The guard stopped. On the wall was a relic, a red light. He touched it, and it turned green. Raffi breathed a prayer silently; the Watchman gave him a glance of contempt, but said nothing.
A door slid open. Beyond it was a tiny cell, completely enclosed. Instantly Raffi took a step back. “No!” he gasped, but the Watchman pushed him in firmly, so that he fell against the smooth Maker-wall, his tied hands flat. To his surprise the guard stepped in after him. The door snicked shut.
Back against the wall, Raffi faced the man. “I won’t tell you anything,” he said.
“Shut up.” The Watchman touched a dial. Without warning, the room dropped. It plummeted, and Raffi almost cried out with the terror of it, his stomach tingling in shock. The guard stood calmly watching. Raffi grabbed at the smooth walls. “Will it stop?” he whispered.
The man smiled, mirthless. “Let’s hope so.”
Down and down they fell, all the sense-lines dragged after them until he couldn’t hold them anymore and they snapped and snagged, tiny points of pain behind his eyes: down and down into the depths of the planet, leaving behind roots and veined rocks and the sky, until with a smooth whoosh the fall had ended and he staggered against the guard, who caught his arm.
The door opened. Complete darkness was waiting for him.
“CATO’S CLEFT.” Quist stood back to let a wagon of stones roll by. “We’d better eat here. Permission for Maar could take hours.”
They crossed to a few makeshift tables of piled stone outside a shack with steam coming from its roof. A slatternly woman came out.
Scala flicked dirt off the bench. “Hardly what I’m used to.” She gave the woman a warm smile. “What have you to offer us, then?”
“Stew, Castellan.”
“Is that all?”
“Today’s Agramonsday, so it’s stew. Watch ration.”
Scala sighed, and nodded. When the woman was gone she reached out and began to play with the fingers of Quist’s hand on the table. He watched lazily.
Carys frowned. “So now what? They’re not just going to let me walk into Maar.”
“Even as our prisoner?”
“What!”
“Don’t worry! It’s just a little plan.” Scala bent Quist’s thumb back, trying to make him wince. “We say we have to deliver you in person. Tie you loosely.”
“No chance!” Carys fixed her with a cold stare. “We’re partners in this. I’m not giving up my weapons. You agreed.”
“Oh come now, Carys.” Scala’s bright eyes were watching her, ignoring the dishes of stew being plonked down. “Don’t you trust us? We get you to Maar—you give us the information about the boy, we all share the reward. You’re reinstated, I’m promoted. We’re all happy.” Delicately she picked up the wooden spoon.
Carys knew something was wrong. Old Jellie’s warnings came back and crawled down her spine—when they’re trying to distract you, be careful. Extra careful. Picking up her own spoon she tasted the greasy liquid. Scala had some plan, all right, and if they suspected her now, she was finished. She had to lead Galen to the Margrave. Then she realized Quist wasn’t eating. Instead he was staring at Scala with a curious fixity, his meal getting cold, the work racket and dust around them forgotten.
Scala paused, the spoon to her red lips. “What? What’s the matter?”
“My God,” he breathed slowly, in disbelief. “You did it. You really did it!”
“Did what?” She blew on the stew and sipped at it, making a face, but he leaned over and caught her arm, spilling it on the table.
“You killed him.” His voice was hoarse; his hand shook.
She tugged briskly away.
Carys was chilled. “Killed who?”
“The blind man.” He was staring at Scala as if he had never seen her before, the very skin on his face white and drawn.
Scala sipped calmly. Then she said, “Yes.”
“How do you know?” Carys asked.
Scala smiled. “Yes, tell her how you know, lover.”
He looked sick. “How could you do that! You promised me . . .”
“He struck me.” There was nothing to show her anger, but it was there, deep and venomous, and she tore the hard bread carefully with her small nails. “No one does that. I owed it to myself to—”
“He was blind, for Flain’s sake!” Quist stood up, his chair falling back with a smack. A few Watchmen looked around.
