is lost. Dirk too. Lost.
Sonia’s horror rolled like a wave through his mind, making him gasp and blink. Then, quite suddenly, there was another feeling—a feeling, almost, of joy—startled joy!
Rye, we are talking to each other in our minds!
Yes, Rye thought in amazement. But how can that be?
Am I dreaming? He sent the message cautiously.
If you are, then I am too, the reply shot back, clearer than before. And then another message came, tumbling after the first and tinged with dread. Rye, I can smell the sea.
Rye hesitated. And slowly, through the mingled odours of canvas and sweat, he too detected the tangy scent of salt water and seaweed.
He had been relying on his sense of hearing to warn him that the journey was ending. He had been waiting for the dull, regular boom of waves pounding on a shore, like the sound that had dominated the city of Oltan.
There was no sound of waves here. Yet now that he had become aware of it, it seemed to him that the smell of the sea was growing stronger by the moment.
And the cart was slowing. Slowing, turning … and stopping.
Rye—
Sonia’s voice clamoured in his mind, sharp with fear, then broke off abruptly. Rye knew why. Sonia did not want to burden him with her terror.
We will find a way out of this, Sonia. We will survive, as we did in Oltan.
He sent the message as firmly as he could, but the only reply was a faint brush of warmth. Sonia was holding her thoughts back. No doubt she could not stop herself from remembering that it was the Fellan powers that had saved them in Oltan, and the powers were gone.
The canvas above Rye was pulled aside. He lay blinking up at a canopy of weirdly glowing clouds. The smell of the sea rolled over him, driven by a small, sour breeze. The odour was heavier, oilier than the smell of Oltan bay. And there was still no sound of breaking waves—only a soft lapping, and a faint, dull rumbling that seemed to be coming from far away.
Grey-clad arms seized him and he was lifted from the cart and set roughly on his feet. He found himself standing on a flat, paved space flooded with white light that banished the darkness of the night completely. Directly in front of him was a blank grey wall, so long that he could not see where it began or ended.
Swaying, he looked up, trying to judge the wall’s height, trying to see any way it could be climbed. And to his dazed astonishment he saw a low roof studded with air vents, and pipes from which steam rose.
This was not a wall, but a building—a building with no windows and no doors. A building so vast that it seemed to go on forever.
An iron hand held him upright as the bonds that bound his ankles were cut. All around him the other captives were being dealt with the same way. Many were staggering and falling to their knees the moment they were no longer supported.
But no one made a sound—not a single gasp or groan escaped anyone, let alone a plea for mercy. Those who managed to remain on their feet helped those who had fallen. And when the cart was empty, and Kyte strode forward to confront her prisoners, she found the people of Nanny’s Pride farm, re-captured slaves and failed rescuers alike, standing shoulder to shoulder, staring straight ahead, refusing to show their fear.
Rye felt a strong surge of emotion flow into his mind, mingling with the respect and admiration he was already feeling. He looked across the heads of the silent crowd and met Sonia’s shining eyes.
‘So the rats are feeling brave,’ sneered Kyte. ‘I’ll enjoy seeing how brave you are when tomorrow comes, little rats!’
Turning her back on them, she took a slim grey tube from her belt and pointed it at the building. A square section of the grey wall slid noiselessly to one side.
Rye felt sweat break out on his forehead. The opening in the wall shone bright white. Evil streamed from it like water.
‘Guards!’ shouted Kyte. ‘Take them in!’
19 - The Harbour
The door slid shut behind them, sealing them in. Ahead was abroad passage with walls and floor of dull, smooth grey. White light glared down from the ceiling, but there were no lanterns. There was nothing on the ceiling at all except an occasional small round hole sealed with mesh through which the salty air of the Harbour drifted.
Rye remembered the light that had flooded the narrow stairway as the Warden led him deep into the oldest parts of the Keep. That light, too, had seemed to have no source. But how different it had been! Golden and mysterious, it had lit those steep, winding steps warmly, gently, at one with the magic that had seeped from the ancient stones.
This light was cold—hard and chill as the floor beneath Rye’s feet. And the magic he could sense was cold too. It pressed in on him, touching him with icy fingers, filling him not with awe but with dread.
How could anyone have followed the man who created this? Rye thought. How could anyone have thought that it was better to trust him than to stand and fight Olt’s tyranny? Could they not see what he really was?
Plainly they could not, Sonia’s voice whispered in his mind. He hid his true nature till he could get them isolated here.
Rye glanced across the lines of prisoners and saw Sonia almost opposite him. Her shoulders were bowed, and she was shambling along with her head down, so that she looked no taller than Chub, who was walking beside her.
Sonia must have felt his shock at seeing her in such despair, because she raised her head a little and looked directly at him. Her eyes were dark with fear, but her message came to him clearly. So far they have not realised that I am not like the others, and I do not want them to find out. It might be useful. Who knows?
With Kyte in the lead, and guards on either side of them, the prisoners walked the length of the passage. The silence of the place was like a living thing. Even the guards’ heavy boots seemed to make no sound, as if the walls and floor absorbed and swallowed the echo of their tread.
These guards, Kyte’s guards, did not look like the Krops of the Diggings. They were burlier, with broad cheeks and pointed chins. But they were just as inhuman. And they all looked exactly alike.
Kyte was nearing what looked like a dead end. A circular design had been painted in the centre of the wall.
Rye had never seen anything like it, but its message was clear enough. The candle in the centre of the circle had a bar across it, as if it had been deliberately crossed out. Flame was forbidden here.
Without breaking stride, Kyte pointed the grey tube at the sign. A section of the wall slid away, revealing another passage exactly like the first. The door closed the moment the prisoners had moved through it, and the silence seemed to become even more intense.
At last another smooth wall barred Kyte’s way. This time she halted and adjusted the collar of her coat before raising the grey tube. Then, as a panel slid aside, she swaggered forward, a slight smile on her lips.
She stopped dead as a hissing voice rose from the desk directly in front of the doorway.
‘Do you guarantee it, Brand?’
The voice was so filled with menace that Kyte took a step back, and the watchers outside the room shuddered as if blown by a freezing wind.
A man was sitting behind the desk, but he did not seem to be the one who had spoken. He had raised his eyes as Kyte entered the room, but he merely stared at her glassily. His narrow face was gleaming with sweat. His hands were clasped around a black box set in front of him on the shining desktop. His knuckles were white.
He opened his lips with what seemed a great effort. ‘Yes, Master,’ he said. ‘The trial will be successful. I guarantee it. And as for the spies the bird claims to have seen in the Saltings, there has been no sign of them. If they exist, they will be captured very soon, I promise you.’