The Dark City (7 page)

Galen frowned. “This bit’s very broken. I can just get words:
hollow, sacred, the messenger.
Then,
Find him. Find him. Prayers and blessings, brothers. Strength of the rock, cunning of the weasel be yours.
”

He looked up. “That’s all.”

Carefully, he sifted the tiny scraps that had fallen, trying to find more.

“The Crow!” Raffi breathed the words in awe. “Still alive!”

“Tesk died twenty years ago. That dates it.”

But Raffi could see the news had shaken Galen, stirred him deep. He wanted to ask more, about what it meant, but instead he picked up the ball carefully. It was cold, heavy, quite transparent. He turned it in his fingers. Nothing came from it now. It was silent.

Galen took it from him. “A relic. But of what?” He muttered a prayer over it, a brief blessing. “Once I saw an image of the Crow carrying such a glass ball in his mouth. A most secret sign. But what it means, I never learned.”

“Did you know him?” Raffi asked.

“Kelnar? No. Not even the name. But the Order was great when I was a scholar. There were hundreds of keepers.”

“I wonder what happened to him.”

Galen scowled. He wrapped the ball back in the waxed cloth and, picking the letter up, read it again. Then he crushed it in his strong grip. Fragments of desiccated parchment gusted in the river breeze.

“Dead,” he said softly. “Like all of them.”

THEY DECIDED TO SLEEP on the island. With the spell on the bridge, and on the second bridge that led through a great bank of nettles to the far shore, there was nowhere safer. Raffi was too tired to think about what they had found. He drank hot tea made of nettle leaves and curled up hastily in a blanket in the shelter of the ruined wall.

His dreams were strange. He found himself walking endlessly over a grassy plain; a great city lay before him, its spires and towers rising over the horizon, but he could never reach it, never get any closer. And behind him his shadow stretched, long and black, and it danced and capered with glee, he knew it did, but every time he turned and looked at it, it kept still. Walking on, he felt the evil dance break out again behind him. There was nothing he could do about it.

When he woke, he lay with his eyes closed, sleepily, trying to remember. Dreams were important. Perhaps someone was following them. The Watch, he thought, in sudden terror. Or Alberic. But whoever it was, the bridge would stop him. Relieved, he knew that was true. No one else could cross that.

When he sat up, the sky was dim—the sun had set into red streaks toward the west. Cloud was building there, a sullen bank of weather; gnats and humflies gathered in twisting columns among the sedges.

He made the fire, boiled water, found some roots and a solitary duck’s egg. When Galen woke they said the long chant of the day solemnly, sitting under a willow, their hands spread. Then they ate. Galen halved the egg, though it was his by right. Spitting out some shell, he said, “We’ll stay here tonight and go on in the morning. It’ll be more dangerous, but we shouldn’t cross the burial hills at night.”

“Good,” Raffi muttered, his mouth full.

Galen sat back, folding his arms. Then he said, “Who is the Crow, Raffi?”

Raffi swallowed hastily. But he knew the ritual; the Litany of the Makers had always fascinated him.

“The Crow is the messenger. In the beginning the Crow flew between the Makers and God. He carried their words, written in gold letters. He spoke their words to God. Later, when the Makers left Anara and went to the seven sisters in the heavens, the Crow brought messages from them to the keepers and Relic Masters of the Order.”

“Is the Crow a bird?”

“The Crow is a bird and not a bird. He is a man and not a man.”

“Is the Crow a voice?”

“He is the voice of the Makers.”

Galen nodded. “Good. I’ve neglected the Litany with you lately.”

“Knowing the answers is one thing,” Raffi said. “I’m still not sure what they mean.”

Galen stirred the fire and laughed harshly. “Wise men have spent their lives on them. A four-year scholar knows nothing yet. The Crow is a spiritual being. He can take many forms. He’s real.”

“Have you ever . . . seen him?”

Galen looked up, surprised. Then he shrugged. “I was no older than you when the Order was destroyed. Such visions were far above me. What I’ve learned since then has been from Malik, my own master, from the Book, from the few of the Order I’ve met. The great visions are shattered, Raffi. Our knowledge is in pieces, in the ashes of burned libraries. Only in Tasceron might there be someone who knows the answers.”

Raffi looked up at the moons; Atterix and Pyra, almost together. “The man who wrote that letter—he says he saw the Crow.”

“A lot can happen in twenty years.” Galen’s eyes were shadows, but as he shifted, Raffi saw them glint strangely. “And yet the Crow is immortal. If we could find him, speak to him . . . If he could take our message to the Makers . . . If the Makers would come back . . .”

He was silent, choked with the joy of it, and Raffi too, hearing the ripple of the sluggish water, the splash of a bird settling for the night. Then, with a hiss of pain he snatched his hand up.

Galen looked over. “What’s wrong?”

“A bee sting!”

A small red lump was swelling on his wrist. He put it to his mouth, sucking at the pain.

“At night?”

Raffi let the throb subside. Then he said, “It’s not a real bee. I put the sign of the bee on a stone at the bottom of that track we came down. Someone just stood on it.”

9

The Watch is unsleeping. Never relent in the search; never turn back.

Rule of the Watch

Journal of Carys Arrin
Larsnight
7.16.546

I’ve lost them.

And this is so infuriating I can hardly get the words down, but what stopped me was a spell.

There’s no other word for it. Every time I tried to cross that bridge I found myself back where I started! It seems to be some sort of power field to confuse the mind—I can’t believe that it actually changes matter in any way or that the bridge can have only one end. In all my training, the Watchleaders insisted that the powers of the Order were an illusion—I can see fat old Jeltok now, banging his cane on the table. Well, it’s an illusion that’s worked on me.