Scala’s smile was icy. “Don’t make a scene. Sit down. Do you want us all taken in for questioning?”
For a moment, Carys thought he wouldn’t; then slowly, stiffly, he picked up the chair and sat on it.
“You should put all that behind you, Captain. I thought you’d have learned by now.” She glanced at Carys. “Carys understands.”
Carys put the spoon down. Not answering was dangerous, but she could barely manage to say “Of course I do,” and she couldn’t look at Quist.
“Good. Now. When I was signing us in I had news of our lost castle. The warlord who took Halen is one Alberic . . .”
Carys swallowed a piece of bread whole.
“. . . and he’s obviously ambitious. He’s moving west along the Wall. The Crow is with him.”
“The Crow!” Quist said.
“Yes.” Scala was watching Carys. “Your old friend, my dear. They have an army and a divine mission: the total destruction of the Watch. Word is that the disaffected are flocking to join them: outlaws, thieves, keepers. The host is growing every day.” She smiled sweetly at them both. “It appears to be war. Everyone will be busy. Too busy to notice us.”
“Meaning?” Carys said quietly.
“Meaning that we go to Maar now, without permits. And bluff our way in.”
GALEN HAD TAKEN THE BEADS APART and spread them in a hasty spiral, the purple and blue interspaced with his own black and green. In the center he put the candles Godric had found and the bowl of water carefully between them. “It is clean? No one’s drunk from it?”
“No one.”
“And the vessel? Not tainted with anything?”
“Keeper, that’s my best fingerbowl. It’s Palmyrian silver and was looted from a very wealthy merchant in my days on the Tasceron road.” Alberic leaned forward, his sly wide-lipped reflection rocking on the water.
Galen shoved him back. His anxiety crackled out of him, small blue snaps that made some of the crystals glow. He kneeled and began to speak Maker-words; the Sekoi recognized some of them. It was the prayer known as the Opening—one of the seven great powers of the Order. Tamar had sung it first, over the Lake Imakel, when the Makers had tried all methods to find the soul of Flain, lost in the Underworld. It was one of the creature’s favorite stories, and for a second it allowed itself the honeyed pleasure of slipping into the tale, spreading its seven fingers, speaking the words through Tamar, becoming the strong Starman on the snowy shore. Then, with a sigh, it slid back to itself.
Galen had finished; the silence was intense. All around him Alberic’s war band crowded, curious and quiet. Milo peered under the Sekoi’s arm. “What will happen?”
“Hush. The keeper will travel to Maar through the water.”
“Why there?”
“He fears that Raffi will be there.”
As it spoke, they saw the water ripple. A shape came into it, a low darkness. Curious, the Sekoi strained forward. All the crystals were charged, small energies leaping from one to the next. The creature thought for a moment that it saw a building, a strange blank cube with a group of riders outside it, and then there was nothing, except on the surface of the water a few floating petals that seemed black.
Galen reached out and picked them up. He looked at them carefully, then rolled them in his fingers and turned. “Saddle up. It’s time to go.”
“Is that it?” Alberic was peeved. “No bangs, no flashes? Nothing to excite the troops? You’re slipping, keeper.”
Galen’s eyes were black as the petals. “I know where he is.”
“Why didn
’t you find out sooner?”
“I didn’t know where to look. I was too deep in doubt.” He laughed, in a way that made the dwarf eye him warily. “All the time I was telling him to have faith, I had none in him.”
“Clear off. All of you.” Suddenly imperious, Alberic waved his people away; disappointed, they drifted into the wood, leaving only the Sekoi leaning against a birch trunk. Alberic crouched. “He’s at Maar then.”
Galen nodded.
“Long?”
“No.”
“Have they hurt him?”
Galen looked away. “I don’t know.”
“They will. You know it as well as I.”
There was a moment of silence. Instead of answering, Galen said, “Do you know how I first came across him?”
“Tell me.” Alberic glanced at the Sekoi and sat on the dry ground, on his green silk coat-ends.
