Masks (20 page)

Mara’s captor slid out of his saddle. “The Warden?” he said.

The man who had taken the reins nodded toward the gate, and as if on cue, another man emerged. He wasn’t a Watcher: though his trousers and boots were black, his long coat, trimmed with glossy brown fur, was red: his Mask was Watcher-black, but spiral patterns of red marked each cheek.

Behind the Warden she could see a broad, straight path of crushed stone leading between rows of long, low log buildings toward a few larger structures at the far end of the camp, including an impressive stone house with tall glass windows and a colonnaded porch. Halfway down the camp, off to the right of the low arched bridge that she guessed carried the road over the stream, she saw a wood-and-metal framework and thought she caught the white splash of water. A sound like continuous distant thunder rumbled through the camp.

Half a dozen Watchers walked slowly up and down the central path. She saw no one else.

Dread made her stomach clench.
What’s it like inside those low buildings? And what is that strange tower?

“Cantic,” said the Warden, and for the first time she knew the name of the man who had found her in the hut. “I see you brought me more than just the . . .” he glanced at Mara, “. . .
harvest
from Rocky Top.”

Cantic grunted. “I brought you
less
. There was no ‘harvest’ at Rocky Top.”

Behind his Mask, the Warden’s mouth twisted into a frown. “The harvest has never failed on Rocky Top.”

“It did this time.” Cantic pointed at Mara. “I found
her
instead. She’s one of your runaways from the wagon.”

The Warden’s lips pressed together, then he spat, “Get her down.”

Cantic turned to Mara, but before he could pull her down from the mule, she slid down herself, gasping a little from the pain of her abused legs, buttocks, and thighs, but determined to stand on her own.

The Warden strode forward and grabbed her arm so hard she gasped again. “Where are the others? Where are they hiding?”

“I–I don’t know,” Mara stuttered. She remembered what Catilla had said about the impression the unMasked Army had hoped to leave. “We were attacked. The wagon turned over, the doors came open . . . we got out, and we saw these . . . wild men. Without Masks, all dressed in furs and rags, like . . . something out of olden times. They murdered the Watchers. It was horrible. We all scattered. I ran into the woods. I don’t know if anyone else got away. If they didn’t, those wild men . . .” She shuddered, she hoped convincingly. “I hope they got away,” she finished in a small voice, trying to sound as young as she could. “But even if they did, they could be dead. If I hadn’t seen the hut up on top of that ridge, I’d have frozen to death.”

She gave the Warden her best innocent-little-girl look, one she’d practiced often on her father. Although she had to admit it hadn’t ever worked very well on him.

It didn’t work on the Warden, either. “Your clothes,” he said. “They are not what the unMasked wear when they are sent here.”

Her heart leaped and she was suddenly glad for the day’s muddy ride. The clothes the unMasked Army had given her couldn’t look like much, not in the fading light and splattered with muck. “They’re what I was given,” she said. “I don’t know why. You’d have to ask the fat man . . .” she gave another shudder; this time it wasn’t at all hard to make it convincing, “in the warehouse in Tamita. He said he wanted to draw me wearing them.”

The Watcher studied her for a moment. She couldn’t tell if he believed her. “What’s your name?”

For a moment Mara considered lying; but there seemed little point.
Besides
, she thought,
maybe if he realizes I’m the daughter of the Master Maskmaker, he’ll . . .

...what? Give me special treatment?

The thought made her feel oddly ashamed. But she couldn’t help hoping it was true.

“Mara,” she said.

“Mara Holdfast, Daughter of the Master Maskmaker,” the Warden corrected. He leaned close. “You were wise not to lie to me,” he said, voice cool. “Your face is unmarked. I knew who you were the moment I saw you up close. I had word ahead of the wagon.”

Mara nodded, her throat closed off by sudden fright.

The Warden straightened again. “And the others? Alita? Prella? Kirika? Simona? Grute? What of them?”

“I don’t know,” Mara said. “After I ran . . . in the woods . . . I got lost . . . I couldn’t find any of the others . . .” She let her lip tremble, let the beginning of a sob creep into her voice, found it was far too easy, and had to fight hard to keep it from turning into full-on weeping. If she started bawling, she might never stop.

