The key of F sharp, F sharp, F sharp.
It has F, C, G, D, A and E sharp.
The key of F sharp, F sharp, F sharp.
It’s the crippled beggar key of F#.
The key of C sharp—
The footsteps paused, then came towards her cell.
‘Hannah?’
‘Steven?’ She was embarrassed at the hoarse rattle in her throat. ‘Steven, is that you?’
‘Where are you?’
Adrenalin flooded through her and she stood and stumbled across the chamber, shouting, ‘I’m in here, Steven. I’m in this one, right down here.’ She banged her fist against the door, hearing the echo resonate along the cavernous hallway. He had to hear her; she was making enough noise to wake the dead.
‘Hannah?’ the voice called back, ‘where are you?’
Something slimy slithered across her foot. She screamed, twisting away so violently she felt something in her back snap, a tendon or a ligament stretched too far. She ignored the throbbing pain as she huddled in her corner and screamed, ‘Steven! Can you hear me, Steven? I’m in here, Steven! Please let me out! Steven, please!’
The voice didn’t answer and Hannah strained her ears, keeping her eyes tightly closed. Her breath was too loud; she was panting in fear of whatever had slipped over her feet— She felt around for her boots and pulled them on: she needed to get a hold of herself, control her breathing if she was going to hear him. She forced herself to take several long, deep breaths.
‘Steven?’ Hannah whispered, and tiptoed back towards the door. There was no answer. She pressed hard against the wooden frame, until her skin came away marked with the grain pattern. ‘Steven?’
For a time – Hannah lost track – she stood and called into the darkness; after a while some part of her mind took charge and told her she had been hearing things; there was no way Steven Taylor could have been in the hallway outside her cell.
When the less-than-entirely sane part of her mind finally accepted that, Hannah fell apart. She trundled back to her corner, wrapped herself in her cloak and cried until she fell asleep. She didn’t wake when the guard brought her morning gloop, nor did she wake when he arrived the following day to replace that trencher with a fresh one.
Eventually, Hannah’s cell door opened and torchlight flooded in, blinding her. She buried her face in her cloak as a young soldier stepped inside. She squinted up at him: he wore the Malakasian crest emblazoned in gold across a leather vest, and his muscular arm was marked with sergeant’s stripes. His sandy-brown hair was tousled; his skin was pale, and he wore heavy boots and leather gloves, which Hannah found a curious choice given the heat.
He wasn’t carrying the disgusting mush.
‘So?’ she said, her voice hoarse, her lips cracking and bleeding as they moved. She pushed her matted hair from her eyes with bruised fingers, revealing the sores that had opened on her skin.
‘Hannah, oh gods… I’ve been looking for days.’
Confused, she tried to make a joke. ‘Oh, that’s nice. Is there a dance or something?’
‘Hannah, it’s me. Alen.’
Hannah tried to stand, but as she struggled to her feet, her vision tunnelled and she slumped back onto her knees. The soldier, whoever he was, moved to assist her.
‘Sit down,’ he said, ‘you’re weak.’
Hannah barely heard him as nausea gripped her and the tiny cell spun around her; she couldn’t make sense of what the soldier was saying.
‘—lost so much weight; look at you!’
Finally she struggled to a sitting position and swallowed hard, trying to keep her stomach calm. ‘Say what you said before,’ she croaked.
‘It’s me, Alen.’
‘No—’ She toppled over and allowed her head to rest against the stone floor.
The man squatted down beside her and took her hand. ‘Hannah, you grew up in Colorado,’ he said in English. ‘You’re American. I’m Alen; I’ve found you—’
‘How—?’ She was almost convinced. She pulled herself upright again.
‘This?’ Alen looked down at the young man’s body. ‘I broke a hundred and thirty-nine Larion Senate rules, but we’re in a bit of a spot and I needed to do something to free us.’
‘But your body, your old body, where is it?’ Her head was still spinning, but she began to hope.
‘In the cell, burned by now. I assume they think I’m dead.’
‘But where have you been all this time?’
