Even after all this time, Nish was nowhere near conquering his claustrophobia, and it was with the greatest relief that he saw the wheel come into view, and the lighted entrance to the mine. It was morning. They’d searched all night.

A crowd near the entrance headed toward him as the basket stopped.

‘No sign of him,’ Flyn called.

‘Nor in the higher levels,’ a young miner said quietly. ‘We’d better go down to six.’

Nish climbed onto the edge of the basket, caught his foot, and almost went head first down the shaft. A big man dragged him to safety. Nish’s knees would no longer hold him up.

A dozen pairs of boots came toward him, then stopped. He looked up. The querist was there, Overseer Gi-Had, and many others he recognised. They parted and a short, round man came through. Nish’s heart almost stopped. How could he have gotten here so quickly? He must have travelled night and day for two weeks.

‘Get up!’ said Perquisitor Jal-Nish, his father. His voice sounded like the ore-grinding mill in the manufactory.

Nish levered himself to his feet and stood before his father. Jal-Nish was no more than forty, a good-looking man, for all that he had short legs like hams and a belly as round as a ball. He was taller than Nish, the one thing his son could never forgive him for. The perquisitor had a proud, arching nose; a neatly trimmed beard thrust perkily forward from his chin. His dark hair was thick and his eyes had a twinkle for everyone except those he interrogated. He could be a charming man when things were going well, though he had a ruthless streak.

There was no twinkle as he examined his son. No allowances would be made, Nish knew. His father was not that kind of man.

‘Well?’ said Jal-Nish.

‘We’ve searched the entire fifth level. There’s not a trace of her.’

‘What about her friend?’

‘No sign of Joeyn either.’

Jal-Nish’s wide mouth curved down in a bloodless slash. ‘You moron, Nish! I’m going to be scrutator one day, and not even your stupidity will stand in my way. It’s the front-line for you, son!’

SIXTEEN

Nish was interrogated by Jal-Nish and Fyn-Mah. It was like being whipped all over again, only worse. His father was coldly angry, Fyn-Mah reserved and efficient. Once, though, Nish noticed her staring out the window, clearly thinking about something else. She looked sad. What was it about her?

Later he was questioned together with Irisis, which he found even less comfortable. Twice she lied to his father with a completely straight face, then glared at Nish as if daring him to betray her. Irisis did not seem to care. It was as if she had a death wish.

She had admitted to harassing Tiaan, including planting the page from her journal and stealing her method of blocking the aura of controllers. Irisis flatly denied any of the other crimes with which she had been charged. Was she innocent, or would she, as before, only admit to a crime once it was proven against her? Nish rather suspected that she was guilty, and under interrogation he was forced to reveal that he doubted her. Irisis did not react to that either.

As the interrogation went on, Jal-Nish grew more and more frustrated. ‘She must be the spy,’ Nish overheard him whisper to Fyn-Mah during a break in the proceedings. ‘I’ve a good mind to put her in the Irons, to be sure.’

He meant a form of torture so hideous that it was rarely used even on the most recalcitrant of prisoners. Nish was shocked. If it came to that, he could not stand by.

‘I wouldn’t advise it, unless you’re certain she’s guilty,’ said Fyn-Mah. ‘Her mother is an old friend of the scrutator.’

‘No, no,’ Jal-Nish said hurriedly. ‘We won’t go down that path.’

He kept Nish and Irisis up all night, then sent them to the mine to help with the search. Nish, staggering along behind Fyn in a lather of pain and claustrophobia, did not even think of escaping. One fate worse than the front-line, in this world where everyone had their place, was to become an outlaw with no hope of rehabilitation.

They went through the mine down to the eighth level, until Nish, who had not slept for days, was like the walking dead. Joeyn’s body was found but not recovered, for the attempt brought down the rest of the roof, burying him, two miners and the fabulous vein of crystals under twenty wagonloads of rock.

Finding no trace of Tiaan, they began to question whether she had ever been in the mine. Two afternoons after Nish began it, the search was called off. The mine had to get back into production and every spare hand was needed to bolster the defences of the manufactory.

Nish humped stone until dark, when he had another blistering interview with his father.

‘You’ve blackened me in the scrutator’s eyes, boy!’ Jal-Nish growled. ‘I can’t forgive that.’

‘What are you going to tell my mother?’ It was Nish’s only trump.

The perquisitor, who had been pacing vigorously, stopped dead. The one thing he feared more than the scrutator’s wrath was the fury of his spouse.

‘Please give me another chance, father.’

‘You’ve disgraced the family,’ Jal-Nish said coldly. ‘In ordinary times I might have been lenient but this time I can’t, not even for your mother. You’ve turned Tiaan’s triumph into a disaster. If I let you off, the scrutator will think I’m as big a knave as you are, and where will we be then? I know Ranii will agree with me on this.’ He resumed his pacing, more anxiously than before.

Nish tried again but his father proved immovable. As soon as the weather cleared up enough to travel, Nish was to take ship to the front-lines, two hundred leagues north. There, in the unlikely event that he was not killed and eaten straight away, he would have an opportunity to rehabilitate himself.

Fortunately the weather showed no sign of abating its autumnal fury. Storms alternately lashed them with sleet, freezing rain, wet snow and frigid mist. For once Nish was grateful for it. He was lying awake on his pallet the following morning, listening to the wind rattle the roof slates as he waited for the gong to get up, when the whole wall shook. A second later there came a dull boom.

Earth tremblers were not uncommon here, and sometimes dangerous. Nish flew out of bed, scrambled into his boots and tore open the door. ‘What was that?’ he yelled to the guard standing outside.

‘I don’t –’

Another great smashing thud shook the manufactory. ‘That’s not an earth trembler,’ Nish shouted. ‘Something’s attacking the front gate. Quickly, man, to your post!’

The guard, well drilled as was everyone in the manufactory, ran for the gate. Nish, whose station was up on the wall, took a shortcut through the women’s dormitory, where scantily clad women (and occasional lovers) were falling over each other in their urgency to get dressed. The scene was much the same in the men’s sleeping hall.

‘Sleepers, wake!’ he roared. ‘The enemy is at the gates. Quick, quick!’

He continued up the other end, banging a stick on the doors of the workers important enough to have their own rooms. It amused him to see the condition of those who stumbled out, including his father.

Naked, still dazed from sleep, Jal-Nish was in no way the commanding figure he cut in his clothes. His belly quivered, and his lip. He kicked the door closed, though not before Nish saw Wickie, the young clerk from the bursar’s office, standing mouth agape.

Nish was shocked, to say nothing of disgusted. His own father! But there was no time for that now. Throwing the door open again he shouted, ‘The gates are attacked, perquisitor!’ deliberately using the title rather than his father’s name. A spasm warped Jal-Nish’s face, then Nish ran on.

Fyn-Mah hurried by, shepherding a gaggle of little children to safety. For the first time, her reserve had broken – she looked to be in pain.