Faces

by E. C. Blake

  “Mara,” Chell warned. “If they tell the Watchers—”

  “None of these will tell the Watchers,” Mara said. “Of all the people in Tamita, they’re the last ones who will tell the Watchers anything.”

  She unlocked her old cell, and then the others. The children in their prison smocks stumbled out into the dim light. “Bring the fat man,” she told Hyram. “He can have my old cell.”

  Hyram, with Keltan’s help, forced the fat man to the door of the cell. He resisted, and they shoved him through so hard he stumbled, the blanket falling away as he fell to his hands and knees, revealing massive white buttocks like pale hams. He scrabbled for the blanket and pulled it around him again, then stared up at them. Now that he was away from Hyram’s knife, hatred filled his face. “You’ll all pay for this! You’ll hang outside Traitors’ Gate, every one of you, and I will draw your naked bodies and laugh while I do it.”

  Mara glanced at Hyram. “Gag him.”

  “With pleasure,” Hyram said. He grabbed a filthy towel, lying on the floor next to the noisome bucket half-filled with excrement, and bound it around the fat man’s head, forcing it between his teeth.

  “Charming gentleman,” Chell commented.

  Mara turned to the red-haired boy. “Here is the key to his cell,” she said. “We’re four hours from first light. I leave him in your care.”

  The boy’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, we’ll take good care of him,” he said softly, and the fat man’s red face suddenly paled again. He got up and stumbled to the cot, where he huddled in his blanket, eyes wide and white with terror as the children from the cells gathered around his door and stared in at him.

  Mara turned her back on him and on the children. “This way,” she said to the others, and led them to the back of the warehouse, where it butted hard against the stone of the first tier of Fortress Hill. There was the door she remembered, rough black wood banded with rusty iron. Once again she pulled magic from Whiteblaze to unlock it, then pulled it wide.

  No lamplight flickered in the tunnel beyond. She suspected it was only illuminated when there was to be a Masking ceremony, just in case it was needed in the aftermath. Chell sent two of his men back to the fat man’s chamber; they returned with the lamp Mara had magically lit and two others they had found. Thus provided with illumination, they entered the tunnel, closing and locking the door behind them.

  In silence they followed the tunnel up through Fortress Hill, climbing rough-hewn stairs, trudging along stone passageways, chill and damp. When gray stone gave way to polished white, Mara called a halt. “We’re under the Maskery,” she whispered. The stairs down which she had been dragged by the Watchers, bleeding and in shock, led up into darkness from which came the sound of rushing water. It took little imagination for her to also hear the sound of her mother’s screams. “I know these tunnels connect to the Palace, but I don’t know exactly how. We have to be even more cautious from here on.”

  “We weren’t exactly planning to bang on the walls and sing marching songs,” Hyram growled.

  Chell shot Hyram a sharp, frowning glance. “Let’s keep moving. First light won’t wait.”

  The white hallway stretched ahead of them. Following it, where in the Palace would they emerge? Greff’s instructions had been clear enough, but she had to get her bearings before she could make use of them.

  At least the hallway remained deserted. There weren’t even any doorways, which she took to mean they were still traversing the space between the Maskery and the Palace. They climbed another flight of stairs, and finally saw an end to the corridor: a brightly lit opening across which a figure suddenly passed right to left, an indistinct silhouette.

  Mara held up a hand to stop the advance. “Just Keltan and I go ahead,” she said. “Everyone else wait here.”

  Keltan had never removed his Watcher’s Mask. Mara retrieved the Child Guard Mask from Chell and put it back on, knowing as she did so that she would not be removing it again until she had either succeeded or failed.

  In which case . . . she wondered if the Masks she had made would likewise crumble and crack when their wearers died, or if that was only a characteristic of the Masks of the Autarch.

  She turned to Whiteblaze, touched his head. “Stay,” she whispered, and he sat down heavily, with a disgruntled sigh. She scratched him behind the ears, and set off toward the light, Keltan following her.

