Scar Night Page 0,150
one had appeared to collect the bowls. There had been a jug of water, too, but it was empty now. She was thirsty, but so was Carnival. And Carnival would drink first.
For a time Rachel tried to focus, to send her mind far away—to the smoke-mist forests of Shale, to Spiral Hill in Clune with its whitewashed houses and terraced gardens daubed with children’s colours—to the places she used to dream about as a girl. She tried desperately, throwing herself into these forced dreams. But the images were always elusive. Inexorably, the chain at her ankle pulled her back.
She had extinguished the lantern to conserve oil. In the darkness she thought she spied her cellmate’s shape, but that might just be a trick of her eye. Carnival had remained wrapped in sullen silence for hours. Only the sound of her breaths reached over the space between them. They were short, shallow, and hungry.
“Carnival?”
No answer.
“How long now?”
The reply came through clenched teeth. “Why should I warn you?”
Carnival’s detachment from her own hunger had cracked. Now anger welled through to fill the gaps. She had become irritable, introverted, drawing inwards like a coiled spring.
“A day?”
“Less.” A lash of air buffeted Rachel as Carnival whipped out her wings and drew them back. The angel inhaled sharply, then rasped, “Try the bars again.” Her voice was tense. “Try…hard.”
Rachel rose unsteadily, aches and pains brawling for attention, and felt her way along the wall to the iron grate. The chain slithered over the flagstones behind her. Her hand closed on one of the bars, then she jammed her shoulder against the metal frame and pushed, straining her muscles until she cried out in pain.
The iron did not yield.
Breathless, she slumped to the floor. “It’s hopeless.” She pounded a fist against one of the bars.
Carnival’s breathing quickened audibly.
“Why?” Rachel said. “Why leave us here like this? If they wanted to watch you kill me, then where are they?”
“Not them,” Carnival hissed. “It.”
“Ulcis?”
“I don’t know,” Carnival snapped. “Stop talking, shut up!”
Rachel pulled herself upright. She gripped the bars again and wedged both feet against the lintel. With every ounce of her strength, she heaved.
Nothing.
Gasping, she tore herself away. “If we both try…”
Carnival growled.
“Help me!”
Rachel sensed movement. A scuff, a rattle of chain. Suddenly a hand gripped her wrist.
How did she…?
“Don’t,” Carnival hissed in her ear, “order me.”
“You’re hurting me.”
“Yes.”
Rachel’s breath felt thick in her chest, the darkness around her impenetrable, seething with malice. She reached for her sword, then paused. They had taken her sword, of course—and her knives, darts, and poisons. Even the bamboo tubes with the horrors they contained. Without her weapons she felt naked.
Finally the pressure on her wrist eased. She heard Carnival move away, dragging her end of the chain to the far side of the cell.
“Can I ask you a question?” Rachel said.
“No.”
“Have you ever given a rat to a beggar?”
“What?”
“Forget it.” Rachel rubbed her swollen ankle, then continued, “I met this blind man once, a Glueman, who said you’d given him a rat and told him it was lamb.”
“You believed him?”
“No…I don’t know.”
“Why not?” Carnival snarled. “I’ve done worse. I’ve killed beggars and drunks and whores, nobles and soldiers and children.” She let out a low hiss. “Even Spine.”
“You must have been lonely.”
Silence.
“Talk to me.”
“You think that will save you? It won’t.”
“Fine.” Rachel fumbled for the lantern, spun the flint-wheel. “If you’re going to kill me, I at least want to see your face.”
The cell brightened. Fingers of shadow reached into the passageway beyond the grate. Carnival twisted away and hid her face from the light.
“If you won’t talk,” Rachel said, “I will.”
“I don’t give a damn.”
“As long as I bleed when the time comes?”
Carnival flinched.
Rachel swallowed a pang of regret at her outburst. She foundered for a moment, trying to find a place to begin. At last she said, “My father was a good man. No tears there. My mother died when I was eight, we don’t know why. She got sick. Life twists like that.”
“Shut up!” Carnival snarled. “Do you think I want to listen to this?”
“I don’t care.”
Carnival sank into silent fuming.
“Our family has a townhouse in Ivygarths. A garden with a scraggy tree and a pond full of weeds. Nothing grand. I played with the other officers’ children. We scrumped apples, terrorized ants, made the smaller boys eat newts—the usual stuff.”
Carnival had drawn herself into a knot, her face buried in her knees, arms wrapped around herself.
“Father was always away with the navy, always on some perilous