The Lost Heiress #2 (3 page)

“Those are well hidden. The beads were there—in that room!”

Guilty, sick with fear, Raffi sat rigid, seeing the strings of jet and green crystals in their interlocking circles. He should have grabbed them! He should have remembered them!

“I’m sorry,” he breathed.

Galen turned on him sourly. “I suppose I should beat you black and blue.”

“No room,” he joked feebly.

“Nor any need. The Watch will do it for me.”

In the silence each of them imagined a gloved hand snatching up the beads, a yell. Any Watchman would recognize them at once.

“Maybe one of the tenants found them.”

“Listen!” Galen caught him.

Footsteps ran down the stairs above, loud, heavy boots. Galen snuffed the candle instantly. The stillroom door banged open. Someone came in and paced around.

They know, Raffi thought. His hands clenched, he huddled in the dark.

They were searching. Cups crashed over. Something made of glass fell and shattered. A foot kicked impatiently along the paneling.

It’ll sound hollow, he thought, clutching his arms as if he could make himself smaller. Galen was a still shadow against the wall.

It did sound hollow, but the searcher seemed not to notice. Someone called him; he yelled back, “Down here,” in a voice so close it made Raffi sweat. Then he was pounding up the stairs again, the door banging behind him.

Silence. A long silence.

Finally, tight with terror, Raffi made himself uncurl. He drew a deep ragged breath.

“Sit still,” Galen said. “They’ll be back.”

They were. All evening, late into the night, the house was alive with bangs and shouts, thudding doors and footsteps. Every time Raffi finally dozed into uneasy sleep under the moth-eaten blanket, some crash or voice jerked him awake; cold with sweat, his hands clenched. He was sick and giddy with fear. Galen never spoke, perhaps didn’t even hear. He stayed where he was, knees drawn up, quite still in the dark. Raffi knew he was deep in prayer, lost in a rigid meditation, and how the keeper had the discipline for it astonished him. Once or twice he tried himself, gabbling the Litany and the Appeal to Flain, but the words dried up, or he found himself repeating one phrase foolishly over and over, all his attention fixed on the clatter around the house.

Not knowing was the worst.

Had they found the beads? Were they tearing the place apart? Was Rocallion under torture? Had he talked? When would the smoke start curling under the panel, choking them, driving them out into the swords and crossbows of the Watch?

He tossed and curled and uncurled hopelessly until, without even realizing he’d been asleep, he was awake, staring at the crack of cold daylight, the sudden sharp stink of a midden somewhere.

He rolled over and sat up.

Gaunt in the dark, Galen was watching. After a moment he said, “Take something to eat. One swallow of water from the jar.”

“Have you . . . ?”

“Hours ago.”

Guiltily, Raffi broke a stiffening crust and ate it, with a tiny piece of cheese. The water was cool and fresh; he tried not to take a big swallow. “Did you sleep?”

Galen glared, the grim look Raffi loathed. “I prayed for forgiveness. So should you.”

“I don’t—”

“The beads, boy!” Galen shook his head in disgust. “I let myself fear—I forgot that the Makers have us all in their hands! We have to trust them. They won’t let the Watch find us unless they wish it, and if they do, so be it. Who are we to be afraid?”

Raffi chewed the bread. “It’s hard not to be.”

“You’re a scholar. I’m a master and should know better.”

Galen was always harsh, harshest of all with himself. That moment of terror would irritate him; it would be a long time before he would forgive himself for it. Raffi sat back, thinking of the Crow, the strange power of the Makers’ messenger that had entered Galen in Tasceron, filling him with unknown abilities. Since then there had been little sign of it. Galen had been normal—grim, short-tempered, fierce. Until last night. Raffi licked the last crumbs from his fingers. Last night, it had come back. In a whisper he asked, “What happened, at our Summoning?”

