The Crow (51 page)

He tried to work methodically. He started from the south end of the camp and moved in a spiral, sniffing each mind he encountered until he was sure it was not Zelika. But very soon he found himself getting confused; some dreams were louder than others, some minds more pungent, and his skills were not precise enough to be able to sort one clearly from another, or to keep track of his direction. The dreams of the snouts bled into his head, dreams of violence and terror, or vagrant memories of other lives that even the morralin could not erase entirely. There were too many. Once, his scalp tightening with fear, he almost touched a Hull.

He knew that the vigilance by the hut was beginning to stir, and he hadn't finished. Desperately, he scouted over some dark places he had not been – not bothering with each individual mind, just searching for some sign, some scent. And just at the last minute, he thought he felt her. He touched a particularly bad knot of several minds tangled together, a jangle of nightmarish emotions that made him flinch. But somewhere inside it there was surely something: a tiny, familiar glow in the teeming darknesses, a faint perfume that recalled Zelika, smeared and unclear, fogged by sorcery, darkened and twisted with terrible pain. Eagerly he reached forward, trying to get closer, to be absolutely sure; but the sense vanished, and he could feel the vigilance tensing, on the verge of triggering, and he had to withdraw. He lay on his thin, lumpy pallet, his heart pounding, utterly drained by what he had done. He felt the vigilance slowly relax, and breathed out with relief.

He had sensed Zelika, he was sure of it. She was somewhere in the camp. Perhaps in a prison? The minds were so much darker where she was. She was bewitched, he was sure, and that would be a problem. He thought of how she had tried to persuade her brother to come with her, and how Nisrah had not recognized her. The sorcery was powerful, and he could not expect Zelika to have resisted it. Perhaps she would not come voluntarily. He would have to find where she was, and most probably he would have to disable her somehow and carry her out of Sjug'hakar Im. She was a skilled warrior, and he could not be sure that he would beat her in a fight, especially if the madness took her; he would have to use a sleep charm of some kind. And then he would have to bind her until the sorcery wore off, in case she tried to kill him. He would have to steal some leather thongs or rope for the job; he thought he knew where to find some.

It would be difficult, but not impossible. But first he had to find out where she was.

He still listened to as many conversations as he could, trying to find some word that might tell him where Zelika was. It was frustrating; the camp was awash with constant rumors, stories whispered from one ear to another about this bloody exploit, that punishment, the war for which they were all being trained. But there was no mention of a girl who had been recently captured, and where she might have been placed. It was as if she had vanished into thin air. He dared not ask any pointed questions, for fear someone might think them odd or treacherous. So he had to listen to hours of talk, fighting his boredom, his ears pricked for any detail that might tell him where she was being kept.

This was how Hem heard of the Blind House.

On his seventh day at the camp, a new girl appeared in Blood Block Two. Her face was so drawn it was almost skeletal, her skin ashen, and regular tremors shook her body. Hem stared at her curiously, wondering if she had, like him, just turned up at the gates; but eavesdropping on a whispered conversation she had with Slitter, when the snouts were settling into their beds, he heard where she had been: in the Blind House. The name went around the hut almost at once, sending a shudder through every snout who heard it.

It was, the children said, where the weakest were taken if they collapsed too often at training. And others were taken there too, it was said in low voices – those who were disloyal, or broke rules. It was feared much more than the dire punishments Hem had witnessed, although he did not understand why; those cruelties were the subject of foul jokes, but nobody jested about the Blind House. And anyone could be sent there: the last leader of the Blood Block, a girl called Hate whom everyone thought as loyal a snout as any who drew breath, had been sent there for three days and had come back changed beyond recognition. She had tried to escape Sjug'hakar Im after that, and had been cur-killed.

