The Hidden Coronet #3

by Catherine Fisher

  “Of course I don’t want to.” The Sekoi’s voice was an exasperated snarl. “However, I’ll go. The logic of the choice was impeccable. It’s just . . .” Its yellow eyes flickered to Carys. “I just wish someone else had suggested it.”

  She tucked her red hair behind one ear and grinned.

  Quietly, they all moved through the wood. On the edge of the trees the Sekoi stopped, put its hand into its coat, and made odd wriggling movements. Then it dumped a warm money belt into Raffi’s hands.

  “A few small coins for the Great Hoard. If I don’t come back, pass them on to any Sekoi.”

  Raffi felt the weight of it in amazement. “You’ve been busy.”

  The Sekoi winked.

  Then it was loping up the track to the bridge. Dappled moonlight lit its back, sending three tall shadows into the trees.

  “A brave soul,” Solon muttered, half to himself. Behind him, Galen nodded.

  When the creature got to the bridge it looked back, once. Through the sense-lines Raffi felt nothing, but the Sekoi were notoriously hard to reach. It turned and pulled a long cord.

  Somewhere a bell jangled.

  Crouching beside Solon under a fallen tree thick with ivy, Raffi felt rather than saw the Watchman who opened the grille. They were too far to hear what was said, but the words “Another one” rang in the sense-lines for a moment, and he knew the man had been sour, but hardly surprised.

  He glanced at Solon. “They were expecting him?”

  The Archkeeper looked grave. “They were expecting someone, my son. I pray we haven’t made a great mistake.”

  The gate was opening. Like a shadow the Sekoi slipped in. The bolts shot to behind it, then the inner gate was opened; Raffi felt the slow, heavy drag of the wood, deep in the curved groove it had worn in the floor.

  It slammed in his head.

  And the river swirled by, breaking the sense-lines.

  Galen leaned his head back against the ivy-covered tree.

  “Now we wait,” he muttered.

  IT SHOULDN’T HAVE TAKEN THIS LONG. Restless, Raffi strapped the belt of coins tighter under his shirt. It felt strangely heavy, as if it weighed him down. Keepers had no money—that was one of the Precepts of the Order. Idly he wondered what it would be like to spend all this.

  After a daydream of warm beds and fine food, he came back to himself to find Solon praying the Litany quietly and Carys talking to Marco, lying on one elbow. Both had their bows ready.

  “So how did you get yourself arrested?” she was saying.

  The bald man grinned. “Oh, that. Bit of an error of judgment.” Dropping his voice so Galen wouldn’t hear, he said, “I had a contract from the Watch. I was a licensed dealer. Any relics I heard of, I bought up, usually from farmers, and then sold on to the Watch. The profit was pitiable, but sometimes,” he said with a wink, “sometimes I found something really juicy and held out for a good price. And of course, you can always get two castellans to bid against each other. They’ll do anything to get a promotion.”

  Carys made a face. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  He looked at her. “I’ll bet you were some spy.”

  “The best.”

  “And you don’t miss it?”

  She winked at Raffi. “I’m still some spy.”

  Marco chortled. “Well anyway, I went too far. Found a pen that memorized what you wrote with it—amazing thing, still working. I sold it to one Watchhouse, but the sergeant at the other found out and had my business dealings watched. That was that. In days I was in the cells.”

  “That was where you met Solon?” Raffi said.

  Marco glanced over at the older man. “Crazy old fool was giving away all his food to the others. If I hadn’t looked after him, he’d be dead.”

  There was silence. Then Raffi said, “The Sekoi’s taking a long time.”

  Carys shrugged. “That creature can scam its way out of anything.”

  He knew that. He’d felt the powerful hypnosis of Sekoi stories himself, the way they dragged you in, so you smelled and heard and lived the adventure. He wondered what yarns it was spinning in there. Kalimar and the Wyvern? The Last Stand of the Sekoi at Hortensmere? A clatter made him jerk suddenly. Galen leaped up. “Get ready.”

  The gate was being unbolted. They crouched, alert, Raffi suddenly afraid that the Sekoi’s battered body would be thrown out onto the track.

