Tribute by Ellen Renner

from him to Aidan. The Maker stands with his back to us both. But he’s listening. I feel his sense of betrayal. Of outrage. Worse: of hope sliding away and despair gathering.
    â€˜My father didn’t send me, Aidan. You can believe that or not.’
    I look up into the Guardian’s face.
    The worst has happened. My father will find out about my night-time visit to the Maker’s prison cell and the interrogation will begin. He invaded my mind once in order to catch me in a lie; I don’t doubt he will do it again if I can’t convince him that today’s spying on the Maker – and my visit to his cell – were motivated by simple curiosity.
    If.
    I close my eyes as nausea sweeps over me at the memory of what he did to me that night. Sweat beads on my forehead, my upper lip. I swallow hard, struggling not to be sick.
    Even if my father believes me to be merely disobedient, even if the secret of my heresy is safe for a while longer, the punishment for disobedience will be severe. At the very least I will be kept under constant watch for weeks and months. My usefulness to the Knowledge Seekers is finished.
    â€˜Zara?’
    I draw myself up. Lift my chin to look into the Guardian’s face. ‘I’m sorry.’ I choose my words with care. I have a slender chance. Do I?
    Otter watches me, his face once more unreadable.
    â€˜I was stupid,’ I say. ‘I’ve heard about the Makers my entire life. I just wanted to see one. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Please  … ’
    This is so hard. I’m not used to pleading. And it’s useless anyway. I don’t know why I’m bothering – Otter belongs to my father, mind and soul. But I ask anyway: ‘Please, don’t bother my father with this stupidity. He has important work to do and doesn’t need to be distracted with this.’
    â€˜I promise nothing, Lady.’ Inscrutable formality. His hand relents at last and releases my arm. I feel another bruise throb into life and rub at it vaguely as I peer up at him, trying to read my fate. There is nothing in his face to give me hope.
    â€˜A warning, Lady.’ The Guardian’s voice is cold certainty. ‘If you dare visit the prison at night again your father will find out. He will not be pleased. I suggest you hurry to attend your remaining lessons and think very long and carefully before you do anything quite so stupid again.’
    I back away, slowly; unsteady on my feet. I don’t know what, if anything, the Guardian has just offered, but every fibre of my being screams to be out of here, away from him. In the corner of my eye, I see Aidan turn around, surprise and confusion on his face. His eyes catch mine, then widen as he realises how close he came to betraying us both. Then, as that shock lessens, I feel his hope return.
    I turn my back and run. Out of the attics, down the servants’ stairs and out of the palazzo, my robes flapping behind me like broken wings. Terror of Benedict nips at my heels. But even in my fear, the image of the Maker comforting the Tribute boy is branded in my mind.
    Don’t hope, Maker! I’m useless now. I’ve failed you. Failed Swift. Failed the Tribute child who stood beside you, his huge grey eyes mournful as he gazed up at you, but still full of the hope that children never quite relinquish.

11
    Nearly a week later and no summons has come. I’ve been a model student: arriving promptly at the Academy each morning, attending every lesson, paying attention to my tutors. Nights are spent half-awake, dread flaring at every noise or shift of light.
    I haven’t seen Otter since that day in the attics. I shudder at the thought of him. But he can’t have told my father. If he had  …  but why has the Guardian kept silent? Unless Benedict knows. And is waiting. Waiting to catch me out. Waiting for me to visit the prison again.
    Another week passes. I see Otter in