Hem remembered that when he had first been taken into Sjug'hakar Im, he had been threatened with the Blind House. He had not known then what it meant. His first reaction was to mentally review his behavior over the past days. Was the Slasher character truly convincing? Was he, despite everything, attracting attention to himself? He uneasily remembered how the Hull commander had noticed his combat skills during training. Hem had known immediately it was a mistake, and he was sure that since then the Hulls were taking note of him. Once he had even been drawn out of the block for a demonstration of a particular skill. He had fumbled, not too obviously: he wanted to seem like someone with a natural aptitude for combat but no experience, rather than someone who was hiding what he knew. He still didn't know if his act had worked.

His second thought was to remember the anguished screams from the hut on the other side of the camp that he had heard on his vegetable raiding. He had guessed then the hut was some kind of horrible prison; he felt as sure as he could be that this was the Blind House.

His third thought was that Zelika was probably in there.

After renewing his disguise, Hem spent most of his free time thinking obsessively about how to break into the Blind House and release Zelika. He was caught, as always, between a grinding sense of urgency and anxious caution: if Zelika were in the Blind House, she must be undergoing torments beyond imagining, and yet if he were caught, he would be killed and might as well not have bothered. Every day he dreaded that he might see her taken out for one of the Hull's brutal punishments; if that happened, he did not know what he would do. He certainly could not watch Zelika tortured with even a pretense at equanimity: it was difficult enough with children he did not know. The brutalities of Sjug'hakar Im were furnishing him with an entirely new set of nightmares.

On his nocturnal scoutings, he examined the Blind House from a cautious distance. He tried to sense the minds inside, and thought he caught a faint trace of Zelika's presence, although pained and twisted almost out of recognition. It was enough, however, to confirm his determination to break into it, despite the screams that sometimes came from the hut. Hem never got used to them; every time he heard them, his insides went cold.

The vigilance planted outside the hut was very strong, and this puzzled him. If he was right, the Blind House imprisoned only snouts, and a less powerful vigilance would do just as well. Hem dared not approach it too closely, lest he give himself away; but on the nights when he crept through the camp he spent most of his time gingerly sensing out the vigilance, its shape and mechanism.

Like all vigilances, it was a sorcery woven of shadow and air and tethered to a particular place. This one was particularly unpleasant. If it had been tangible, it would have felt cold, with the chill of a tomb, and at once bristly, as if it were covered in sharp spines of awareness, and slimy too, like a rotting dead thing. Hem was uncontrollably sick the first time he came within ten spans of it.

This vigilance was, Hem realized with a shock a couple of nights later, not merely designed to be an alarm. It was in itself a device of torture. It pulsed with sorcerous energies that entered the minds of the children inside the hut, poisoning them, as if it were a malign spider, with despair and hatred and panic so extreme that they were like constant physical pains. No wonder such terrible cries and shrieks came from the Blind House.

The vigilance, Hem was sure, had been created and set there by the Spider. Perhaps that was how the Hull came by its nickname. Whoever was in the Blind House suffered its sorceries every hour of every day. No one, thought Hem as he probed, could bear it and survive. His mind whirled through the calculations of how long Zelika must have been locked in there. Thirteen days.

Thirteen days!

He willed away his nausea, and immersed himself in the problem of how to disable the vigilance. He could not simply creep past this one: it was impossible. He had helped Saliman disable vigilances on their way through the Nazar Plains, and understood the principles of the task. The Spider's vigilance was especially complex, and would be very difficult to dismantle. It would take considerable magery, and he would need a very powerful shield to hide it; he was not sure that he had the power to make such a shield. And some of the sorceries twisted within it baffled him, sliding away from his understanding and freezing his thoughts. Patiently, he would steel himself and begin again, although soon he was so tired he could barely stand. Whatever he felt, it would be nothing to what Zelika was undergoing.

Despite everything, Hem became absorbed in the fascination of the conundrum, and almost forgot where he was. At last, he looked up and realized with a start that the deep of night had passed and the stars would soon begin to fade. He had lingered for a dangerously long time; and he was so tired he didn't know how he would train that day.

But he thought that he knew how to destroy the vigilance and get into the Blind House.

