The Dark Citadel (The Green Woman) (7 page)

In a high,
airy room of the
Parliament Building, looking down on the great square, a short man in military
uniform paced angrily. Standing to attention, Principal Anastasias of the
Providence Central Institute for Girls, almost two heads taller and infinitely
more distinguished than his superior, might have been tempted to smile at the
little man’s posturing, but he waited in respectful silence. The Lord High
Protector certainly looked like a rosy-cheeked buffoon, but his small hog-like
eyes glittered with malice.

“Of course, she must be punished like any other
unruly child,” the Protector said, wheeling round smartly on his heels to face
the principal. “But was it absolutely necessary to lock her in the House of
Correction? Would a good whipping not have sufficed?”

The principal put his hands together in an
ecclesiastical pose, and an expression of serene superiority settled on his
hawk-like features. “The city is already rife with sedition, Excellency,
treason, and heresy among the Ignorant population. The girl is just one example
of how evil has wormed its way into the population, picking out the most
susceptible and turning them into champions of the Serpent Witch. In your own
household, Excellency, the Lady Selene—”

“Leave my wife out of this, Principal! She is my
problem and mine alone. A single headstrong female with delusions of grandeur
hardly amounts to a threat to State security.”
 

The principal bent his head in the briefest of
bows. “As you wish, Excellency. You know the Lady Selene’s capacity for
meddling better than anyone. You must decide how best to curb it.”

“Thank you, Principal Anastasias, for according me
the right to act as master in my own home,” the Protector said with a facetious
curl of his lip. “Now, this girl. She has, of course, rebellious
tendencies—it’s in the blood and to be expected. But she must not be
allowed to go too far. It is your job to stop her, to nip these notions in the
bud. Imagine if her rebellious instinct drove her to commit an unpardonable
crime. How could she be executed? How could we execute our only, most precious
hostage?”

“Perhaps, Your Excellency, it would be better to
crush the venomous serpent now, before she has a chance to contaminate other
young minds. It could be done…discreetly. Now that she is safely locked away,
who would know?” The principal spoke softly, suavely. “Remember Eve, the bane
of Mankind? The Book says—”

“Don’t quote the Book at me!” His Excellency the
Lord High Protector stamped his glossy-booted foot. “Have you not listened to a
thing I’ve been saying? You seem to forget that the vermin who spawned this
child is loose in the desert. Of course, you could easily hide the murder of an
anonymous schoolgirl from the population. What would they care anyway? But you
could never hide it from her mother. And if, in her wrath, the green whore
decided to throw her army of demons and monsters at Providence, then what? What
defence have we ever had but the Serpent’s own daughter? And you want to cut
the little bitch’s throat? Talk sense, man!”

“The hostage is not our only defence, Excellency,”
the principal corrected. “The Lord Abaddon, they say, is assembling a
formidable host in the desert. He desires the destruction of the Witch as much
as we do—”

“Because he desires her power,” the Protector
interrupted.

“And once he has destroyed her,” the principal
carried on unperturbed, “think what an ally he would be. His army could rid us
of all the traitors and partisans of the Witch and turn Providence into the
most impregnable citadel, the hub of the greatest power the world has ever
known.” The principal’s eyes glittered; his voice was loud and exalted.

The Protector eyed him coldly. “So, you would have
me open the gates of Providence to Abaddon and his demons?”

“Demons, Excellency?” the principal objected in the
smoothest, most diplomatic way. “The Ignorants have certainly spread lies about
the Iron Horde, as they have about their filthy Serpent Witch, to create fear
and unrest among the population. But who has seen these demons? Of course The
Book makes great mention of the evil spirits that inhabit the desert, but
surely this can be taken in a, let us say, metaphorical sense, suitable to the
understanding of, how shall I put it, unformed minds?”

The Lord High Protector’s expression hardened.
“Stick to what you know, school-teacher. Go back to your maidens, give orders
to your matrons, timetable your sewing classes. But leave the defence of Providence
to men who have seen more than you have dreamt of in your worst nightmares.”

The principal bowed his head, but not before the
Protector had seen the furious glitter in his eyes.

“We must hope, then,” the principal said,
struggling to master his anger, “that her stay in your House of Correction will
not give the Serpent’s daughter rash ideas, and she will soon be able to take
up her sewing lessons again.”

“I should not have to remind you, Principal,” the
short man said hotly, puffing out his military chest, “that the girls in your
charge should be chaste, demure maidens with thoughts only of obedience and
motherhood. There should be nothing taught in your establishment that could
turn them towards bloody and traitorous rebellion.”

“I assure you—”

“Naturally,” the Protector interrupted, adding
graciously, “and your idea of bringing forward her betrothal, it’s a good one.
That brute of a boy Hector Deodato will see she dances to the right tune. So
get her out of the ridiculous mess you’ve organised and get her married. Right
away!”

“Excellency!” The principal bowed his way out of
the room, his white robes swishing the glistening stone flags like the tail of
an angry cat.

