Tribute by Ellen Renner

they do to you  …  Lady?’
    The thief watches me. Her face is impassive but her voice taunts. It feels like being slapped. I take a deep breath. I didn’t know till now that Twiss hates me.
    â€˜Will they kill you for playing traitor?’ The child’s voice hisses through the darkness.
    â€˜Squash the air from your lungs or suck the water out of you so you die slowly, twisted up in pain like a cockle-fish? Heat the bones in your body so you cook inside out? Peel your skin layer by layer?’
    â€˜They won’t kill me.’ I fight to stay calm, but I feel the blood drain from my face, leaving me giddy and weak. I’ve rehearsed this moment, but pretend is never the same as real. Twiss is right: I can’t stay in the palazzo. But I can’t rescue the blacksmith. Or Aidan!
    At the thought of the Maker, my heart begins to thud painfully. I’m abandoning him and his Tribute child. But I have no choice – I’m his only chance. I must escape, find the remaining Knowledge Seekers, get help. If I’m caught  …  The feeling of helplessness shreds the last of my self-control. I’m near to tears.
    â€˜I
cannot
help you.’
    â€˜Then die!’ The child spins on her heel.
    I stop her mid-stride, fastening the girl’s bare feet to the wooden floor with a swift thought.
    â€˜Devil’s spawn! Mage!’ Twiss struggles, spitting with fury, but her feet remain stuck.
    How can I convince her? I take a deep breath. ‘I’ll bargain with you.’
    The child glares at me with suspicion.
    â€˜I will mind-search for him. See if he’s alive. But that means I’ll have to leave my body. You’ll have to guard it. Can I trust you?’
    â€˜Find Bruin!’
    â€˜This is dangerous. I could be detected.’
    â€˜Then be careful!’
    With a sigh, I release the thief. ‘Very well.’
    I settle back onto my bed and stare at the marble inlay of the high ceiling, trying to ignore the chill of the room and compose myself. I never enjoy sendings. There’s always the chance that my consciousness might get lost and never find its way back. Pushing the thought away, I shut my eyes and concentrate.
    With surprising ease, a thread of awareness floats free and pauses for a moment, observing my body lying on the bed, watched over by a frowning, dirty child. I concentrate on my memory of Bruin and direct the sending towards the prison. If the smith is alive, he’ll be there.
    Nothing. Well, I hadn’t expected it. Bruin is probably dead. The thought fills me with sadness, but I push the emotion away. I can’t afford the distraction. And I don’t want to think about him as a person I liked and admired when I’m going to have to go now and look in the torture rooms. I anchor one end of my mind even more firmly to my body, then stretch myself thinner and thinner, until I become a slender wire of thought slicing through space, air and stone into the dark, airless cells of the prison.
    I whip through room after room, stretched so thin that I observe their contents without emotion, almost without thought. At last, I find Bruin  …  what remains of him. I check to make sure, then return to the child.
    I lurch upright, shaking with such violence that the bed shakes with me. My heart pounds and I gasp for air as though I’ve been swimming underwater. It isn’t only the strain of being out of my body. Now that my consciousness is unstretched, my head is full of what I’ve seen – pictures worse than my darkest imaginings. It’s all I can do not to be sick.
    I clench chattering teeth and watch Twiss. There’s no way to break the news gently and this child wouldn’t know what to do with gentleness anyway.
    â€˜He’s dead.’
    Incomprehension on the girl’s face.
    â€˜I touched him with my mind.’ I speak slowly, watching for understanding. ‘No life