Authors: Catherine Fisher

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The Margrave (14 page)

BOOK: The Margrave

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“Mad,” the Sekoi muttered.

“. . . but like us, you know about faith. I have to leave Raffi in the hands of the Makers, hard though that is. They will take care of him. He’s in less danger away from us—I have to believe that.”

“It will tear you in two,” the creature said softly.

Galen looked away. “If that’s what the Makers want.”

“And will he have sense-lines? Will he be recovered enough to guard himself?”

“I don’t know.”

“And if the Watch should find him! If he is tortured . . .”

“
I don’t know!”
Tormented, the keeper stood and limped out of the light. He caught at a low bough of the tree and held it as if it gave him strange support. He didn’t look around, but his voice was harsh, oddly distorted. “It might take months to find him. And I cannot turn away from the Margrave. Not now. This is why the Crow came. This is what he has been sent to do.”

The Sekoi looked gloomily into the fire. “For us,” it whispered, “our children matter more than all the world.”

A shriek startled them, a thin, high scream. Galen turned. “What’s that?”

“It sounds like Alberic.”

Instantly Galen ran, the Sekoi close behind, racing through the camp, the gaudy haphazard tents, bursting into Alberic’s silken, private pavilion. The dwarf was in his high bed, both hands clutching the coverlet. His bodyguards had clustered around him, and they were all staring in disbelief at the growing tear in the ceiling.

“What is it?” the dwarf hissed.

“It’s coming in, Chief.” Godric hefted his ax. “Sit tight.”

The cloth tore. A huge head peered in, its eyes perfectly round, unblinking. Then with a speed that amazed them all, an enormous black owl squeezed its body through and sank like a silent cloud. It perched on the rail at the foot of the bed. Alberic was out and behind Godric in seconds. “Kill it! For Flain’s sake get rid of it!”

Godric lifted the ax. He looked very reluctant to move. “How, exactly?”

The Sekoi pushed forward impatiently. Shoving the ax aside, it stepped out in front of the owl and spoke, a long fluent sentence in the Tongue.

The owl answered in a fluty voice.

“Flainsteeth!” Alberic grabbed Galen. “What’s going on?”

“Be quiet!” The keeper watched, intent.

The Sekoi nodded, and folded its long arms. It was listening courteously, asking rapid questions. When it turned, its face was lit with relief. “Good news. The Silent One has seen Carys.”

“When!” Galen took a step forward.

“Two days ago. At a smallholding a league from here.”

“Alone?”

“When they spoke. But there was a woman asleep in the house and another, a man in Watch uniform.”

“Is she safe?”

“She seems her own, highly confident self.” The Sekoi turned back and spoke; the owl answered, its head swiveling, its round eyes fixed on Alberic.

“What’s it looking at me for?” the dwarf muttered uneasily.

“You are the leader of this flock, so it pays you respect.”

“Fascinating.” Alberic’s greedy eyes glinted. “I never knew those things could talk. What a spy network they’d be. Can you teach me that lingo?”

“That would not be allowed.”

“Not even for twenty gold pieces?”

The Sekoi’s eyes flickered sideways. “Fifty, and I might consider it.”

“Thirty.”

“For Flain’s sake!” Galen raged. “What did she say!”

The owl churred.

“She told it we were coming, and that she was heading for Flor’s Tower, traveling west, along the Wall. The Watch have built this folly to try to stop the spread of chaos. Apparently there is no way through the Wall for twenty leagues, until you reach the great Watchtower of Maar. That is the only gate.” It asked another question; the owl answered and preened a feather carefully out from under its wing.

“Beyond the gate,” the Sekoi said quietly, “the Unfinished Lands burn and erupt. The Pits of Maar are a day’s flight out beyond the Wall. The Silent Ones do not go there. Nothing can live there.”

Alberic had sidled forward. His eyes were sharp; his small finger jabbed out. “Look at that. It’s wearing jewels.”

The owl swiveled its head and looked down at him as if he were a particularly juicy mouse.