No matter what urgency he felt, Hem was simply too exhausted the following night to make an attempt on the Blind House. He was especially grateful that he had decided to play Slasher as a simpleton; his stumbling and thick speech that day were quite genuine, and covered his slowness. He got a bad bruise training in unarmed combat with Reaver, and was slapped and spat on by Slitter that evening when he awkwardly fell against her as they entered Blood Block Two after their dinner. He wanted desperately to speak to Ire, but was too tired to attempt mindtouching. Before he fell asleep, he wondered if perhaps he might go to the Elidhu's home, the dreamplace, as he had twice before when tiredness had nearly overcome him; but if he went there that night, he did not remember it.

The following day he was also a little inattentive, because he kept turning over his plan to disable the Spider's vigilance, probing it for flaws. But an announcement to the snouts at the midday break rapidly brought him back to the present. A gong sounded and the Spider emerged from the Prime Hut. An excited murmur ran around the blocks; the Spider only ever came out when a snout was to be punished. The Hull lifted its hand, and a dead silence fell at once.

"Curs of Sjug'hakar Im!" said the Hull. Again Hem could hear what it said perfectly, as if the Spider's voice insinuated itself straight into his mind. "Listen and listen well. We have two announcements. One is something we want all of you to have a care for: there is a traitor and a spy in our midst."

A ripple of enthusiasm ran through the group of snouts: a spy! This would mean some sport later on. Hem's stomach felt as if it had suddenly been removed, leaving only cold air.

"Some filth slips through Sjug'hakar Im at will, under the very noses even of our dogsoldiers," the Spider continued. "This is of great concern to us all, and we ask you loyal curs for your help. Anything strange, anything unusual, is to be reported to your block captain at once. We require your absolute vigilance: this treacherous spy, this lackey of our enemies, cannot be tolerated. If your information leads to this creature's capture, you will be well rewarded. On the other hand..." It paused, and Hem felt its empty gaze pass over the ranks of snouts. "On the other hand, anyone found to be hiding information or aiding the spy will be punished with full malice."

Full malice,
thought Hem, swallowing. He could guess what that meant. He kept his face carefully blank, his mouth hanging stupidly open.

"We also have some good news, which will be welcomed by you all. Your training is now almost finished. The curs are pleasing us well. Soon we will begin our journey to Dagra, where you will be welcomed by our Lord himself, the Master of the Iron Tower. He has great plans for you, great plans! We are sure you will fulfill his purpose, and please us all."

The Hull turned and walked back into the Prime Hut and the snouts stirred, as if they woke from a trance, and began to cheer and yell. The gong sounded again and the snouts scrambled for the mess hall, talking among themselves.

Hem ran with them, his head whirling. Despite all his precautions, his scouting had been noticed; and the snouts were moving on, into Den Raven. Hem most profoundly did not wish to go anywhere near the Iron Tower; he remembered his dream of it, long ago in Turbansk, and felt a chill sweat break on his forehead.

Time was running out. He had to rescue Zelika and escape the camp tonight. He might never get another chance.

Hem lay with his eyes shut in the stuffy darkness of Blood Block Two, and waited for the snouts to go to sleep. His nerves jangled; he was much more afraid than he had been when he had decided to enter Sjug'hakar Im. Then, he had coldly judged the odds and decided they were good enough to gamble with. This time, he felt his chances of success were very small indeed.

I don't want to die, he thought to himself. I don't want to die alone, in this horrible place. I want to see Maerad again, and Saliman. I want to eat and drink with my friends in a sunny garden.

Hem recalled Saliman's house in Turbansk, how the dining room opened onto the garden, the cool stone flags by the pond, the perfume of jasmines winding over the walls, the oleanders and roses that grew under the fruit trees. He tried to remember the taste of Soron's seedcakes, and realized he no longer knew what good food tasted like – even its ghost had vanished from his tongue. His memories seemed leached of all color and very far away from him. And, he reflected sadly, memory was all that was left of Saliman's house, that lovely, bright place where, for too short a time, he had been happy. That house lay in ruins, razed by earthquake and overrun by the Black Army.