Incarceron

Incarceron that had studied him curiously all his life.

Then the Crane-man rapped on the wood and the door opened. Fi

The room, if it was a room, was pitch-black.

Fi

The men stepped away, and he felt isolated, seeing nothing, touching no one.

Then, not very far in front of him, a voice spoke.

"We are all criminals here. Is that not so?"

It was a low, quiet question, modulated. He had no idea if the speaker was male or female.

Gildas said immediately, "Not so. I am not a criminal, nor were my forebears. I am Gildas

Sapiens, son of Amos, son of Gildas, who entered Incarceron on the Day of Closure."

Silence. Then, "I did not think any of you were left." The same voice. Or was it? It came from slightly to the left now; Fi

"Neither I nor the boy have stolen from you," Gildas snapped. "Another of our companions killed the animal. It was a mistake but—"

"Be silent."

Fi

Gildas drew in a breath of a

The central voice said heavily, "We are all criminals here. We are all guilty. Even

Sapphique, who Escaped, had to pay the debt to Incarceron. You too will pay the debt in your flesh and with your blood. Both of you."

Perhaps the light was growing, or perhaps Fi

He had never seen women so old.

Their skin was leathery with wrinkles, their eyes milky white. Each of them had her head lowered; as his foot scraped uneasily he saw how their faces turned to follow the sound, and he realized they were blind.

"Please ..." he muttered.

"There is no appeal. That is the sentence."

He glanced at Gildas. The Sapient was staring at some objects at the women's feet. On the steps in front of the first lay a rough wooden spindle, and from it a thread spilled, a fine silvery weave. It coiled and tangled around the feet of the second woman, as if she never moved from the stool where she sat, and hidden in its skein was a measuring stick. The thread, dirty by now and frayed, ran under the chair of the third, to where a sharp pair of shears leaned.

Gildas looked stricken. "I have heard of you," he whispered.

"Then you will know we are the Three Without Mercy, the Implacable Ones. Our justice is blind and deals only in facts. You have stolen from these men, the evidence is presented."

The middle crone tipped her head. "You agree, my sisters?"

One each side, identical voices whispered, "We agree."

"Then let the punishment for thieves be carried out."

The men came forward, grabbed Gildas, and forced him to his knees. In the dimness

Fi

"It wasn't us!" Fi

The three identical faces seemed deaf as well as blind. The central one raised a thin finger; a knife blade glimmered in the darkness.

"I am a Sapient of the Academy." Gildas's voice was raw and terrified. Drops of sweat stood out on his forehead. "I will not be treated like a thief. You have no right..."

He was held in a rigid grip; one man at his back, another grasping his tied wrists. The knife blade was lifted. "Shut up, old fool," one of them muttered.

"We can pay. We have money. I can cure illnesses. The boy ... the boy is a seer. He speaks to Sapphique. He has seen the stars!"

It came out like a cry of desperation. At once the man with the knife paused; his gaze flashed to the crones.

Together they said, "The stars?" The words were an overlapping murmur, a wondering whisper. Gildas, gasping for breath, saw his chance. "The stars, Wise Women. The lights

Sapphique speaks of. Ask him! He's a cell-born, a son of Incarceron."

They were silent now. Their blind faces turned toward Fi

Crane-man shoved him forward so that she touched his arm and grabbed it. Fi

She groped down his arms, over his chest, reached up to his face. He wanted to break away, to shudder, but he kept still, enduring the cool, rough fingers on his forehead, over his eyes.

The other women faced him, as if one felt for them all. Then, both hands pressed against his chest, the central Justice murmured, "I feel his heart. It beats boldly, flesh of the Prison, bone of the Prison. I feel the emptiness in him, the torn skies of the mind."

"We feel the sorrow."

"We feel the loss."

"He serves me." Gildas heaved himself up and stood hastily. "Only me. But I give him to you, sisters, I offer him to you in reparation for our crime. A fair exchange."

Fi

Gildas turned. He was a small shrunken shape in the darkness, but his eyes were hard and crafty with sudden inspiration, his breathing ragged. He looked meaningfully at the ring on Fi

The three crones turned to one another. They did not speak, bur some knowledge seemed to pass between them. One cackled a sudden laugh that made Fi

"Shall we?"

"Should we?"

"Could we?"

"We accept." They spoke it in unison. Then the crone on the left bent and picked up the spindle. Her cracked fingers spun it; she took the thread and pulled it out between finger and thumb. "He will be the One. He will be the Tribute."

Fi

The second sister measured the thread, a short span. The third crone took the shears.

Carefully she cut the thread and it fell silently in the dust.

"The Tribute we owe," she whispered, "to the Beast."

KEIRO AND Attia reached the City just before Lightsout, the last league on the back of a wagon whose driver never even noticed them. Outside the gate they jumped off.

"Now what?" she whispered.

"We go straight in. Everyone else is."

He strode off and she glared at his back, then ran after him.

There was a smaller gate, and to the left a narrow slit in the wall. She wondered what it was for, then she saw that the guards were making everyone walk through it.

She looked back. The road was empty. Far out in the silent plain the defenses waited; high above, what might have been a bird circled like a silver spark in the dim mists.

Keiro pushed her forward. "You first."

As they walked up, the guard ran a practiced eye over them, then jerked his head toward the slit. Attia walked through. It was a dim, smelly passageway, and she emerged in the cobbled street of the City.