Galen raised dark eyes. Dragging the long hair from his neck, he knotted it in a piece of string. Then he said, “I’m not sure. The casket . . . I made the casket as I always do, but when it came, it was different. Bigger. Then the light . . . If I made that I don’t know how. And I’ve never felt a word so surely. It burned through me like fire.” He glanced up. “Did I say it aloud?”

“Yes. You said ‘Interrex.’ ”

Galen scowled. “Maybe the Watch should have come sooner. Some messages are not for everyone to hear.”

“Don’t joke about the Watch.” Raffi wriggled under the blanket. “What does it mean?”

“Interrex? It’s a word from the Apocalypse. It means one who rules between the kings.”

“But what—”

“Enough questions!” Galen sat upright abruptly. “If we’re going to be cooped up in here we’ll use the time. I’ve neglected your studies, so first we go over the Sorrows of Kest. From the beginning.”

It was an endless day.

Galen drilled him in every chapter of the Sorrows; then they worked through the Litany, the Book of the Seven Moons, the Sayings of the Archkeepers, even the eternal life of Askelon with its forty-seven Prophecies of the Owl. He learned the last twenty wearily, repeating them after Galen in a whisper, the keeper impatiently correcting.

They dared not speak aloud; four times someone came into the stillroom. Once, an animal—a dog, Raffi thought—scratched at the panel, but Galen made a thought-flare that sent it squealing. Each time, Galen went back to work grimly. Raffi knew it was just to keep them both busy, to stop the fear, but in the end it was agony; all he wanted to do was scream. By the time the keeper let him rest, his voice cracking with thirst, the daylight in the corner was long gone. So was most of the food.

Raffi took an agonizingly small sip of water. “He must come tonight. He won’t let us starve in here.”

“Maybe.” Galen slumped against the wall. “Maybe not.”

Pulling himself up awkwardly, Raffi limped about. He was stiff with the cold, a bitter cold that felt like snow. Bending down, he tried to see out, but the crack was too narrow. He jammed a rag into it, and instantly felt Galen’s hand grab him; a warning grip.

The panel was sliding open.

The candle guttered. When the flame steadied they saw Rocallion crawling in. He looked tired and haggard, tugging food and another jar of water from under his jerkin. “Eat this,” he gasped. “Quickly. I’ve got to get out.”

Galen caught hold of him. “Did they find the beads?”

“What beads?” Then his eyes widened. “Have you lost them?”

“We left them in the room.”

The young man rubbed his hair frantically. “I don’t know! The fat man hasn’t mentioned them!”

“Then they’re safe. One of your friends must have them.” Galen sat back in relief. “How did you get away?”

“Don’t ask.”

Stuffing bread into his mouth, Raffi muttered, “How many of them are there?”

“A full patrol. They’ve searched the house, questioned everyone. I hope it was just a random visit.”

“No one gave anything away?”

Rocallion looked strained. “No. But they—” He stopped.

Raffi swallowed hard.

Outside, in the stillroom, something had shifted. A tiny movement, a creak of floorboard, but they all knew what it meant. Someone had followed him.

Rocallion closed his eyes in despair. He almost spoke, but Galen shook his head fiercely, snuffing the candle with one swift jab. Raffi felt the power gather in him, in the darkness around them.

Slowly, the panel opened.

Someone stood there, shadowy. Then the figure crouched, and to Raffi’s astonishment, a small hand stretched into the cell, and he caught the glint of the green and black beads that swung from the fingers.

“You know, you shouldn’t leave these things lying around, Galen,” a voice said, amused. “Anyone might find them.”

Apocalypse of Tamar

“
C
ARYS!”

The girl grinned at them in the dimness. “Hello, Raffi. Still hungry?”

“You know her?” Rocallion was staring in astonishment. “But she’s one of the Watch!”

“Her name is Carys Arrin. As for what she is, only God and the Makers know.” In the half-light Galen reached out gently and took the beads from her fingers. “So it was you who found them.”