‘I was looking for you, and this morning, I finally tracked you all down – this place is enormous. You’re the only one on this floor – well, the only one still with a mind, I should say—’
He broke off as Hannah groaned in anguish.
‘Hannah, listen, I’m getting you out now, so just hang on in. The day after I took the guard – well, I got posted to the docks; it took me eight days to get back and assigned to the prison wing yesterday.’
‘How many days?’ Hannah asked.
‘Too many, my dear; I had to make a good show of it until I located you all; like this I’m able to move freely about the palace – well, at least until they discover I’m gone. You need proper food, and querlis.’ He looked about the tiny cell. ‘Let’s get you some air first. I’ve found a place where you’ll be safe.’ He stood up and pulled her to her feet, then put one of her arms over his shoulder, his arm around her waist.
Hannah concentrated on walking, trying not to look at the thick oak doors that lined the hallway. She shuddered at the idea that such a prison had been constructed before Nerak destroyed the Larion Senate – what could they have needed with such a facility?
‘Where are we going?’ she whispered.
‘To the servants’ quarters, there’s an empty hall, maybe housing for seasonal workers, but it’s all locked up and ignored; it’s the perfect place for you to recover. I’ll settle you in, then go find Hoyt and Churn.’
‘You’ve been out all this time?’
‘I’ve been doing some research while searching for you all; I’ve learned a great deal.’
‘Is Nerak here?’ She shuddered at the thought.
Alen shook his head. ‘No. People believe he was lost in an explosion in Orindale, or that he went down with his ship, the Prince Marek. I felt the magicians – well, most of them – give up their search for me; I suppose that was the night he disappeared.’
‘Most of them?’
At least one has continued looking for me, probably at Nerak’s insistence.’
How do you know that?’
‘Branag’s dog,’ Alen held the torch out in front of them, illuminating a section of uneven flagstones. ‘Careful here. Nerak must have detected you coming through the portal, but Steven and Mark were already here and I think he knew they had Lessek’s key, so he concentrated on finding them. But he wasn’t going to just leave you to wander about, so he had one of his slaves watching you. When Nerak disappeared, this one hunter must have kept working, tracking you with Branag’s wolfhound. He must have soiled himself when you arrived in Middle Fork and found me.’
A two-for-one special,’ she murmured.
‘Just that. They’ve been trying to find me for a thousand Twinmoons, the bastards,’ Alen said. ‘Whoever this is, he ran that poor dog into the ground – that was a mercy killing on my part.’
‘But you spoke with the magician before killing the dog.’
‘I know.’ Alen frowned. ‘Rutting stupid of me – but as long as he thinks I’m dead down here, I’ll have surprise on my side when I finally locate him.’
‘You haven’t yet?’ Hannah asked.
‘Not yet. I’ve scoured those levels of the palace I can get into without raising suspicion, but Malagon and Bellan’s apartments are on the top three floors, and no one but Malagon’s personal guard can get up there. I’m not – this man – wasn’t cleared for it.’
‘Maybe the magician is up there too.’
‘That’s my guess.’ They reached the end of the corrid
or; Alen said, ‘No talking now. If we run into anyone out there, start coughing; I’ll convince them the prince wants you alive and that I’m taking you to a palace healer.’
Hannah nodded. ‘That shouldn’t be difficult to fake.’
She fell onto the mattress, little more than a canvas covering over a thick pad of hay, but to Hannah, it was bliss. Her breath was rasping in her chest and she hoped it was just a cold, not anything more worrying, like pneumonia. Dust motes danced in the sunlight that flooded the room and Hannah watched them as they settled back to the floor; before the last one fell she was asleep.
She woke to the sound of the door creaking open and watched as the young man claiming to be Alen entered, followed by Hoyt and Churn. Hoyt staggered over to her; his clothes, like hers, were torn and dirty, and he had open sores on his face and blood drying on his lips. His hands were stained with blood, and most of the nails on his fingers had been torn away. He stank, but Hannah didn’t mind – she probably looked and smelled much the same.
