Ben stepped out. No thought. As the knife left his hand he knew that Vosper was dead. It flashed in the sun, turning once, turning twice – and between the turns one of the attendants screamed like a baby and stepped with a clickbeetle’s speed in front of Vosper. The knife struck him high in the throat. He fell at Vosper’s feet. The second attendant stepped over him with his arms flung wide, protecting his master.
The crier leapt down from the steps. Two of the soldiers shot. The bolts whizzed either side of Ben.
‘Kill him,’ shrieked the crier.
‘No,’ answered a piping voice. It stopped the crier, stopped the soldiers, it seemed to stop Ben breathing. All he could see was Vosper’s face, peering out from behind the attendant.
‘Leave him,’ Vosper said.
Ben turned to run and had gone one step when something struck a blow deep in his head, something sharp and blunt at once, piercing him and crushing him. He felt his mind go dark and he fell and lay in shadows. He knew what was happening and also did not know – knew that feet rolled him over, knew guards dragged him by his heels across the grass until he lay beside the man he had killed. He tried to crawl away but could not move.
‘Take this one away,’ said the Limping Man, prodding the dead attendant with his stick. Two of the bearers dragged the body behind the litter. The Limping Man prodded again, shifting the man in front of him.
‘Let me see this boy. Ha, one arm. I’m sorry for you, boy.
Did it hurt?’
‘Answer the Man,’ the crier bellowed.
‘Shh. Shh. He cannot,’ said the Limping Man. ‘I’ll untie you a little, boy. But you must be good.’
Ben felt the numbing darkness lift from his mind. He tried to crawl towards Vosper. He meant to kill him.
‘No, no,’ the Limping Man said. ‘Put your foot on him, Haggie. Try not to hurt him.’
The crier’s foot came down on Ben’s back, knocking the breath out of him.
‘Send the men to their barracks,’ the Limping Man said.
‘Master . . .?’
‘There are no more.’
‘The paths? The roof?’
‘None on the paths. None on the roof. You worry too much. Get rid of the men and then be quiet.’
The soldiers marched away, two of them dragging the attendant’s body, with Ben’s knife still in its throat.
‘Now,’ said the Limping Man, smiling at Ben with his pink mouth, ‘tell me who you are.’
It took all Ben’s strength to raise his head. He spat at the Limping Man. ‘Vosper,’ he croaked.
The Limping Man’s face darkened, but in a moment he smiled again as though at a child.
‘That used to be my name, boy. You learned it from my mother. And yours is . . .?’
Ben snarled, but suddenly, painfully, the darkness in his head increased, and he heard his voice whisper, ‘Ben.’
‘See, it pops out like a pip from a lemon. You can’t hide anything from me. You visited my poor mother, Ben, you and the girl. To find out what? Who I am? You think I have a secret. There’s no secret. People love me. They worship me. Did you know that? When I’ve wiped out your villages and killed the Dweller vermin in the north, the world is mine and I’ll give it to those who follow me. Will you follow me, Ben?’
Ben managed to shake his head. He did not know the sound he made, meaning no.
‘You’re a stubborn boy,’ said the Limping Man. ‘I had to kill my mother because of you. She sold me for a fat pigeon. Poor Queenie. But never mind. I have Blossom and Hubert and I have you. What a pity the girl ran away. My men found her footprints in the sand. Betrayal, Ben. She turned her back on you the way Queenie did on me. Women, you see. They’re good for nothing. But we’ll find her when we march north, and punish her. What’s her name, Ben?’
Ben could not help himself. He choked the name back but could not stop it.
‘Hana,’ he croaked.
‘Hana. Well, Ben, Hana will burn. Be sure of it. But you, you will drown. Tomorrow, in the square. The numbers grow, Haggie. What a day it will be. Blow for the boy. Let him hear my sound.’
The crier raised his trumpet and blew a rough-edged blast until his breath ran out.
‘Hear that, Ben? Your forests will ring with it. How can you not worship me? But you hate me still. I see it in your head, feeding like a worm. Let me get rid of it for you.’
No, Ben managed to think, and then the word made a wailing sound and faded away and in its place a picture grew: the Limping Man, his smiling face, his loving smile, his eyes blue like the sky, shining with the promise of happiness. Where was the word? Where was ‘no’? It had vanished. Instead there was ‘yes’. There was love instead. It splashed over him like warm water from a jug. He struggled to his knees in front of the glowing figure standing before him. Tears ran down his face as he cried his love.