  The tunnel ended in a large chamber lit by hissing gas lamps, with corridors extending left and right and ahead: an underground crossroads. The person they had seen pass in front of the light was disappearing down the corridor to the left. Not a Watcher, Mara thought, though from behind she could not tell what kind of Mask the person had been wearing.

  But it didn’t matter. She knew where they were now. She had passed through this chamber herself during her time in the Palace, though she had never realized the corridor from which they had just emerged joined up with the tunnel down which she had been taken to the warehouse and its loathsome warden. From here she knew exactly how to get to where she needed to be.

  More importantly, she knew how to get the armed infiltrators she had left in the corridor where they needed to be. She turned and went back down the corridor. Whiteblaze scrambled to his feet, grinning at her. “I’ve got my bearings, so everything proceeds as we discussed,” she said swiftly. “Keltan is a Watcher, so he can move freely. He will escort me to ‘my’—Greff’s—chambers. As we go, I’ll show him the route to the throne room.” She glanced at Keltan. “If we’re stopped, you explain that you found me outside the Palace, distraught over my parents’ death. No doubt there was consternation when Greff didn’t return from his meeting in the guardhouse. Say you’ve been ordered to stand watch outside my room. Your Mask will show anyone who questions it that you’re telling the truth, so they’ll have no choice but to believe you.”

  Keltan nodded.

  “The rest of you,” she said, turning back, “wait here. I doubt this tunnel is used except when there is a Masking, so it should remained deserted. If anyone does come down it, you’ll have to quietly take care of whomever it is.”

  “No problem,” Hyram said.

  “When I’m summoned to go to the Autarch—and I suspect that will happen the moment Edrik makes his presence known, because the Autarch will want all his magical resources at hand the moment he feels even the slightest threat—Keltan will return and lead you to the throne room. Keep everyone else out while I deal with the Autarch.”

  “You’re talking about the Sun Guards,” Hyram said.

  “Sun Guards?” Antril said.

  “The Autarch’s elite bodyguards,” Hyram said.

  “Oh,” Antril said. “Good to know.”

  “Probably,” Mara said. “But whatever I have to do to defeat the Autarch, I can’t do it with a Watcher dagger in my back.”

  “I have seen the foyer to the throne room,” Chell said, not to Mara, but to the rest of the force. “With ten fighters, we can defend it against an army . . . for a time.”

  “Whatever happens in the throne room,” Mara said, “won’t take long.” One way or another. “Keltan, let’s go.”

  “Good luck,” said Chell.

  Mara didn’t expect Hyram to say anything. But as he had when she and Keltan had ridden away from the army after donning their false Masks, he surprised her. “Good fortune,” he said gruffly. And then, as if to make certain she understood him, added, “To both of you.”

  “Thank you,” Mara said, finding her own voice surprisingly rough. She knelt beside Whiteblaze. “Stay,” she told him. “Follow Chell.” She exerted a little magic to be sure he understood. He whined, but she knew he would do as she said.

  She got back to her feet, and together she and Keltan walked into the Palace.

  Murmuring instructions as necessary, Mara guided Keltan to the chambers of the Child Guard. They rounded a co
rner and saw the entry door Greff had described to them dead ahead—and on either side of it, the expected Watcher guards.

  The two men stiffened as Mara and Keltan came into view. “Greff!” one of them snarled. “You bloody brat, where the hell have you—”

  “He had some bad news from home,” Keltan said. “He took it hard.”

  The man’s gaze shifted to him. “Who are you?” he said suspiciously.

  “Hyram,” Keltan said. “New to the city. Was serving in Yellowgrass.” He jerked his thumb at Mara. “Prilk down in the guardhouse grabbed me off my regular street patrol and told me to go after this one. Ran off after hearing from a girl from his village his parents had died. Led me on a merry chase, too. Lost him for a while, but finally picked him up down by the Market Gate. Prilk told me once I found him to bring him here—and stand guard over him until morning, make sure he doesn’t try to run off again.”

  “He won’t run off with us here,” the Watcher growled.

