Tribute by Ellen Renner Page A

the distance. Once, I catch a glimpse of Aidan being ferried to his workroom by a trio of guards, his apprentice trotting at his heels. I’m still too frightened to attempt to contact the Knowledge Seekers.
    A third week and, as the spring sun grows warmer, my courage returns. No one seems to be watching me. I must act or give up on all my hopes and accept that I will never keep the promises I made to Swift and Aidan, or to myself. I visit the market, speak with Bruin. And am given my orders: I am to find a way to talk again with the Maker. But how? I can’t risk another night-time trip to the prison. And Aidan is guarded in his workroom. And then I remember: there is one clock too big to be taken to the attics.
    It’s the time of the famine moon – a friendly time for spies. I sneak through pitch-dark corridors to my father’s library and inspect his diary. Swift was right: Benedict notes down everything. In a few days’ time, Aidan will start work on the Great Clock.
    On the appointed day, I rise early and slip into the Council Chamber before dawn. The throne of the Archmage – made of ancient oak the colour of tar – sits in the base of the clock itself. Marble pillars either side soar upwards to support the round face of Time, golden and unsmiling. A single, enormous wrought iron hand marks the hours. The mechanism is powered by a bronze pendulum that hasn’t moved for more than a generation.
    The twelve seats of the Council face the throne, raised upon a semicircular dais. In between dais and throne, piercing the centre of the stone floor, is a circle of oak. I slide the oaken lid away and stare down into a pit, three feet wide and six deep, its curved walls lined with black marble.
    The prisoner pit. Where unwise or unlucky mages end their days. Where those accused of sedition, treason or heresy stand as their crimes are read out and judgement passed. My mother must have stood down there, craning her neck to see the man she once loved condemn her to death.
    How many decided to die fighting rather than submit to the inevitable? No mage, however powerful, has left this room alive after the sentence of death was passed upon them. My mother? Did she fight, or submit? I’ll never know.
    My stomach churns at the thought of what I must do now. I crouch down quickly, before I can change my mind, and lower myself inside. When my skin touches the cold marble, I cringe. Once I’m standing, heart banging against my ribs, staring up at the circle of light above me, I want to jump out at once. Instead, I reach up and drag the lid into place.
    It clunks home and I feel a wave of panic sweep through my blood. I hate the dark as much as ever I did. But I’m not a child of nine any more. I need to speak to Aidan and find out if Benedict has talked to him again; told him the true purpose of the truce. My father would enjoy tormenting any hostage, but most especially a Maker.
    The oak lid is cracked with age and, as my eyes adjust to the dark, I see thin lines of light raying overhead. It’s cold in the pit and I’m shivering by the time I hear the door open and the murmur of voices. Feet tramp over the wooden cover and I clamp my hand over my mouth to stop a nervous squeak. I sense Aidan’s presence, and the boy. No one else.
    Ordinary Tributes keep watch over Aidan now – not Otter. Otherwise I wouldn’t risk it. The Tributes will stay outside, guarding the door to the Council Chamber. The Maker must be the first kine in a generation to be allowed in this room.
    I don’t want to use magic and risk attracting the attention of a passing adept, so I slide the oak lid off inch by inch, grab the edge of the pit and struggle to haul myself up and out. Only my arms aren’t strong enough and I slip and fall. The breath slams out of my body with an
oooff!
and I lie at the bottom of the pit gasping like a stranded fish.
    When air returns to my lungs I wriggle upright, aware