‘Move over,’ Hoyt whispered, obviously barely able to stand by himself.
‘What, no hello?’ She tried to make a joke.
‘Later,’ he said and collapsed onto the bed beside her.
Hannah tried to make as much room as possible; even in her dazed state she was amused at the thought that sharing a bed with someone for the first time was never easy, even when both were suffering from malnutrition and crippling fatigue. She tried to think of something witty to say, but Hoyt was already asleep.
Hannah looked at Churn, about to offer him her place on the mattress as she had slept a while, although she didn’t know for how long. It was still daylight, but the angle of the sun had changed; night would be upon them soon. ‘Churn,’ she whispered, ‘do you want—?’
But it was too late: the big man had walked to the nearest patch of sun and collapsed. Now, lying on the floor with the light on his face, he slept, a fallen Goliath. Hannah watched him for a moment, making certain his chest was rising and falling in a steady rhythm, then she drifted off again herself.
WELLHAM RIDGE
The road was an endless ribbon of mottled brown and white, hoof prints and wagon tracks frozen in the snow-covered mud. The Central Plain was a wasteland, sleeping away the winter, with only a few forgotten corn stalks or the occasional patch of winter wheat breaking through the monotony.
Garec had lost count of time since they had ridden out from Traver’s Notch; they’d been more than fifteen days on the road, but how many more, he had no idea. He couldn’t even recall what they’d eaten for dinner; the meals had begun to blur together. They had had no trouble finding accommodation so far; they made sure to enter any village or town from various points, not together, and the scattered occupation patrols had given them no more than a passing glance.
Townsfolk, merchants and farmers had welcomed the partisans into their barns, haylofts, cellars, offices, even the occasional guest room, as they made their way south as quickly and inconspicuously as possible. The previous night had been the first time they hadn’t reached shelter in time, and sleeping outside had been painfully cold.
Now as they cantered down the roadway, Garec felt the prickly sting of winter needles across his cheeks and forehead; he smiled, thinking of his mother, hearing her voice in his mind warning him to watch out for skin freeze – she always called it icebeard.
If that was the least of his worries, he’d be lucky. So far their trip had been pretty uneventful, all things considered. It was four days before they met their first soldiers, when, cresting a short rise, the company had overtaken a five-man patrol. Without slowing, Brand led his men straight at them: the black-and-gold-clad horsemen had no chance as the Resistance soldiers ran them down, slashed them to bloody tatters and left their broken bodies lying in a gulley.
There had been a few other small skirmishes; by Garec’s tally, Brand had lost seven of his men, but had accounted for very many more – none of the Malakasians they encountered escaped, so the occupation army had no idea that an enemy company was on the move. He worried for those people in the towns and villages where Malakasians were killed; the dark prince had never been one for leniency, especially not where guerrillas were concerned. Malakasian retaliation would be bloody, and cruel: many innocents would die for each Malakasian body they left on the roadside or behind a village tavern.
Later that morning, when Brand called a rest halt, Garec slipped from the saddle to stretch his stiff, sore back and legs; a night on the freezing ground had left most of them with painful limbs, though Garec noticed Gilmour, the oldest of the company, wasn’t even limping as he walked over.
‘Stiff?’ Gilmour asked, sympathetically.
‘Ha! Not all of us have the benefit of Larion magic to limber up our muscles each day,’ he grumbled.
‘Of course you do.’
‘I do? How?’ Garec winced as his leg cramped again.
‘Like this.’ Gilmour rubbed his hands together slowly until they glowed a dull red, then pressed his palm against Garec’s lower back; in a moment, the young man felt his joints loosen as a rush of warmth spread into his extremities. His pain subsided and then faded entirely.
‘Now that is a spell worth knowing,’ he said gratefully, ‘and you have my deepest thanks, Gilmour. It’s too bad you’re not ambitious: you could have made a fortune as a healer.’
‘Nah, too many sick people,’ he laughed.
‘So you’d rather be a soldier?’