  “Don’t I know it,” Keltan said sourly. “But I have my orders, senseless though they seem. I’ve got to stand outside his room for the rest of the night.”

  The guards exchanged glances, then the one who had been doing all the talking shrugged. “No skin off our noses. Go tuck him in. Third room on the right.”

  The other guard opened the door, and Keltan shoved Mara through it. The third door on the right stood open. Mara stepped into the room beyond and looked around. There was a bed, a table, a chair, a lamp, and a chamber pot. That was it. Aside from the fact everything was clean, it wasn’t much of an improvement over the cells down in the warehouse.

  More like a stable for a prized milk cow, she thought.

  “Mara . . .” Keltan whispered as he stood in the doorway, but she shook her head sharply and closed the door in his face. Good-byes were a risk they could not take. The die was cast, and they had to live with the roll.

  She lay down on the bed. No doubt, Child Guard were able to remove their Masks while they slept, but she kept hers on, as she kept her borrowed clothes. She did not expect to sleep anyway.

  As it happened, she was wrong about that. She dozed almost at once, her body more exhausted than she had guessed.

  She woke to a sound she had never heard before: a deep, shuddering moan that made the hair stand up on the back of her neck even as she gasped her way out of sleep.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Face to Face

  THE DOOR SWUNG OPEN, just a crack. “They’re coming,” Keltan whispered, and the door closed again. Mara swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. Her heart pounded in her chest as though trying to break free from the cage of her ribs. Despite all the planning and thought that had gone into this moment, despite all the fear and horror and heart-wrenching grief that had led her to this place—or maybe because of it—she felt woefully unprepared. What have I done? she thought in sudden terror. I can’t defeat the Autarch. It’s ludicrous.

  But from somewhere deep inside her rose a bubble of calm, though it was the kind of surface calm that holds back fiery rage. Yes, we can.

  We?

  “What’s going on?” she heard Keltan say. “What’s that noise? I’ve never heard it before.”

  “No one has,” said a gruff voice. “It’s the general alarm. It means the city faces imminent attack. Autarch wants the Child Guard, now. And you’d better get back to your post or they’ll be hanging you outside Traitors’ Gate for desertion.”

  “Yes, sir,” Keltan said. She sensed his hesitation, but it would have made no sense for a Watcher to say good-bye to the Child Guard he’d hauled home in disgrace, and he must have known it. She heard his footsteps run off down the hall.

  Now she truly was alone.

  The door swung wide and a Watcher stared in at her. “Good, you’re dressed,” he growled. “In the hall now.”

  Mara stepped out into the hall. She was the first of the Child Guard to do so, the others presumably having to don their robes, whereas she had slept in hers, but it did not take them long to muster. “Where were you last night?” whispered a girl, taller than her, who stepped in beside Mara, but Mara didn’t dare answer and kept her eyes down. She couldn’t even remember if they were the same color as Greff’s. She dared not look anyone in the face.

  In another moment it wasn’t a problem. “Quick march,” snapped the Watcher, and the Child Guard broke into a fast trot along the corridor. They went out, turned, followed another hall, turned again, climbed multiple flights of stairs . . . and emerged onto the landing in front of the tall golden doors of the throne room. Those doors stood open. They were ushered in.

  The Autarch sat on the Sun Throne, though the sun was not yet up and so no light came through the glass behind the massive replica of his Mask that hung above the golden chair. Rather than blazing like fire, the eyes of that giant Mask instead were dull and gray.

  The last time Mara had stood in the throne room she had worn the iron Mask that blocked her Gift, and the black basin that stood beside the throne had appeared empty. Now she could see that it brimmed with magic. But she could see more than that. She could also see that it could not be emptied of its magic, not easily: for the magic flowed up into it from underneath. There must be a vast reservoir below the throne, she thought. Magic from the mine.

  Magic extracted through the pain and suffering and degradation of the unMasked.

  She felt anger that she fought to hold down, though somehow it seemed disconnected from the anger she sensed inside the calm that now overlay her thoughts. That anger seemed to come from outside her, as if it belonged to someone else.

