Page 30 of The Book that Broke the World

Eventually Lutna had the guard—herself decorated like a work of art, every piece of armour and uniform worked to delight the eye—open a side door that gave on to bare stone steps leading down.

“What’s this?” A cold drawl of a voice, arched with its own superiority. “Lutna’s got herself a new pet?”

Celcha turned from the doorway to see two human boys standing side by side, both somewhat older than Lutna and both considerably bigger. In fact, it seemed that anything that could be said about one could be said about the other. Many humans appeared quite similar to Celcha but these two were identical. Doubles from the same litter. One held the lead of a short-haired dog, too small to be a hunter.

“What’s this one called, Lutna?” The boy without the dog strode up and grabbed a handful of Celcha’s neck fur. A palace guard stood behind him, and the richness of the boy’s garb, both in fabric and in colour and in ornament from buttons to buckles, left no doubt that he and his brother weren’t strangers to being beneath the queen’s roof.

“These are my cousins.” Lutna studied the floor. “Acran and Bastan.”

“Prince Acran!” Acran announced with some measure of outrage. He twisted his hand in Celcha’s fur and attempted to throw her to the ground. Celcha felt it sensible to let him and fell as far from the dog as she could. Even so, the beast flinched and barked.

“Your pet should say hello to our pet,” Bastan said, letting the lead slip.

Celcha narrowed her eyes at the dog and instead of advancing it retreated with a yelp and its tail tucked between its legs.

“Damn you, Mutters!” Bastan aimed a kick at it and the dog scampered back, barely avoiding the blow.

“She’s not my pet.” Lutna kept her eyes on the ground.

“Not yours?” Acran’s grin, which had been ugly to start with, turned uglier. “Then she’s mine. Can’t have a slave without an owner running around Grandma’s palace!” He stared down at Celcha out of deep-set little eyes that were as hard and bright as buttons. “Come here.”

Celcha knew she should be scared. Scared was good. It kept you alive. Instead, a hot anger bubbled up through her. She made to stand, trying to keep the snarl from her mouth.

A foot in a slipper sewn with silver descended on her shoulder, keeping her on hands and knees. “Come here like the animal you are, new pet.”

Celcha had suffered far worse humiliation before, but somehow it had been easier to take back at the dig. The fact that her guards shared some of the hardship of life on the plateau in no way excused them, but even so, the rage that trembled through her had to owe something to the luxury on every side and the fact that it was a child doing this. She pressed the anger into the cold ball of hate that sat deep in her chest, that had sat there year after year. The ganar were not warriors. They waited their moment.

On hands and knees, she crawled towards the young prince, wondering how long it would take this bored child to grow bored with torturing her.

Lutna, bound by very different chains to the ones that held Celcha captive, suddenly broke free of her paralysis with an anguished shriek. “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” She flew at Acran, hands clawed. He shoved her back hard enough to slam her into the wall save for the quick reflexes of her guard.

“Acran, Bastan!” A tall dark figure down the corridor. “Do stop that.” The individual, an exceptionally tall and very thin male human, wore a deep purple tunic with just the occasional silver button. A functionary of some sort, Celcha judged.

“Why should we?” Acran turned with a pout on his reddening face. “It’s just a ganar.”

“It is,” said the man, staring disapprovingly from beneath thin eyebrows. “But it’s one of the library’s ganar, and the head librarian is very protective of her staff. So, unless you’d like a visit from your great-aunt, I would suggest finding another game to play, Prince Acran.”

Acran scowled, eyes glittering with the kind of hate that’s hard to understand in one with a life so filled by privilege and plenty. He stepped forward and delivered a vicious kick to Celcha’s ribs before striding down the hall, followed by his laughing brother.

Celcha got to her feet, hugging her side, and went quickly through the open door, into the bare stairwell that smelled faintly of stale bodies.

“Celcha,” Lutna called after her miserably.

“Come on.” Celcha went down the steps, leading though she didn’t know the way. All she knew was that she’d seen enough of the queen’s wealth and was more interested in what lay beneath it all.

Kings in their castles, peasants bent within hovels, each given cloth to fit the measure of their purse. But to exist within a space is not to inhabit it. The king may rattle through his halls, present only where and when he steps. The serf might fill the day from dawn till dusk, from horizon to horizon, from muddy toes to spangled sky.

The Prince and the Purpose, by T. S. Davies

CHAPTER 15

Celcha

The many storeys and rooms of the royal palace that lay above ground were supported and maintained upon a subterranean network which might boast an even greater number of chambers, though none of them as large or ornate as the meanest privy above. In these rooms the servants laboured, most of them human, a few canith working the heavier machinery like the iron mangles in the laundry or hauling half a cow carcass from the cold room to the kitchens.

The lowest level housed the ganar, the slaves who served the servants, carrying out the dirtiest and most dangerous jobs. Ganar were sent to replace tiles on the highest tower roof, to unblock the sewers, to tend the palace gas junction from where the multitude of crystal lamps and open fires drew their breath. And some few attended the royal children.

“It’s mostly because of the queen’s father. Back when he was king, he had ganar attend his daughters. And when a king does something, all the aristocracy do it too.” Lutna looked apologetic. “It’s because of your fur. The little ones like to hug you. They say you’re like little bears, only you don’t bite.” She bit her lip. “Sorry.” She looked as if she was perhaps regretting bringing Celcha here. As if her own memories of hugging her ganar nursemaids were turning sour even as she looked at Celcha’s narrowed eyes and at the scars beneath her fur catching the lamplight where they reached around her shoulders.

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