“It says,” the Sekoi muttered, “that it would peck your eyes out before a bow could be fired. I recommend you to believe it.”

“What happened to respect?” Alberic folded his arms. “Anyway, owls don’t wear collars. Why’s this one different?”

The Sekoi shrugged gracefully.

“Don’t give me that, tale-spinner. You know. Your fur’s all fluffed up.”

It was true. The fur at the creature’s neck was stiff, a sure sign of tension.

Galen said, “Has it seen Raffi?”

“No.” The Sekoi glared at Alberic. “And these things are not for you, thief-lord. They are Sekoi matters.”

“Touchy!” Alberic grinned, sly. “I hear you’ve had to move that Hoard of yours. Now there would be a nice little find.”

The Sekoi made a small mew of disgust; turning back, it spoke again, urgently. The owl churred and spread vast wings. Alberic ducked as it flew straight at him, circled low, and was gone through the tent flap before he could yell an order.

“Blast you, keeper, your spies and your messages.” He turned and scrambled back into bed, fussily arranging the pillows. “That girl was always trouble. We’re better off without her. Now go on, tell me we’re heading for Flor’s Tower.”

Galen stared down at him morosely.

“We’re heading for Maar.”

“WHAT!” The dwarf sat bolt upright. “Now wait a minute!”

“You heard me.” Galen bent and grabbed a handful of the gold silk nightshirt. His eyes were black with despair; the Sekoi took an uneasy step forward. “You’re going to attack the gate just long enough for me to get through it. After that I don’t care what you do. You can rot in your own greed.”

Alberic looked at him shrewdly. “As long as you don’t expect me to wait around.”

“I expect nothing from you.”

“Just as well. If you go in there it would be a waste of time; you won’t be coming back. Stop creasing my outfit, keeper. If you hadn’t expected too much from your boy, he’d still be with you.”

For a split second they stared at each other, eye to eye. Then Galen dropped him like a sack and swung around. He shoved past the Sekoi and limped out into the dark. Alberic straightened his clothes and snapped small fingers; Milo came running up with a goblet of wine. The dwarf took it in both hands and leaned back on the pillow. Looking at the Sekoi he said, “He’s on the edge.”

“He’s always been difficult.”

“He’s a godforsaken lunatic, and if he thinks I’m as suicidal as he is, he’s wrong. I joined up with the Crow to win, not to be martyred. You tell him.” He sipped thoughtfully. “I’ll keep men out looking for Raffi. Though the poor kid’s not had much of a life. He’s better off out of it. Now, I’ll go to forty gold pieces to learn a few words of that owl chat.”

The creature sighed. “Perhaps another time.”

Alberic nodded, and drank. “You just keep an eye on that fanatic.”

The Sekoi ducked under the tent flap and went out, looking up at the Arch of the Seven Moons.

“Hey. Excuse me.” A boy stood in the tree-shadow. For a second the creature’s fur tingled; then its keen nightsight adjusted, and it saw the spotted boy, Alberic’s kin, standing awkwardly by.

“It’s just . . .” Milo came forward, wringing his hands. “Now Raffi’s gone, the keeper needs a new scholar, right? I was just wondering . . . I mean, Uncle depends on me, of course . . . Well, he couldn’t do without me but I’d really like . . . that magic and stuff. Maybe if you could just ask Galen . . .”

The Sekoi shuddered delicately. “That would not be a good idea.”

“I’m bright. I could learn.”

“I’m sure. But the keeper is very upset. This is not the time.”

The boy looked downcast. “Later, then?”

The Sekoi shrugged, and said kindly, “Perhaps.” It watched the boy wander off. The camp was quiet now. The Sekoi walked to the trees and stood, listening. Around it the whole planet of Anara slept, trunk and root, tunnel and vein, a billion leaves and beasts and birds, and in every one the same thread of life, that inexplicable tingle of energy. And somewhere, lost in all of it, alone, was Raffi.

“Small keeper,” it breathed sadly. “Where are you?”