  The gate swung wide. A tall figure stood there with a lantern.

  “Well, Galen?” it said irritably. “Are you coming?”

  Relief soaked Raffi. And scrambling out, for a second he remembered Tasceron, the blind alley, the screaming, vicious attack of the draxi.

  The Sekoi looked smug. Both gates were open; as soon as everyone was through, Galen and Marco dragged them shut, slamming home the bolts and the intricate sliding levers of the great locks.

  “What about the men outside?” Solon muttered.

  “Listen to you!” Marco scowled. “You’re a softhearted wretch, even for a poor broken-down keeper.”

  Solon smiled. “I wouldn’t want them to freeze.”

  “They weren’t so concerned about us. They can knock, Your Holiness, just like anyone else. Try not to shed too many tears.”

  Raffi looked scandalized.

  Carys grinned. She could see the deep affection under the banter; it must have been all that kept the two of them sane in the horror of the Watch cells.

  The Sekoi led them quickly over the bridge. The structure was wooden, and through the slits between the rough planks, Carys glimpsed the swift, dark rush of the water below. Their footsteps rang loud; coming to the north gatehouse the Sekoi turned. “Keep as quiet as you can.”

  Inside, the guardroom was spartan. Just like every other Watchpost, she thought acidly, recognizing the rotas and huge logbooks, the endless Rules painted in red letters down the walls, the meager fire with its tiny ration of wood. And that smell, so hard to name, so full of hateful memories.

  The two men were near the fire. One was slumped on a stool, his arms folded on the table. He was staring deeply into the dull flames. The other stood, to Raffi’s amazement, by the window looking out into the dark. Both seemed so normal, as if they were lost in thought and would turn around at once. But neither did. Their crossbows lay on a huge weapons stack in the corner; Carys went over and helped herself to a pile of spare bolts.

  “What story was it?” Galen asked, amused.

  The Sekoi looked embarrassed. “These are crude men. It wasn’t easy. Frankly, keeper, it isn’t fit for your ears.”

  Marco sniggered.

  “Let’s go,” Carys said.

  “Wait.” The Sekoi glanced swiftly at her. “I took the chance to search the place. On that wall are messages. Take a look.”

  Carys felt Galen crowd behind her.

  The board held brief reports, probably brought by post-riders from the nearest Watchtower. Each one told of the same thing—Sekoi movements; small bands of the creatures, lone travelers, even whole tribes, all heading west on every road.

  “What does it mean?” Galen turned.

  The Sekoi bit its nails. “It must be a Circling.”

  “Which is?”

  “A gathering. For something important.”

  “You knew nothing of it?”

  “Galen, I’ve been on Sarres all winter.”

  Carys put her hand up to the board. In the top lefthand corner a larger notice had been torn off. The pin was still there, but only a fragment of white paper was left under it, with a few numbers that she stared at curiously. “I wonder where this went?”

  “Why?” Galen looked at it.

  “The numbers are the end of a code sequence. It was important—priority intelligence. Maybe direct from Maar.”

  “Don’t you think we should go?” Raffi asked nervously.

  “I agree.” Solon was watching the men in fascination.

  “This is most strange. Will they remember seeing us?”

  “Th
ey can’t see or hear us.” Galen dragged back the bolts in the opposite door. “They’re deep in some sordid story. They’ll only remember one Sekoi. Come on.”

  Once through both gates, they jammed the outer one with a fallen branch, hoping it would slow any pursuit. Then, without stopping, they ran. Galen led them straight off the road and up a steep track; they climbed high into the woods, hurrying in the dark along trails and paths that only keepers could sense, always up, out of the valley.

  Breathless, Carys scrambled and climbed, wondering again at the Order’s reckless way of travel, the way the group was strung out, Marco and Solon far behind. They had no discipline, she thought hotly, at least not the right kind. And yet Galen had his own defenses, and even she could almost feel his mind’s deep entanglement with the wood, sensing far into its roots and soil and streams.

  Finally, on the skyline among a high stand of sheshorn, they crouched and looked back.

  The bridge was silent, the firelight a dim glow in the guardroom window.

  “How long will it last?” Marco asked.