“I came to his mother’s farm. Flain had told me this was the place. There were a lot of children—seven, maybe eight. From the doorway, as I was talking to her, I saw him. He was in the middle of the row, all of them on a bench by the fire, swinging their feet, eating—but he wasn’t eating, he was staring at me. And later, when I had said the Litany, I came and laid out on the table seven small images a wood-painter in some village had given me. They were of the Makers, and I had decided that whoever chose the image of Theriss—it was her day—would be my scholar. When it was Raffi’s turn to choose, I felt the power in him, the curiosity. The longing. It was strong, for a boy so young. I knew he was the one.” He picked up the beads quickly. “She asked me to take care of him.”
Alberic shrugged. “Mothers fuss. You did, in your way.”
“Not well enough. And now we have to find him. To go even into Maar.”
“You’ll go, friend. Not me.”
Galen stood and looked down, his dark hair loose. Then he put out a hand and took the dwarf’s and pulled him up. He turned, but Alberic said, “Did he choose Theriss?”
The Relic Master stopped and looked back. “No,” he said softly. “He chose Kest.”
18
Many ask “What are these spores?” They are doubt and despair. They eat into mind and flesh. None can withstand. them. And the Emperor stood on a high balcony and saw their work, and in great bitterness called Imalan to him and said, “Ask Flain to stop this. I will do as he asks. But tell him, this is through fear, and not mercy.”
Deeds of Imalan
HE WAS WORN OUT, but they wouldn’t let him E WAS WORN OUT, but they wouldn’t let him sleep. At intervals a buzzer would sound, ringing through the cell. The first time he had heard it, he’d jumped up in total terror, but now he lay in the dark hopelessly, waiting for it.
The room was completely empty, pitch-black. He had groped his way around it three times and couldn’t find the door, or any other flaw in its perfect walls. He had tried sense-lines, but the material was impervious. The very things of the Makers seemed like enemies here. With no light, there was no time. He could have been here hours or days. Terror was eating him; he couldn’t stop shivering. He had said the whole Litany, worked through the Book, even tried the endless Prophecies of Askelon. And every time he drifted off to blessed sleep, the cold authority of the buzzer stunned him back into the nightmare. When the door finally slid open, it was almost a relief.
Lights flickered on, dazzling him. He sat up, heart thudding. Two Watchmen marched in; one dumped a chair and shoved him into it, the other carried a wide table, made of dark materials. An empty chair was placed behind it. Then they left.
Blinded by the light, Raffi had to put a hand over his eyes. He watched the dark, open doorway in agony, knowing the waiting was deliberate. Finally a tall man came in. He had cropped, yellow hair and he carried nothing in his hands but a small metal box, which he placed carefully in the very center of the table. Then he sat down behind it.
Raffi felt so tired, he could barely focus; the last time he had slept had been between shifts on the Wall. His lips were cracked; he licked them nervously, wanting to scratch the lice in his hair.
The interrogator leaned back. “I am here to ask you questions. You may call me sir. What is your name?”
He didn’t know what to say. Presumably they knew. “Raffael Morel.”
The man nodded mildly. “Good. You’re sensible. You are the scholar of Galen Harn, called the Crow.”
“Ex-scholar.” He said it quietly.
The man raised a cool eyebrow. “How unfortunate. But it makes no difference. You will have heard that Harn has an army now. It seems the Order’s desire for peace is as false as their other beliefs.”
Raffi looked down.
The interrogator said, “I want to know the motives of this man Alberic. I want to know their plan of attack. I want to know every detail of the source of the Crow’s power, how extensive it is and how he intends to use it. I want to know the whereabouts of the relic called the Coronet, and finally, I want your . . . assistance in leading a patrol to the island called Sarres.”
It was what he’d expected. He’d rehearsed the answer for hours, but it seemed weak, a terrified whisper even to him. “I won’t give you any information, even if you kill me.”
The man nodded pleasantly. Between them on the table the box jerked, just a fraction. Raffi stared at it.