‘Man,’ Ben cried. ‘Master,’ he cried.
‘There, you see, it’s easy. But that’s enough,’ the Limping Man said. ‘Tomorrow you will drown. I prefer to have you hating me, it pleases the crowd. So – tie him, Haggie.’
The crier bellowed, ‘Rope,’ and a man ran out of the barracks with a coil on his arm.
‘Tie him,’ the crier said. ‘Tight.’
The man fastened Ben’s elbows behind his back. He tied his ankles. Still Ben tried to see his master. In spite of the pain he cried his love.
‘Enough. Stop now, Ben. Let my men see the face of hatred.’
As suddenly as he had been mastered, Ben was free. This time the water that washed him flowed from a forest stream. The monstrous love fell away like dirt from his mind, leaving no hatred, only pity. He looked up at the Limping Man – the robes, the rooster’s comb, the weak eyes and baby’s mouth, and he thought, He’s stupid, Vosper is. How can I stop him killing everyone?
He said, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t stick you. But someone will.’
‘Not you, boy. No one, ever,’ the Limping Man said. ‘Bring him, Haggie. Put him with the others.’
He limped into his palace. The crier followed, dragging Ben by the rope that bound his feet. The bearers carried the litter away.
Hana heard the trumpet blow and feet tramp evenly on the path. Keeping back from the parapet, she raised herself high enough to see the Limping Man’s litter disappear into the scrub. Its colour dazzled her. The crier’s sword flashed in the sun. The soldiers’ jerkins gleamed like beetle wings. She knelt again. Her knees felt weak. How could anyone fight him? A boy with a knife and a girl with – nothing.
The roof was warm. She lay close to the ferns, ready to hide if she heard the hoist rumble. Ben was out there somewhere in the scrub. Or perhaps he had followed the Limping Man along the path, waiting for his chance. It would never come. Her eyes grew wet with pity – he was so full of courage that had no use. She knew that in the end Ben would attack, even if he had no chance. He would throw his life away.
‘Ben,’ she whispered.
She lay on the hot roof as the sun climbed up the sky. She would help him somehow. She would join him when he attacked and throw her own life away. But she must not be captured. Hana was terrified of being burned.
She thought of Mam – and Mam seemed to be watching her. Mam crooning a lullaby. Mam in the shelter, in the firelight, with Hana sitting between her knees; her fingers soft one moment, hard the next, as she picked lice out of Hana’s hair.
When Mam came to her this way, when Mam was watching, it was a caress. She felt it again – but differently, not tender, something sharp, cutting round her edges like a knife . . .
Hana sprang to her knees. She looked at the sky. Wiped her wet eyes. Looked again.
A small black dot was circling there.
‘Hawk,’ she whispered.
Hawk, she cried inside herself. Without thought she let herself go to him, as she had that first time on the hill. It was climbing a silver rope, it was changing her skin as she fitted behind his eyes. There was no greeting. That was not Hawk’s way. He was here. He was with her. That was all. It had to be her way as well.
She saw what he saw: the palace roof, herself kneeling with her face raised to the sky. She saw the scrub, the broken hand, the abandoned building on the cliff, with waves foaming on the rocks below.
Ben? Where’s Ben? she said.
Hawk swooped lower, searching the scrub.
Your wing? Hana said. But Hawk could only show what he saw. If he ever came to sit with her she would look at the wing and see how well it had healed. In the meantime he flew, that was enough.
Ben was lying on his side in the scrub. He seemed to be sleeping. The sun, at its highest, lit his legs and face. Hana wanted to go lower and see if there was a way of talking with him but Hawk turned away. She could not command him, he was not hers. He dived in a straight line down a zigzagging path, into a city she had never seen – not the burrows but the place Company had built – and there she saw people on a cleared piece of land and saw them kneeling to the Limping Man. He stood by his litter, with guards on either side. The crier paraded in front, bellowing, and the kneeling men shouted their response, which Hana heard faintly with
Hawk’s ears: ‘Man, Man, praise the Man.’
