Page 57 of The Neverfear

‘Vile creature,’ she said.

Carla took a comb from her pocket and began untangling her long, soft hair, extracting the knots that had been blown into it by the wind. Her beauty looked as careless and natural as breathing. It was not. She refined it and polished it like a weapon; nothing about her face, clothes or hair was accidental.

Irian watched her. Carla seemed annoyed by her gaze.

‘It is not vanity,’ Carla said. ‘Beauty is a tool, a trap, a lure and a knife. People find it impossible not to think about it when they see it – which leaves them less space for other thoughts. It’s a form of power, to be beautiful.’ She smiled at Irian. ‘But you wouldn’t know.’

‘As you say.’

Carla clicked her fingers, and the stymphalian lay down behind her. She sat in the sand, and set her back against it.

‘How do you control the birds?’ said Irian. ‘I’ve never seen them act like that.’

‘I don’t. Astor Morax controls them. He has told this one to do whatever I wish, but it is under his command, not mine.’

‘Who is Astor Morax?’

‘The man who controls the birds, and the bandits. And myself.’

‘He controls you?’

‘In a sense, yes.’

‘You have told me a lot about yourself, these last days. Are you always this honest?’

‘No. Never. I tell nobody anything. But that gets exhausting eventually.’

‘Does it? I wouldn’t know.’

‘It does.’ Carla spoke in the same harsh, cold voice, entirely without self-pity. ‘It’s possible to die of silence eventually.’

‘Why are you telling me though?’

‘Oh, I would have thought that was obvious! In part because you’re going to die. Very soon now, I think. But largely, Irian Guinne, because I have won. And what is winning if you do not tell someone?’

She took from the stymphalian bird’s saddlebag a great length of iron chain and a knife. ‘I am coming into the cage. I am going to chain you.’ Irian made as if to dart past her, but Carla caught her arm, pointed the knife at her and turned to the bird. ‘If she moves a step, peck her to death.’

Carla bound her ankles close together with lengths of chain, and fastened one end to the bars farthest from the door.

‘That hurts,’ said Irian.

‘I know,’ said Carla. ‘I know.’

The Race Of Thieves

It was a long journey to Ceren and they made it at breakneck speed. Nobody slept more than a few hours at a time, or ate sitting down – but the last stages were thrilling. The island came in sight on the second day in the warm light of late afternoon: Christopher stood at the tiller, and Anya leaned over the edge, cheering, her new floor-length hair flying like a flag, both swords at her back.

‘Land ahead!’ she called, just as Jacques came fluttering up from the cabin. The dragon was, it was clear from thirty paces, furious.

‘The impudence!’

‘What?’

‘That … creature!’

Christopher followed the dragon’s look. An identical Jacques was perched on the railing, laughing.

‘The leshoki!’ said Christopher. ‘It must have stowed away!’