Read Online The Seal of the Worm by Adrian Tchaikovsky - Free Book Online
Authors: Adrian Tchaikovsky
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solid-framed people who dwelled almost everywhere in the world above and could endure anything.
Even this, this abyss, this slavery, they could endure. Abruptly it no longer seemed such a virtue.
Messel had stopped, brought to a halt by the sheer force of that massed regard; those he had led here clustered behind him, hands to weapons, unsure whether they would be welcomed or attacked or simply ignored. The air breathed with the sounds of the bellows, crackled with the distant molten metal, rang with hammers. Those at work had not paused for this novelty. They had quotas to make, perhaps, and from Messel’s account they had masters who would tolerate no slacking.
And there were young children, Che noted. They crowded around the legs of adults of all kinden –Woodlice offspring, infant Mole Crickets, Moth children and eyeless pale children and more. Many pairs of arms had a child in them, men and women both, and there was a profusion of toddlers. A surprising number of the women showed some visible stage of pregnancy. All the most natural thing in the world, save for how quiet the children all kept, and yet some part of Che’s mind was making a calculation, sensing that the mathematics behind what she was seeing here were wrong.
Messel spoke, not loud, but there was precious little competition from his audience. ‘Well, will nobody welcome me?’ He had his long hands spread, inviting censure or approbation, or anything other than this endless silent stare.
‘What have you brought, Messel?’ The speaker was a Moth woman, though it took a moment for Che to pick her out from the crowd. She bore a staff, just a plain length of worked chitin, but apparently this was all that was needed to be marked as headwoman of Cold Well.
‘Strangers,’ he replied evenly, seeming to brace himself.
‘There are no strangers.’
‘Strangers,’ Messel repeated, more firmly. ‘From outside.’
A dreadful murmur went through everyone there, as though he had said something terrible, broken some unspeakable taboo. Che saw plenty of heads shaking in outright denial: there is no outside. How many generations of their ancestors had been sealed away down here?
And then she asked, out loud though she had not intended to, ‘Why are there so few children?’
In the echo of her words, all eyes were upon them.
‘Che, they’ve got the little maggots underfoot all over,’ Thalric pointed out tactfully.
‘But the older children,’ she replied. ‘So many babies and . . . look.’
And she was right, of course: that was what had been nagging at her. All those babes in arms, and yet few children who were older than three or four. Even as she said it, she felt a crawling sensation inside her that no matter how barren and bleak this place had shown itself to be, there was an unplumbed depth of terrible revelation just waiting for her.
One thing she had achieved: even to ask the question – the answer to which was surely a constant burden to all here – had established their credentials.
‘Outside,’ the Moth woman repeated, staring.
This time Che actually heard someone say it: ‘There is no outside. It’s a lie.’
‘Speak to them,’ Messel insisted. ‘Where is the Teacher? Has he come? He must see them.’
‘Wandering,’ the Moth replied dismissively.
‘No, he must be here,’ Messel insisted, too loud. ‘I sent . . . he was to come . . .’
‘Well, he has not come,’ the woman spat derisively, and it was plain such a failure to appear matched her general opinion of this ‘Teacher’. ‘Bring them after me. I will speak to them. There is no avoiding it. Messel . . .’ She hissed, sharp and distinctive, and Che guessed it was to convey the glower that he could not have seen. ‘This will fall on your head, the consequences of this.’
Their blind guide spread his hands again. The division between these two was plainly an old one.
The Moth turned round sharply, and the other dwellers of Cold Well got out of her
Even this, this abyss, this slavery, they could endure. Abruptly it no longer seemed such a virtue.
Messel had stopped, brought to a halt by the sheer force of that massed regard; those he had led here clustered behind him, hands to weapons, unsure whether they would be welcomed or attacked or simply ignored. The air breathed with the sounds of the bellows, crackled with the distant molten metal, rang with hammers. Those at work had not paused for this novelty. They had quotas to make, perhaps, and from Messel’s account they had masters who would tolerate no slacking.
And there were young children, Che noted. They crowded around the legs of adults of all kinden –Woodlice offspring, infant Mole Crickets, Moth children and eyeless pale children and more. Many pairs of arms had a child in them, men and women both, and there was a profusion of toddlers. A surprising number of the women showed some visible stage of pregnancy. All the most natural thing in the world, save for how quiet the children all kept, and yet some part of Che’s mind was making a calculation, sensing that the mathematics behind what she was seeing here were wrong.
Messel spoke, not loud, but there was precious little competition from his audience. ‘Well, will nobody welcome me?’ He had his long hands spread, inviting censure or approbation, or anything other than this endless silent stare.
‘What have you brought, Messel?’ The speaker was a Moth woman, though it took a moment for Che to pick her out from the crowd. She bore a staff, just a plain length of worked chitin, but apparently this was all that was needed to be marked as headwoman of Cold Well.
‘Strangers,’ he replied evenly, seeming to brace himself.
‘There are no strangers.’
‘Strangers,’ Messel repeated, more firmly. ‘From outside.’
A dreadful murmur went through everyone there, as though he had said something terrible, broken some unspeakable taboo. Che saw plenty of heads shaking in outright denial: there is no outside. How many generations of their ancestors had been sealed away down here?
And then she asked, out loud though she had not intended to, ‘Why are there so few children?’
In the echo of her words, all eyes were upon them.
‘Che, they’ve got the little maggots underfoot all over,’ Thalric pointed out tactfully.
‘But the older children,’ she replied. ‘So many babies and . . . look.’
And she was right, of course: that was what had been nagging at her. All those babes in arms, and yet few children who were older than three or four. Even as she said it, she felt a crawling sensation inside her that no matter how barren and bleak this place had shown itself to be, there was an unplumbed depth of terrible revelation just waiting for her.
One thing she had achieved: even to ask the question – the answer to which was surely a constant burden to all here – had established their credentials.
‘Outside,’ the Moth woman repeated, staring.
This time Che actually heard someone say it: ‘There is no outside. It’s a lie.’
‘Speak to them,’ Messel insisted. ‘Where is the Teacher? Has he come? He must see them.’
‘Wandering,’ the Moth replied dismissively.
‘No, he must be here,’ Messel insisted, too loud. ‘I sent . . . he was to come . . .’
‘Well, he has not come,’ the woman spat derisively, and it was plain such a failure to appear matched her general opinion of this ‘Teacher’. ‘Bring them after me. I will speak to them. There is no avoiding it. Messel . . .’ She hissed, sharp and distinctive, and Che guessed it was to convey the glower that he could not have seen. ‘This will fall on your head, the consequences of this.’
Their blind guide spread his hands again. The division between these two was plainly an old one.
The Moth turned round sharply, and the other dwellers of Cold Well got out of her
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