“Hmmm.” The Warden released her arm and stepped back. “Building three,” he said to the nearest Watcher. “Tell Hayka to look after her.”

“Come on, you,” the Watcher commanded, and pulled her through the gate into the camp.

The sun had just slipped behind the hills, plunging the camp into chilly shadow. Lights glowed in the windows and smoke rose from the chimneys of the long, low log buildings that Mara passed between, a dozen in all, six on one side and six on the other of the central path. A few other buildings, on the far side of the stream, loomed dark and unlit in the twilight, but bright lamplight gleamed through the big glass windows of the stone house at the path’s far end and the two-story wooden structures to either side of it. It all looked peaceful and cozy, but Mara was quite certain it wasn’t.

Lamps also hung from the strange framework of wood and iron, and in their light Mara could now see that the frame suspended the largest water wheel she’d ever seen, the source of the strange rumbling sound. Set inside a deep trench, it slowly revolved as the stream poured over it in a constant foaming waterfall.

But she only caught a glimpse of it, for just as it came into sight, they reached the longhouse on the right that was the third building south of the stream. Her guard took a ring of keys from his belt, selected one, and unlocked the door. He pulled it open, then grabbed her arm and shoved her inside.

She found herself in a small square room containing two bunk beds, a rotund black stove, a tiny table, and a chair. Directly across from the door to the outside was another door, barred shut.

A woman lay in the upper bunk, sound asleep, only her long, tangled black hair visible. A second woman sat at the tiny table, knitting a woolen scarf. She looked up, needles frozen, as Mara made her abrupt entrance. Her lined, pinched face made Mara think at first glance she was elderly; but her brown hair, drawn back in a loose ponytail, had no gray in it Mara could see, and her eyes were clear.

She put down the needles and got to her feet. “Who’s this?”

The Watcher nodded at Mara. “New arrival, Hayka. Cantic just brought her in. Name’s Mara. Warden said to give her to you. And now I done it.” He turned and went out, closing and locking the door behind him.

Hayka came around the table. “New arrival, all by yourself? And brought in by a harvester?” She looked Mara up and down, taking in her mud-spattered clothes. Her eyes returned to Mara’s face, and narrowed. “You’re one of
them
, ain’t you?” she said sharply. “One of them what escaped?”

“Didn’t escape, did I,” Mara muttered. She’d only just met Hayka and already she didn’t like her, or trust her.

Hayka snorted. “You can say that again, baby girl. Nor will you.” She leaned closer, squinting in the dim yellow light. Her breath smelled of onions. “Your face . . .” She reached out a hand and cupped Mara’s chin; Mara tried to pull her head away, but Hayka’s grip tightened. “Unmarked! Lucky you. Or maybe not so lucky.” She leered. “Warden himself might be calling for
you
to warm his bed one of these cold nights.”

With a convulsive jerk, Mara pulled her chin free. Hayka laughed at her. “Fiery, are you? Won’t help. Watchers
like
that sort of thing. They’ll find you
interesting
. And interesting is always . . .
exciting
.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Here’s what’s what, girl. Me and Skriva, who’s up there,” she jerked her head at the woman in the bunk, who hadn’t stirred, “are trustees. We get this cozy little room, we get better food, we get warmer clothes, we get left alone by the Watchers, but only as long as there’s no trouble from anybody in
there
.” She jerked a thumb at the inner door, then leaned forward again, placing her face only inches from Mara’s. “So there won’t be any trouble. You understand? You’ll do what you’re told, when you’re told. You don’t talk back, to the Watchers, to me, to nobody. You work your skinny little butt off, is what you do, and if the Watchers want you up at the barracks or the Warden wants you up at the big house, you’ll go and make them very, very happy, and you’ll never complain, not to them, not to me, not to anyone. Because if you do . . .” Hayka’s hand came off her hip and lashed across Mara’s face, the slap knocking her head to one side and making her ears ring. She jerked her head back around, furious, hand clutching her stinging cheek. Hayka stuck a finger in her face. “Because if you do,” she snarled, “I’ll make your life even more of a hell than it’s going to be anyway.” She straightened. “But cheer up,” she said, showing her teeth in a death’s-head grin. “If you’re really good and cooperative for, oh, the next ten years or so—keep the Watchers and the Warden happy—maybe you’ll be made a trustee, too.” Bitterness tightened her voice. “Then you can enjoy
these
luxurious accommodations. More likely, of course, you’ll be dead before winter’s end.”