  The Sekoi shrugged in elegant disdain. “With such feeble imaginations, maybe only an hour.” It turned suddenly. “Galen, listen to me now. I think I must leave you. I need to go to this Circling and find out what troubles my people.”

  Galen looked hard into the creature’s yellow eyes. Then he stood up. “If you must.”

  “I should.” It hesitated a moment, then said, “In fact, I’ve thought since before we left Sarres that I should speak to my people. We have many sources of information. Someone may know something of the Coronet.”

  “You’ll be discreet?” Solon said anxiously.

  The Sekoi gave a mew of scorn. “We have no Watch among us, Archkeeper. But yes, I will.”

  “You can’t go alone,” Raffi said.

  “Ah.” The Sekoi looked awkward. It scratched its furred face. “I could. But then I would be out of touch with you. Even the . . . Even Galen could not reach me.”

  Galen nodded. “Then we split up. One of us comes with you. The rest go on to the observatory and wait for you there. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “I think you should take—”

  “I want Carys to come with me.”

  There was a moment of surprise. The scarred moon, Pyra, came out among the trees, glinting on the Sekoi’s sly eyes.

  “Great,” Carys said. “Kind of you to think of me. Is this some sort of revenge?”

  “Call it a challenge. A chance to learn something of the Sekoi.”

  She looked at it narrowly. Then she nodded. “All right. If you’re sure.”

  The Sekoi smiled. “I am.”

  Galen said, “Get to the observatory as soon as you can. If plans change I’ll . . . let Carys know.”

  Solon smoothed his silver hair. “I fail to see how.”

  “There are ways.” Galen’s eyes were dark. He gripped the Sekoi’s shoulder. “Take care. Both of you.”

  The creature nodded. Then it turned to Raffi. “I’ll take my belt now,” it said with a grin.

  Two miles on, they separated.

  The Sekoi slipped into the trees and Carys followed. Before the darkness swallowed them she turned and made a face, waving at Raffi.

  “Cheer up,” she called.

  Uneasy, he waved back.

  14

  Once, they say, Agramon came down and took a walk through the world, dressed in rags. She came to a town and asked for a room at a tavern. “This is all I have,” she said, showing a purse with one coin. Beneath her coat the glimmer of her dress was silver. The greedy innkeeper winked at his wife.

  “Is that so?” he muttered.

  Agramon’s Purse

  THE WEATHER GOT STEADILY WORSE.

  For three days it rained without stopping, a bitter sleet that made all the tracks quagmires; and on the fourth Raffi crawled out of exhausted sleep in a broken sheepfold to find the world white, every tiny blade of grass crusted with spines of frost. All that day, trudging over open fields, he felt the stricken shock of the soil, frozen in trampled ridges, all the tiny sprouting seeds seared and dead.

  Everything was wrong. There was nothing left to eat. Solon was suffering from his Watch-injuries but walked steadily, uncomplaining. Each of them was soaked to the skin and could not get dry. The sense-lines had to struggle deep to find life; in every bare hedge and frozen stream all the energies had withdrawn, the creatures huddled and hidden, the embryos unborn. There was no spring—it had been shattered. And at night the skies were black, the stars frosty, the moons oddly brilliant in their colors and crescents.

  Galen was worried. Late that evening, after the Litany, he looked across the meager fire to Solon, and Raffi knew what he would ask.

  “Is this weather Kest’s work?”

  “I fear it, my son.” Solon leaned back against the tree, rubbing anxiously at the dirt on his hands. “When Kest tampered with the Makers’ creation, he began something that has never stopped. Only the efforts of the Order held the world in balance, but with our hold broken, the Unfinished Lands will soon overwhelm us. In twenty years or less. Perhaps this evil spring is the beginning.”

  “Didn’t the console say something about the weather?” Raffi spoke quietly; Marco was a little way off, looking out over the fields beyond the copse.

  Galen glanced up. “Yes. ‘The weather-net holds’ were the words. And then ‘We’ll leave the Coronet active as a stabilizer.’ ”

  He sat in shadow, but as he said the Maker-words, even casually, a rustle of power stirred around him, something so vivid and yet gone so quickly Raffi could only pray Solon had not noticed it.