Zachariah
pushed the
door open to the deafening wail of the alarm siren. At the end of a short
corridor was another door, heavier than any he had so far encountered.
Listening carefully, he could hear the rumble of handcarts and the purr of
motor vehicles. The door opened onto the street and was certain to be guarded on
the outside. In any case, he had run out of keys.

At either side of the outer door were two high,
windowless rooms. The right-hand room contained wheeled baskets filled with
linen. Zachariah peered inside one of them; the smell was fresh, the linen was neatly
folded. Each basket was labelled with the name of a wing. He reckoned this must
be the linen store for the entire House of Correction.

He put his head around the door across the corridor
and wrinkled his nose: the smell was decidedly less fresh. The linen baskets
were brimming over with crumpled bedding and stained sheets. Large cloth bags
of dirty laundry were piled against the walls, stacked almost up to the
ceiling. There was scarcely enough empty floor space to manoeuvre the
heavy-wheeled baskets. The laundry
must
be due for collection.

Zachariah pressed his palms and his cheek against
the outer door and listened. The thick steel plate muffled the sounds from the
street outside, but what he could hear drove his heart into the pit of his
stomach. Hoarse laughter rang out intermittently amid the sound of tramping
feet. Heavy-shod boots kicked the door, followed by more laughter and swearing.
The footsteps tramped away, a commanding voice barked an order, the loud voices
died to a low murmur of discontent.

Guards. Disgruntled Black Boys. Zachariah closed
his eyes, and as the adrenaline subsided and the pent-up tension eased, he felt
like weeping.

The siren howled like a demon, filling the entire
prison with its call to search, search, and find. Zachariah clapped his hands
over his ears, but still he imagined the demon voice denouncing him, prying
demon eyes discovering his hiding place. Soon he would hear the sound of
marching boots in the corridor that led to the laundry. All Zachariah could do
was pray to whichever minor deity looked after escaping prisoners that today
was a washing day. There was nothing else for it; he had nowhere else to go. He
would have to go out with the dirty sheets and just hope the alert would not
interfere with the laundry timetable.

He was about to climb into one of the big baskets
when a thought struck him. The things were on wheels, but he couldn’t be
certain they ever left the prison premises. What if they were just unloaded
manually onto the carts he’d seen occasionally pulled by Ignorant workers?
They’d find him and turn him in. No Ignorant would risk his skin to help an
escaping prisoner. The Ignorants hated Providence people; it was a well-known
fact they’d like to see their Serpent Witch murder them all.

Grimacing because of the smell, he set about
emptying one of the cloth bags. Selecting the least stained and smelly sheets
and blankets he could find, Zachariah climbed inside the empty bag and padded
himself around as best he could. Then, pulling the drawstring inside, he tied
it firmly, pushed the ends back outside and settled down to wait for the
laundry cart.

The House of
Correction rang
with running footsteps, with clanging cell doors and angry shouts from the
guards as they searched for whatever or whoever it was had gone missing.
Deborah realised as soon as she stepped outside her cell and started to run
that she had no idea where she was going. At the end of her corridor she
hesitated. The terrible din of the siren seemed to increase, urging her to
hide—anywhere.

A door stood ajar—she peeped inside. The room
was empty except for a prayer mat on the floor and a table sprinkled with
crumbs from a chunk of bread abandoned next to a half-empty bottle and a dirty
glass. On the wall hung a guard’s jacket, and propped up next to it was the
long baton the guards carried on their rounds. She darted inside and closed the
door, shutting out the racket, aware for the first time of the excited pounding
of her heart.

Apart from the table, the room contained a small
narrow bed, a metal filing cabinet, and a washbasin, over which hung a medicine
cabinet with a broken catch. A quick look inside the filing cabinet revealed
little except a spare pair of boots and a few dog-eared bits of paper. She
opened the medicine cabinet. There was nothing in it but rolls of lint and
gauze, sticky tape, syringes, and a large bottle of disinfectant.

Well,
what did you expect?
she asked herself angrily.
A cloak of invisibility and the keys to the front door?
She was on
the point of giving way to panic when there was a bright flash of light that
blinded her to everything except the picture in her head. The picture showed a
half-familiar scene: white-coated men and women with cheerful expressions on
their faces moved briskly between small, neat rooms. In the rooms, people lay
in bed or sat up in armchairs. Some had legs in traction; others had the waxy
pallor and haggard features of the very ill. All smiled back at the
white-coated figures. Everything was white: the walls, the uniforms, the bed
linen, the patients’ faces. Hospitals must have been like this once, Deborah
realised, places where sick people went to be helped and cared for. And then
she had an idea.
 

* * * *

A guard trotted down the corridor, struggling with the buttons of his
too-tight jacket, a bewildered frown on his face. He had been told to search
for an escaped prisoner, but nobody had thought to give him a description. The
fugitive could have been anyone, a desperate Ignorant murderer armed with a
hatchet, or a blind, toothless grandmother accused of ration-card cheating. How
was he supposed to know? And where was there to hide in a prison anyway except
in a cell? There didn’t seem much point in breaking out of your own cell to go
and hide in somebody else’s, did there? He scowled at the stupidity of his
superiors, then at the improper sight heading towards him. A medical assistant,
a girl, carrying a tray of bandages was meandering in his direction as if she
was on a sightseeing tour.