  What’s going on?

  With the precision born of long practice, the Child Guard ranged themselves on the steps of the dais, each sitting on one of the blue cushions that rested on the white marble, much like the wolves had once ranged themselves around the Lady of Pain and Fire. Mara hesitated only a moment before seeing the space where Greff would be expected to go. She went to it and sat down on the cushion.

  Now what?

  More people came into the throne room: a half-dozen in all. One she recognized as Shelra, the Mistress of Magic, who had trained her in its use. Another wore a Mask of silver, like the Child Guard—but unlike the Masks of the Child Guard, this one was adorned with gems: blue on the forehead, green on the cheeks, silver tracing the entire periphery. She had seen such a Mask just once before, though the details were different. That would be the Guardian of Security, the replacement for Stanik, whom she had slain when her father had died.

  These half-dozen men and women, then, must be the Circle: the Autarch’s closest advisers, tasked with the day-to-day governance of the Autarchy. “Guardian Flinik,” said the Autarch. “What exactly is the threat outside our walls?”

  “It appears to be a bandit force,” the Guardian of Security said. “All unMasked. Mostly men, a few women. We put the number at about a hundred.”

  “One hundred,” the Autarch said. “And they dare to attack Tamita?”

  “Ordinarily,” the Guardian said, “they would pose little threat. But as you know,” his voice trembled a little as though he feared what he had to say next, but he pressed on, “almost all of the battle-trained Watchers we have were sent north to deal with the rebel stronghold my predecessor uncovered the existence of. The messenger who arrived yesterday assures us the Watcher Army is aware of this threat and is riding south to meet it, but it is not here yet. If this bandit army is able to penetrate the walls, they could do much damage.”

  “Can they penetrate the walls?” asked the Autarch.

  “Repairs are far from complete on the portion of the wall destroyed on the day my predecessor . . . predeceased me. The repairs have been slow. The bandits appear to be well aware of that fact. There is a risk.” He paused. “A risk made greater,” he finally continued, “by their unknown magical abilities. The reports from the messengers
—of the complete destruction of the magic mine—are . . . worrisome.”

  Silence fell in the throne room for a long moment. Then the Autarch growled, “This cannot be borne. It is a direct affront to me and to my authority as Autarch. And therefore I will deal with it. Have your Watchers pull back, Flinik. They are to surround and protect the Palace.”

  “Your Highness?” Flinik said. “But that will leave the walls undefended!”

  “No,” said the Autarch. “It will not. This is an attack on the ordinary citizens of Tamita. And therefore the ordinary citizens of Tamita will defend the walls.” He dipped his hand into the basin of magic at his right side . . . and Mara almost gasped out loud. She saw the magic pour into him, so rapidly and eagerly that the level in the basin visibly dropped even though she could sense more magic surging up like a geyser from the reservoir somewhere below them. But the Autarch did not hold it in himself. Instead, it went . . . elsewhere. She could feel it spreading out from the throne room as though the Sun Throne were the sun in earnest, casting its rays across the whole city. “Everyone but the Child Guard, leave me,” said the Autarch. “I must concentrate. Flinik, array your forces as I ordered. I believe your doubts will be allayed before you even reach the wall . . . unh.” The Autarch’s eyes closed behind his golden Mask, and his chest heaved. The Circle exchanged glances, then fled. The throne room door closed behind them . . . slammed closed, as though shut in haste.

  Muffled cries and thuds sounded beyond the door. Mara sensed, though from too far away for it to flow to her, the escape of magic from a dying man. Hyram and Chell and Keltan were waiting for them. The members of the Circle have been killed or captured. So far, so good.

  But that wouldn’t matter in the slightest if she could not cut off the head of the beast. She got to her feet.

  The Autarch gasped again—and suddenly the Child Guard stiffened all around her, moaning as one, lighting up in her Gifted sight like torches, burning with magic which the Autarch drew eagerly to himself.