Higher, Hawk, she whispered. She did not want the Limping Man to notice him. He too wanted to leave this place. He flew over Ceebeedee and out over the plains, where men galloped horses and others marched in squadrons and bowmen shot bolts and arrows into targets. Hawk flew above the reach of arrows. He looped south over a city of tents with coloured roofs and pennants flying on poles. At noon the soldiers would make fires and cook their food. Their leaders would be resting now in their tents – the same eastern and southern chiefs Hana had seen in multi-coloured robes at the burning. She tried to spit at them but could not – she was Hawk up here, she was a guest. She felt his head turn and the Limping Man’s army slid away like a tray on a table. The speed of Hawk’s changed focus made her dizzy. He looked beyond the tents into a hollow between two hills, where something moved. It was a hare. She felt Hawk’s hunger, and felt her own, but knew she had no place in the kill.
Hawk, I’m going, she whispered. Come back soon. At once she was on the palace roof, with slate under her shins and her body stiff from kneeling. She searched the sky westwards but Hawk was not there. He was on the ground, between the hills, tearing his prey. She could almost taste the warm flesh. Hawk, bring me some, she whispered. She crept behind the ferns, out of the sun, and drank some water – almost her last. She searched for insects in the stalks. Meat, she thought. Please bring me some.
Below her the sentries tramped round and round the building. How did they keep going? Why didn’t they turn and walk the other way? Hana dozed and woke, dozed and woke, tormented by hunger. In spite of it she was happy – Hawk had come. She woke with a start from a dream in which he was searching, a dream in which he circled in the sky, crying forlornly. She crawled from her hiding place and lay in the sun. The stone roof burned but she stayed where he could see, wondering how many days he had spent searching as she and Ben travelled, as they slept in the cave and hid in Danatok’s house.
I’m sorry, Hawk.
Then, distantly, she heard a trumpet cry. The Limping Man was coming. She needed to see. Hawk, she called urgently. Whatever Ben planned, he would do it now. If she could see where he was there might be a way of helping him.
Ben, she called. There was no answer. His whole mind now was getting ready for Vosper. His whole mind would be in his knife.
Hana waited, watching for Hawk, feeling for Ben. Another trumpet blast: the Limping Man was close. She felt like an insect in a jar, knowing nothing of the world outside.
Feet tramped on the path through the scrub. They came to the palace door. She heard the litter creak as the bearers put it down.
Ben, don’t, she whispered – then tried to withdraw the words. Whatever he would do, there was no place in his mind for her. Hawk, she said, I need to see.
Three heavy bangs shook the palace. The crier’s voice bellowed, ‘Open for the Man.’ No sound of a door, but the swish of curtains opening. The Limping Man was stepping from his litter.
Hana waited. She pleaded for Hawk to come . . .
A grunt. Was that Ben? A scream like a seabird’s cry. The whirr of crossbow bolts and a shout from the crier: ‘Kill him.’ Then a small voice, a whistling, childish voice, saying, ‘No.’
How fast her brain was. She felt the bolts strike Ben, and strike her; but ‘no’ meant they had missed and he was alive. She had to see, and she raised her eyes again to the sky. Hawk was there. He found her as she found him. At once she climbed the silver rope and shared his eyes.
Everything was clear. She saw Ben lying face down, trying to crawl. She saw a small man dressed in black lying on the grass with a knife in his throat. She saw the buttons on his jacket and blood leaking into the cloth. He was meant to be the Limping Man. But the Limping Man leaned on his stick. He leaned and searched. She felt his mind rolling like a fog down the path and across the scrub; it climbed the palace walls and spread across the roof, over the toad-house and over her kneeling form as she stared at the sky. It ran over her and found nothing to touch. She had climbed the rope. Her mind was in the sky with Hawk.
Soldiers dragged Ben by the heels and laid him in front of the Limping Man. Hawk gave a twist of his tail, sliding across the scrub and sliding back.
Go down lower, Hana whispered. She wanted to hear what Vosper said. Was Ben speaking too? The crier stamped on him.
Lower, Hawk, please.
Hawk took no notice. There were times when he heard and times when he did not. He had fought for her in the forest but he would not go lower for Ben. So Hana left him; slid her mind down the sky into her own body. For a moment she was dizzy and stayed on hands and knees. Then she crawled to the parapet and hid in the ferns. She raised her head as Vosper, in his unbroken voice, said, ‘Hana will burn.’
How did he know her name? Had he plucked it from Ben’s mind? What else did he know?
The crier blew a long blast, making her ears ring. She heard only faintly what happened next – someone speaking. Then she heard Ben cry, ‘Man. Master,’ and she covered her ears to keep out the dreadful sound. The Limping Man had taken Ben’s mind. It was worse than killing him. It was like making Ben one of his toads.