“Here! Where d’you think you’re going?” he snapped,
blocking the girl’s path. “Haven’t you heard there’s a security alert?”

“I’m sorry,” Deborah replied sweetly, her downcast
eyes fixed on the tray she was carrying. “Our class is here learning first
aid.” She held up her tray full of packages of gauze and bandages, taking care
not to look the guard in the face. “They called for more dressings in the
infirmary, and I was sent. I seem to have lost my way.”

The guard frowned and stroked his beard
suspiciously. “The infirmary? You’re miles out of your way.”

Deborah’s imagination roared into top gear. “There
was a guard sent with me, but when that terrible siren started he dashed off
somewhere. I’ve been wandering around lost ever since.”

Still frowning the guard weighed up the girl. She
seemed harmless enough, with her gaze respectfully averted. And his heart was
not exactly in this wild goose chase after an escaped prisoner. His nose told
him this was a lucky break too good to pass up.
 

“Hmm. Well, you’ve no business being in this sector
at all. Look, it’s too complicated to explain. I’ll have to take you to the
infirmary.”

* * * *

The double doors of the infirmary swung open and closed constantly as
white-coated doctors hurried in and out, bustling past Deborah and her escort.

“Here you are, miss. I just hope the poor bugger
hasn’t bled to death.”
    

“And I hope I have not brought you too far from
your duties,” Deborah replied politely.

“Ah, don’t worry about me.” The guard grinned, and
Deborah guessed he was looking forward to a drink and the kind of job he could
understand. “Since I’m here I may as well report to the guard post on the main
entrance to the infirmary. They’ll be on duty now until nightfall. They might
be glad of an extra pair of eyes till then.”

“Won’t the guards be there all night?” Curiosity
got the better of prudence and the question blurted out.

“At the infirmary?” The guard snorted, not even
noticing the impropriety of the question. “We don’t guard the infirmary at
night. Those carcasses in there are so drugged up they wouldn’t stir if the
Serpent Witch herself came in and stuck lighted fireworks up their arses!” With
a guffaw of laughter, the guard clicked his heels, gave her a facetious salute,
and sauntered off.

Once the guard was out of sight, Deborah leant
against the wall and heaved a great sigh of relief. The Providence Black Boys,
of whatever rank and function, were notoriously brutal, callous, and cruel.
Most of the time they behaved like automatons, following orders blindly, simple
killing machines. The rest of the time they took a sadistic pleasure in their
work. Deborah had had the good luck to stumble across a bumbling idiot destined
for court martial and its unpleasant consequences.

The siren was still wailing with teeth-grinding
persistence as Deborah looked quickly down the corridor to the main staircase.
She bit her lip, thinking hard. There had to be another way out, a back stair
for the cleaning staff—Ignorants weren’t allowed to use the main
staircases. Did she have the nerve to simply walk through the infirmary to look
for it? Or would it be safer to find a better disguise than a tray of sticking
plasters? She decided to do both, just in case.

The infirmary doors were flanked by tall metal
lockers. She opened one and found it full of white gowns and boxes of facemasks
and rubber gloves. Voices from the infirmary grew louder, approaching the
doors. Fighting back the rising panic, she pretended to be looking for
something. She was pulling out gowns and rummaging in boxes when the doors
burst open and two doctors appeared. They stopped short when they saw her.

“What are you doing here?” The man’s voice was
sharp and cold.

Deborah leapt with fright sending the contents of a
box of rubber gloves spraying over the floor. She crouched down, grabbing at
the slippery things and trying unsuccessfully to stuff them back in the box.

“I asked you a question.”

She kept her eyes fixed on the mess on the floor.
“Th-the extra bandages,” she stammered. “You sent for them, for the infirmary.
I-I-I was sent to help.”

The two doctors looked at one another with raised
eyebrows.

“Not here, you weren’t, these are the men’s wards.
The women’s wards are through there.” He pointed to an identical set of doors
at the end of a long corridor. Deborah stuffed the box and the rubber gloves,
as well as her trembling fingers would allow, out of sight in the bottom of the
cabinet. Then she grabbed her tray with its assortment of vaguely medical items
that she was beginning to think looked about as useful as fairy lights at a
funeral.

“Excuse me,” she mumbled and bobbed a clumsy
curtsey. “I must have taken a wrong turn.” Trying not to run, she hurried in
the direction of the women’s ward.

The two doctors had not moved. Deborah could hear
them talking urgently, could feel their eyes on her back. The end of the
corridor seemed hopelessly far away, but she daren’t go any faster.

“Hey! You, girl!”

Deborah’s heart pounded with fear, but she kept on
walking, pretending she hadn’t heard, pretending they were calling somebody
else.

“I said stop! We want a word with you.”