Galen Harn had crossed. I found traces of a campfire on the bank and scraps of food—fungus of some sort. Maybe they brew a concoction of this and drink it to counteract the spell. Too risky to try without knowing more.

In the end I had to give up. Even leading the horse into the swamp would have been useless—the whole area was thick with seedbeds and alder; soft, probably deep. I almost screamed with frustration, and kicked the black rotting chains of the thing with hatred.

What makes it worse is that they’re traveling by night. Harn is cunning. He’s been hunted all his life; he knows how to blend with the leaves and the land, though I don’t believe that nonsense that the keepers can turn into trees and stones.

It was well after dark when I turned back from the bridge and though I’d slept a little, I was tired. Yesterday I sold the pack-beast and most of the goods in a village beyond the fields—speed is more important now. But I kept the horse, and that’s one advantage. They’re on foot.

I rode the horse back up the stony gully and turned east, quickly crossing the fields in the dark. My plan was to follow the river upstream until I could cross it. The wind was chill and the stubbly ground uneven; worst of all it rose constantly, and the river ran below in a steep cleft with ash and elder springing out of the sides. There was no way down—I just had to keep going, farther away from the bridge all the time.

Furious, I strapped my jerkin tight and kicked the horse on; we galloped now, leaping small walls and hedges, four moons watching us through cloud. Down lanes bordered with stone walls, past a dark farmhouse, skirting tangled copses; the search for a track seemed endless. It was almost light before I found it. A narrow, beaten trail. It looked as if animals had trodden it; it led into a dark stand of juniper and fireberry bushes, and smelled of night-cat.

The horse didn’t like it. Neither did I, I suppose, but time was pressing and I was angry and a bit reckless. So I rode down. I can see old Jellie shaking his head now.

It was dark among the trees, the branches low and tangled. I had to dismount, slashing them aside, leading the horse. Uneasy, fly-bitten, and scratched, we scrambled down, tread muffled on a springy mattress of needles, the winter’s shriveled berries. The track dropped steeply and the horse kept whickering, the smell of its fear sharp on the air. I swore at it, then swung my crossbow out and racked it hastily. In the undergrowth a twig had cracked.

I stopped, raising the bow. The copse was dim. Ahead, somewhere below, I could see a pale daylight, but here the trunks crowded, silent.

I heard it before it leaped and squirmed around; the yowl was in my face, past me, then the lithe black shape had fastened onto the horse; it reared, screaming with terror. I aimed too fast; the bolt shot wide, crunched in an ashbole. Then the horse was gone, in a heedless bloodstained panic, the night-cat streaking after it like a shadow.

Furious, I scrambled down the track, all hope gone. I’d seen what a night-cat could do—there’d be no chance of riding back to the bridge. And I was scared, believe me. But I needed the food and money in the saddlebags. Everything was on that wretched horse. Then as I came out of the trees, I fell smack over something lying in the path, and stared at it, on hands and knees.

The night-cat lay sprawled, mid-jump. One paw was flung up, the snarling mouth wide in the agony of its death. It was still hot. Fleas jumped off it. I reached out cautiously and touched it. The great head slumped; blood clotted the black fur, just congealing. A crossbow bolt stuck out of its neck.

I rolled under the nearest bush, racked the bow hastily, and reloaded it. I’d missed the cat. This was someone else’s work. And they’d be back for it. Steadying my breath, controlling, I waited for them under the leaves. Always see what you’re up against, Jellie used to wheeze. I’d never believed he’d been a field agent, not then, but his captures were listed in all the Watchtowers, so he must have been thinner once.

Two minutes later a blackbird screeched and flew off. I heard voices coming up the path from the river. Putting my eye to the sight of the bow I watched them come, two men, shouldering through bracken, my sweating, nervous horse dragging behind.

I could have killed them both. Or maybe one; the other would have gone before I could reload, and then it would have been cat and mouse, and I had no idea who else might be around. Safer to wait.

They stood over the cat, laughing, more than pleased with themselves. The bigger one gazed up the track. “The rider might still be alive.”

“Maybe.”

“Should we look?”

The smaller one laughed and shook his head. “Not me. Cat’s had him. Or he broke his neck coming off. This horse is worth at least fifty marks, never mind the stuff in the bags.”

“What if he turns up?”

They looked at each other. Then they laughed again.

I had to take my finger off the trigger, force myself to be calm. I get angry too easily, and an agent needs control. They didn’t know I was Watch. I could have gotten up and told them—they might have backed off. Or might not. Bitterly I lay where I was, deep in leaves, woodbugs crawling over me. And all the time Galen Harn was slipping away.

They were in no hurry. They skinned the cat on the spot, taking the soft thick pelt, the teeth, the paws, some of the innards. Soon the air stank of blood; flies buzzed in clouds over the carcass. Finally, well into the morning, they gathered up their packs, loaded them onto the horse, and set off, down toward the river. They talked loud and easy, but their bows were ready.

Stiff and filthy, I watched them go, then got up and followed, silent, from bush to tree. I may not be one of the magical Order, but even as kids in the Watchhouses, we played this game. No one caught me then. Or now.

It took over an hour to reach the farm. I smelled it first, the tang of cattle over the marshy ground; then I saw the low rise of the roof, close to the water. The river was narrower here, still sluggish but shallow; I could see cows knee-deep in it on a bank of shingle. I could have crossed. But I wanted the horse.