“Luckily for you.” She glanced back at the door. “But we haven’t got time to talk. The Watch commander is called Braylwin. He’s fat and lazy, but he’s got a mind like a razor and he’s sure there was a keeper here for Flainsnight. I’m not exactly the apple of his eye, either. So I want you out of here.”

“You think we’d betray you?” Galen said quietly.

“Under torture, yes.” She stared hard at him, her short brown hair swinging. “Look, I can get you out if you come now. I’m guard leader for two hours, and everything’s quiet. The patrol will stay here at least a week, Galen. You might not get another chance.”

Galen blessed the beads, pulled them on, then stiffly crawled out of the cell and stood up. “Of course we trust you,” he said, as if she’d asked.

Bewildered, Rocallion stared up at him. “Are you sure?”

Raffi grinned. “We think so.”

“Think!”

“Hope.”

Carys was already at the door, peering around it. In the darkness she seemed taller, her hair shorter. The crossbow was slung at her back. She said, “We go down the corridor, then the cellar stairs. Can the cellar door be opened from inside?”

Rocallion shrugged. “The Watch have got the keys.”

“I’ve got the keys. There’s a guard in the courtyard; I’ll talk to them while you get by. Down the lane is a byre, by the gate—it’s been searched already. We’ll meet there. Agreed?”

She’s used to giving orders, Raffi thought.

Galen nodded. It was hard to see his expression in the dimness. Glancing back, she said suddenly, “Make sure you wait for me, Galen, because I’ve got something to tell you. Something important.”

As he stepped forward into the lamplight from the corridor, they caught his wolfish smile. “I know that.”

“You would!” For a moment she grinned. Then she was out the door. Galen pushed Raffi after her, then came himself, with Rocallion silently at the back.

The corridor was empty, lit with one lamp. Far off in the house someone laughed. They clustered at the end while Rocallion took his keys from Carys and fumbled for the right one; as soon as the door opened they slipped through.

It closed behind them with a click.

“Be careful,” Rocallion’s voice echoed. “There are steps in front of you leading down.”

Raffi found them, edging cautiously. He knew they were in the cellar—it was bitterly cold and smelled of beer casks. Twice at the bottom he walked into barrels. Finally Rocallion pushed through from the back. “Let me go first.”

There was no light and Galen made none; it would have been fatal if the door above had opened.

When Raffi caught up with Rocallion, the back door was already unlocked. Infinitely carefully, the franklin opened it and looked out. Under his arm Raffi saw the dim courtyard, dark gables, a single star overhead.

A murmur of talk came from somewhere nearby. Carys pushed her way silently to the front. “Take care,” she breathed. Then she squeezed past them and went out into the night.

They waited. Raffi felt the cold drift of the leaf-fall on his face, heard the hiss of it against the roofs of the manor-house. The night was unusually still, as if held in frost, though far off in the woods an owl called, and nearer something squeaked, like a jekkle-mouse.

The voices had gone. Instead only Carys was talking, loud and furious. He could hear the anger in her voice, and was amazed again at the way she could lie, and pretend, and act.

“Go now,” Galen whispered. They slid carefully out into the blue shadows, edging along the wall.

The leaf-drift had fallen all day. Here in the lee of the wall it was a bare sprinkling, so that their feet cut dark prints; Galen scuffed them out hurriedly. They sprinted between buildings, under the low eaves of a barn. As they flitted through a gate, Raffi glimpsed the red glare of a fire, heard Carys’s sharp orders. She wanted a sharper watch kept. And she wanted those dice! Now! Raffi grinned, his fingers slipping over the cold of the gate bar.

In the lane they could run, but the ruts were full of frosted puddles that tilted and splintered, wheezing as they broke. The ground was rock hard and even the firethorns had leaf-dust all over them; the storm had brought a sudden sharp frost, the first this year. Raffi shivered, his breath smoking in the sudden glint of two moons that drifted from the clouds.