“Ah, yes. If only it were that simple.” The man leaned back. “We won’t kill you, keeper, as you well know. At least, not at first. We’ve developed expert techniques in torture and they have never failed on anyone. Terrible devices that you could barely imagine, that twist the body, inflicting unbelievable pain.”
The box shifted again. Raffi’s eyes slid back to it. Sweat trickled down his back.
“We won’t need all that with you.” The interrogator linked his fingers. He sounded almost bored. “You’re young, and you’re weak. You will be easy. You’ll be screaming, very soon now, to tell me what you know. That is the truth.”
“No.” Raffi’s voice was a whisper.
“No, sir.” The interrogator waited.
Raffi was silent.
The man considered him, then said, “If you answer, everything will be different. Time is short, keeper.”
Raffi shook his head, speechless.
Unsmiling, the man leaned forward. He took the lid off the box.
“HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO storm a building with no windows, no door, no gates, and that you can only see if you squint at it sideways!” Alberic waved a small, perfectly gloved hand in disgust.
They had all been silenced by the sight of the Watchhouse of Maar; the Sekoi chilled to its heart, the war band rebellious, Godric silent, even Galen saying nothing. Only the dwarf seemed unaffected. His sarcasm was a relief to them. “Of course,” he said acidly, “you’ll tell me it has its good points. Give me the joy of hearing them, boys and girls.”
“No ditch, Chief.” Sikka crouched, leaning on her upright sword.
“No openings for defenders,” Godric said.
“No defenders?” Taran muttered.
“Ah, but are there?” Alberic glared at Galen. “What’s in there, keeper? What’s the plan?”
“I brought you here for that,” Galen said darkly. “Strategy is your business.”
“You brought me!” Alberic scoffed. “That’s a joke.”
“They say”—Galen flashed a look at the Sekoi—“there’s no fortress on the planet you can’t take.”
The creature scratched its short fur. “So my people have heard. Such a reputation . . .”
“Cut the flannel.” The dwarf stood, hands on hips, in the cold dawn light. “I don’t fall for that. Still, I admit, I enjoy a challenge.” He folded his arms and stared at the ominous outline of the cube, his crafty mind working. “It’s Maker-work. Will it collapse or explode when we attack? Will it sprout crazy weapons? What sort of beings will pour out of it? I need information, Galen.”
Galen came and stood beside him and looked down. “It is Maker-work, but these are t
he Watch. They may not know how to use it. I’ll find the door, and I’ll open the door. After that, it will be up to you. But I don’t want slaughter, thief-lord, if we can avoid it.”
The dwarf looked sour. “You want a miracle.”
“Yes.” Galen fingered the crystals at his neck. “I do.”
“Uncle!” The voice came from the back of the hedge, through the field where the war band had gathered; horses moved aside, snuffling in the long grass. “Uncle!”
“Flainsteeth!” Alberic growled. “If that addle-brained kid comes near me now . . .”
Milo pushed past Godric and ran up, breathless. Thistledown was all over his clothes; he brushed it off hastily and a cloud settled on the dwarf’s goldwork tunic. “Uncle, I’m sorry! Let me . . .”
“Look at me! I’ll kill him!” Alberic roared, but Galen caught the boy’s arm quickly and pulled him close.
“What is it? What’s disturbing you?”
Milo seemed paralyzed by the keeper’s black gaze. “She’s here,” he whispered. “She’s riding up the lane.”
“Who?”
“The girl who gave me the letter. Carys.”
THE SENSE-LINE SLID into her mind so gently, she barely felt it, but maybe the horse did, because it stopped and backed, and that gave her the idea. “Wait. My horse is lame.” Before they could turn and see it was a lie, she had jumped off and lifted the beast’s front hoof and was poking at it. Her heart thudded; she glanced into the scrubby woodland to her left. It seemed empty in the early mist.
Scala unslung her crossbow. “Well, this seems as good a place as any.”
Quist looked uneasy. The castellan raised the bow and pointed it at Carys.
Carys froze. “What are you doing!”
“Covering our backs. We know all about you, Carys, and the little trail you’ve been leaving.”