‘Look at where we are, how lovely and refreshing it is, out in all this healthy fresh air.’
‘It’s freezing air,’ Garec corrected, ‘and speaking of where we are – where are we?’
‘You remember that fjord we navigated last Twinmoon? I think the eastern end is about three day’s ride from here, putting us two days east of Orindale.’ He filled his pipe, lit it with a spell and began smoking.
‘Morning boys,’ said Mark, riding over to join them.
‘Get out of the saddle, Mark. The air down here is fine.’ Garec offered a hand.
‘No, I’m too stiff- the only way I’m getting off is if the wind blows me down.’ He grimaced. ‘I don’t like riding these miserable animals at the best of times, and all stiff and twisted with cold makes it ten times worse, so I’m doubly cranky this morning.’ He searched along their ranks. ‘Where’s Steven?’
Garec pointed forward. ‘I saw him near the front with Brand a while ago.’
‘I’ll catch up with you later then,’ he said. ‘Gee up, Dobbin.’
Gilmour and Garec watched him ride off, feeling the animal’s hoofbeats through the frozen mud. ‘We ought to make Wellham Ridge late tonight,’ Gilmour said, ‘and if we’re up and out early tomorrow, I suspect we’ll end the day in sight of the foothills. We’re making good time.’
‘Until we reach a city,’ Garec corrected.
‘But that’s not to be helped. All the time we spend making our way into any town undetected is time well spent. Think of the alternatives.’
‘Sleeping outside?’
‘For one.’
‘No thanks. I suppose I can live—’ The vibrations began again, resonating up through his boots. ‘Do you feel that?’
Gilmour had gone white. ‘Mount up,’ he whispered, and then, shouting, ‘Mount up! In the saddle, now! Mount up!’
Garec dived for his horse as with each moment the vibrations beneath his feet grew stronger. Behind him, Gilmour ran back to where he had left his own horse, still shouting, but many of Brand’s men were slow to realise what he was saying.
Garec, now mounted, started urging them into action. ‘Let’s go. It’s riders, coming fast. Get up! Let’s go!’ Instinctively checking for his friends, he saw Mark near the front, one of the only riders still in the saddle. He watched as Mark reached into his quiver and nocked an arrow.
Hundreds of riders were coming hard at them across the plain; they were close.
Garec rode forward to join Steven and Mark; Gilmour would no
t be far from Steven and Lessek’s key. As he closed the distance, he saw Mark draw his bow full, aim and release an arrow into the wintry sky. Garec tried to keep his eye on it, but Mark’s angle was too high for any accuracy; Garec hoped that meant the approaching forces were still some distance off, but as he came alongside Mark’s horse, he saw what they were facing for the first time.
A battalion of Malakasian soldiers, some five hundred men, were closing on them at a gallop, thundering across the plain with standards flapping.
‘This is very bad,’ Mark groaned. ‘There are too many; we can’t fight that many.’
‘Maybe Steven will—’
‘He won’t, that would be mass murder. He’d never do that.’
‘Maybe he can slow them down.’
How? They’re a tidal wave.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Over there with Brand and that squad of scared-looking icicles we’re calling the Resistance Army.’ Mark drew another shaft, aimed to the heavens and released with a twang. They couldn’t see if it hit anyone in the blurry cloud of black, brown and gold.
‘Steven!’ Garec cried, pressing forward. ‘Steven, we have to get you and the key out of here.’
‘I agree.’ Gilmour appeared beside him. ‘We have to ride south as fast as we can; the Malakasians have big Falkan stallions and they’ll run us to ground. Let’s go.’
‘He’s right,’ Brand agreed. ‘We’ll cover you, and hope they don’t see you.’
Steven shook his head resolutely. ‘We can’t leave you here alone.’
‘Yes, you can,’ Brand said firmly, ‘and you must – don’t think we’ll dig in here and fight to the death; no one can stand against a cavalry charge, not even you and that staff. Prince Malagon isn’t with them and this is no suicide mission: we’ll draw them away and try to keep them distracted long enough for you to disappear.’
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