I am in darkness, and abandoned, my eyes without sight, my mind without memory.

I am forgotten by my friends.

Even God has turned his back on me.

Litany of the Makers

H
E LAY STILL. His eyes were gummy and his mouth dry; as he dragged a hand up to his face, he felt the ache of bruises, the stiffness of his legs lying crookedly under him. The touch of his own skin was rough, unfamiliar.

He didn’t know where he was. His fingers went to his neck and felt absently for something that should have been there, but he couldn’t remember what. His mind had deep black holes in it and they were joining up. Blotting him out. With a struggle he managed to sit up. There was a pack beside him; he recognized it vaguely and rummaged inside. A few crumbs of dried bread. The water was all gone.

He only knew he was thirsty. The agony of it was a dull pain between his eyes, crowding out everything else; he staggered up, through the neat stacks of baled hay. It was some sort of barn. When he found the door he pushed it open weakly, blinking in the brilliant sunlight.

“God, son,” someone said. “You look rough.”

He stumbled out. The men were sitting in a row. They wore dark clothes and their horses cropped the abandoned fields. They had a table with maps spread on it. And they had water.

Raffi moved toward it quickly. Someone tripped him and he fell; everyone roared with laughter. Then they tossed a small leather flask to him, and he drank, desperately, endlessly.

“Hey!” one of them shouted, but he ignored that, drinking and drinking until the cold water was all gone. Then he looked at them.

They were Watch.

The knowledge jolted him. Why hadn’t he seen that! What was the matter with him?

“Is he worth taking?” A Watchman got up, casually unwinding rope from his waist.

“Makes up the quota.” The one who had thrown the water came over. “Not much muscle, though. What’s your name, boy?”

Raffi rubbed his face. Someone was telling him not to speak, but he ignored it, groping after the name and saying it carefully. “Raffael.”

“What?”

“More . . . More.”

“Papers?”

He stared up at the man, blank. “What papers?”

“God! What sort of a bender have you been on!” Roughly, expertly, the man hauled him up and searched him. “Nothing! Where are they?”

“I don’t know.”

The Watchman slapped him, hard. “Don’t mess with me. Everyone has papers!”

Stunned, Raffi shook his head. He tried to hang on to his balance, but he was too dizzy. He crumpled into the mud on his knees, and shook his head hopelessly. “Not me,” he whispered.

HE WAS IN A CART. Being jolted. Other bodies were packed in around him; someone elbowed him in the ribs. “Move over. And stop mumbling!”

It was dark. Through a slot there were stars, and six of the moons. He counted them over and over, trying to pin their names on in bright letters, Atterix, Cyrax, Lar, but the letters kept falling off and one name was always missing. He groped after it, back in darkness.

“FLAINSTEETH! Are these the best you could get! An idiot and a cripple!” The bald overseer behind the table made a gloomy note on his paper. “With this sort of rubbish, no wonder we’re behind schedule. When I said get anyone, I didn’t mean
anyone
.”

“The boy’s wiry, though his brain’s gone. This one can work too, despite the arm. Sign for them and finish it.”

Fascinated, Raffi watched the overseer’s pen scratch over the grimy paper. Someone grabbed his arm; something cold was pressed onto his neck. “Number twentyseven,” a voice snapped. “Remember that.” All around him gangs of workers hauled stone, chipped stone, chiseled stone. The noise was deafening, the air thick with flying dust.

“Get them started. Fourth section. Cato’s Cleft.”

A great hairy rope was put in his hands and he heaved on it. All day he dragged the rope, and others dragged, and the one nearest him was a scrawny one-armed man who whispered, “Put your back into it, son. Slack off when they’re not looking. That’s it. You’ve got it,” until it was hours later and he was slumped in exhaustion and his hands were raw and the one-armed man was eating both their rations of food.

Out of nowhere, clarity swung into Raffi’s mind. He struggled up. “That’s mine. You’re eating mine.”

The man stared. “You can speak?”

BOOK: The Margrave

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