  If he had, the Archkeeper controlled his surprise. After a moment he pushed a branch farther into the flames and said, “Perhaps the weather-net isn’t holding anymore.”

  “You mean the Makers could control the weather?” It was a new idea for Raffi.

  “They made the world, boy,” Galen growled in disgust. “All of it. If the Coronet is . . .”

  Something snagged in Raffi’s head. He hissed with the pain of it. “Sense-lines!”

  Instantly, they were listening. Men. A whole group. Riding fast.

  “Marco!” Solon warned.

  Galen was stamping the fire out. The bald man rustled hurriedly back between the bushes. “What?”

  “Watch! Get down!”

  All at once the night was an enemy, prickling with danger. Flat under the hazels, praying there were no vesps, Raffi felt the old terror surge up in him. He could hear them coming, galloping hard along the farm track, and under his forehead the thunder of hooves made the ground vibrate and shudder.

  It took all his willpower to raise his head a fraction and look out.

  A full patrol, maybe more. They were well-armed, the moonlight catching swords and bows, a few helmets swinging from saddles. In the dark it was hard to see much more, but they were riding at speed; even as he watched, they had crunched across the stream and were gone, racing in a long column up the farther fields.

  Galen rolled over. He dragged leaves from his hair.

  “Something’s going on,” he said. “The Sekoi know. The Watch know.”

  “And you don’t?” Marco mocked.

  Galen gave him a dark stare. “I know where we can find out.”

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON they lay under the hedgerow and looked up.

  The town of Arreto was built high on the hilltop. One road wound up to it that they could see; there were probably others. It had a strong-looking wall, with bastions. Inside that, Raffi could see roofs and parapets, and the Watchtower near the broken dome of what once must have been a shrine of the Order. From the dull sky the wind whipped sleet against his face. His breath smoked with the bitter cold.

  “This is a terrible risk,” Solon muttered.

  That was no use, Raffi thought. Galen thrived on risks. He sometimes wondered what the keeper would have done in a safe Order, an Order that was rich and unthreatened, its disciplines ri
gid and unbroken. Set off for some remote edge of the Finished Lands, probably, or been martyred trying to convert the Sekoi.

  “If you want,” Galen said, turning his head, “you and Marco can go around. Raffi and I will go through the town and meet you beyond, where the road turns north to the observatory.”

  Solon looked rueful. “My son, don’t tempt me.”

  “What about you, dealer?”

  Marco laughed. “I know you’d like to get rid of me, Galen. But my stomach says no.”

  Raffi scowled. Why did he have to mention food? It was lack of food that had brought them to this; they had eaten all their supplies and there had been little in the frozen fields to forage. Marco had shot a wood pigeon, but that had been two nights ago and he had eaten it alone; neither Solon nor Galen would touch it. Raffi had even tried begging at a few farms, but the raw spring was obviously bringing famine; he had been seen off at all of them, and even now the thought of one great ox of a man roaring abuse in the doorway made him sweat.

  This was populated country, full of Watch, crisscrossed with roads, busy with trade. Dangerous. And yet they had to pass it. Beyond the town the observatory lay on the slopes of Mount Burna, only two days’ walk. But first they needed food. And information.

  They waited till night to scale the walls. Galen had selected his spot carefully, where a crag jutted above a stream; it was fairly easy to climb up, though Solon slipped once. Close up, the wall was rough and ramshackle; in places it had collapsed and slithered away, the mortar dry and crumbling between the stones. Watchpatrols passed across the top at regular intervals; when one was out of sight Galen climbed up, crawled through a gap, and vanished.

  Seconds later his hooked face peered out of the shadows.

  “Come on.”

  Raffi came last, bruising his knee and scraping his wrist and finally dropping down onto a wide, dim terrace. Without a word they ran across it, the light of four moons suddenly silvering them, and pattered down a small stone staircase. They found themselves in a narrow alley. On each side were tall, dark buildings, the sky a strip far above where flittermice screeched. The alley was silent, cobbled, leading downhill. Trying to walk casually, they followed it.