Mara felt herself trembling, but she kept her lips pressed together and said nothing. Hayka was of the same ilk as Grute, she understood that.
And look what happened to
him, she thought savagely. Her own cold-blooded fury surprised her.

“All right,” Hayka said. “First things first. Take off them clothes. They look pretty warm. They’re mine now. Won’t fit me, but there’s another trustee I know’ll trade me for ’em.”

Mara stared. “But I’ll freeze.”

Hayka snorted. “Not planning to send you naked into the mine. You’ll wear these.” She knelt beside the bunk and pulled out from under it a rough wooden box. She rummaged in it, then held up a gray tunic and trousers. “Strip, and put ’em on. You can keep whatever underwear you’ve got. After the first snow, you’ll get a coat. Not before.”

Cheeks flaming, Mara took off the mud-caked clothes that she’d donned fresh and clean in the Secret City what seemed like a lifetime ago. The rough gray cloth of the prison clothes scratched her arms and legs as she pulled the tunic and trousers on over her drawers and undershirt. At least her new clothes seemed to be clean. Hayka tossed her dirty clothes in a corner. “Now we’ll find you a bunk.” She turned and unbarred the inner door, then swung it open. “In you go.”

Mara stepped through into a long, shadowy,
cold
room lined with bunk beds. At its center a small fire flickered in a round fire pit. Girls and women huddled around the pitiful flames. Most looked young, a few years older than Mara at most. Only one or two looked as old as Hayka. And she saw no one older.

She didn’t think that was a good sign.

A low murmur of conversation died away. Thin, pale faces turned to stare at her: not exactly hostile, but not exactly friendly, either. More like they were sizing her up. Judging her.

Trying to decide how I’m going to shake things up
, she thought.
Trying to decide if I’m friend or foe.

She didn’t feel like either friend or foe at the moment: all she felt was sore, hungry, cold, thirsty, frightened, and tired. Tired to the depths of her soul.

Hayka grabbed her arm and dragged her to the fire pit. “This here’s Mara,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll make her welcome.”

A woman just a little younger than Hayka, but a lot thinner and uglier, with deep red scars slashing across her face, grabbed Mara by the upper arms. “I’ll make her welcome.” Her callused hands flicked all over Mara’s body, as though looking for something to steal, but the pockets of Mara’s new clothes were as empty as her stomach. “Dammit, she’s got nothing.” The woman poked at Mara’s rather flat chest and laughed. “Nothing at all.”

“Don’t think that’ll save you,” said a third woman, a little younger, with a face that might once have been pretty but now had the hard-edged look of something carved out of ice.

Mara looked around at the other women. Some openly sneered at her, but a few, the youngest, the ones closest to her own age, wouldn’t meet her eyes at all. One girl, sitting cross-legged on the floor with her hands on her ankles, rocked back and forth, eyes closed, humming a tune Mara recognized as a lullaby . . .

A lullaby Mara’s mother used to sing to her when she couldn’t sleep.

She swallowed a sudden lump in her throat, then was jerked around to face Hayka again. “You take the bunk down there.” She pointed to the far end of the long building, where there was another door. “Farthest from the fire, so it’s coldest. Closest to the latrine—through that door—so it smells. You want a better bunk, you earn it.” She pointed to herself. “By keeping me happy. We get meat once a week. Say you gave me your meat portion for a month. I might be able to find you a bed closer to the fire. Maybe you hear something, somebody saying something against me. You let me know so I can deal with it. Could earn you an extra blanket. You get the idea?”

Mara got it, all right. Like Grute, Hayka was somehow
broken
inside, and the Mask had known it when she was just fifteen.
This is what most of those whose Masks failed
used
to be like
, she thought.
But now . . .

She looked at the others. They couldn’t all be like Hayka and Grute. She remembered what Catilla had told her, how some of those whose Maskings failed had simply been . . . different. And then there were the youngest, the ones within a year or so of her age. Some of them must be like her, torn away from their parents on the biggest day of their lives, utterly shocked, utterly devastated, utterly bewildered by the failure of their Masks, not knowing why, not knowing the Masks had changed.