The Cipher

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  How long had she been asleep? She touched her clothes hanging on the ladder and felt an unpleasant jolt of surprise. They were nearly dry. She glanced upward, but the bed remained securely in place. A wash of anxiety woke her cipher. It cast a yellow nimbus around her wrist. She licked her lips, feeling a sudden desperate thirst, followed almost instantly by cramping hunger. She shivered, becoming aware of her nakedness beneath her dressing gown. It made her feel vulnerable.

  Quickly she grabbed her clothing and dressed again, shivering as the damp cloth sheathed her skin. She had no socks or boots. They were drying by the fire with her cloak. Lucy swore softly. Her cipher brightened. She broke off, taking several deep breaths. The light of the cipher only increased. She couldn’t fool it into thinking she was calmer than she was.

  Well, she wasn’t going to sit here getting more desperate and angry until the thing cooked her in her own juices. She grabbed her satchel and slung it over her shoulder. Grasping the rungs of the ladder, she climbed up to the top. After searching, she found a small lever hidden flush in the wall. She pried it up with her fore-finger and pulled it back. Above her, a crack appeared. Lucy climbed closer, pressing her ear as close as she could. She heard nothing. Cautiously she reached up and pushed the bed wider until there was room to climb through. The room was a mess. The bedclothes were piled on the floor, the furniture turned topsy-turvy. Drawers from the dresser were upside down and the tapestries had been pulled awry. The mirror above the vanity was spiderwebbed with cracks.

  Fear balled in Lucy’s stomach. She climbed up out of the hole and pulled the bed so the opening could not be seen. She listened, but still there were no sounds. Slowly she picked her way across the bedchamber into the sitting room. Her bare feet squelched in the soaked rug. The bathtub was tipped on its side, the water making pools on the floor. The screen had been smashed and lay in splinters. The drapes hung in tatters, revealing the darkness outside. Lucy went to the window, careful to keep to the side so no one would see her. Crown Shields milled in the street, guarding Faraday. There was no sign of Sarah.

  Lucy retreated to the hallway, inching along, listening for guards. The silence was chilling. Every room she passed was torn apart. As her tension increased, the cipher began to glow like a small sun. Lucy snatched a cloth from a hall table and used it to muffle the light.

  She eased out onto the landing above the entry. It was in shambles, but deserted. Lucy heard footsteps and voices outside the door. It rattled and opened. She didn’t wait but scurried back up the hallway, ducking into a service passage. She trotted the length of the house and pattered down the stairs toward the kitchen and servants’ quarters. Every room was ransacked, and there was no sign of anyone.

  In the kitchen, Lucy found a loaf of bread and a length of sausage on the floor underneath a broken stool. She bolted it ravenously while she searched for her cloak and boots. They were nowhere to be found. Instead she scavenged a pair of stiff heavy-soled shoes from the mudroom. They were too large, but she stuffed the toes with cleaning rags. She foraged for a cloak in one of the footmen’s quarters. It was made of heavy black wool and spotted with moth holes. The hem was dirty and it smelled of mildew. But it was better than nothing.

  She returned to the kitchen looking for something to drink. She found a barrel of water in the buttery. She dipped a tin cup full and drank deeply.

  Her excursion had taken only ten minutes. With the exterior of the house guarded, her best escape route was the passage beneath Sarah’s bed. Lucy returned up the stairs, setting her feet carefully. She froze when a step squeaked. When nothing happened, she inched upward, easing out onto the landing. She could hear a rumble of voices and then from the other end of the hallway a female Crown Shield stepped out of Sarah’s room.

  For a moment Lucy stared, unable to move. Then pain speared up her arm from the cipher. She turned and flung herself back down the stairs, three steps at a time. The woman shouted. Lucy raced out to the back entrance where she’d entered earlier in the day. She tripped and scrabbled up the steps using her hands. She fumbled with the latch and yanked the door open, every moment expecting hands to grab her. She didn’t look back but bolted through the alley, where the two Crown Shields standing guard jerked about in surprise.

  Lucy ground to a panting halt and then the shouts from inside spurred her to escape. Rain pelted her, hard as unripe olives. The two guards facing her lowered their pikes, weaving them in front of her.

  “Stop and stand! You’re under arrest in the name of the crown.”

  Lucy heard, rather than saw, the guards coming through the door behind her. She had no more time. She lunged sideways, ducking under a pike. It sliced through her cloak and dug agonizingly into her back. She screamed and yanked to free herself, tears blinding her. Suddenly more pikes appeared as guards boiled out of Faraday and came running around from the front. In seconds she was surrounded.

  She turned around in a circle, crouching. The rational part of her mind, which knew she could not possibly get away from twelve Crown Shields pointing pikes at her, evaporated. In its place something wild and desperate clawed to life. Her ears filled with a roaring sound. She saw their lips moving, but the noise in her ears deafened her. Then one of them feinted with his pike, jabbing her left bicep. Lucy screeched and pulled back, clapping her right hand to the wound, glowering at the offending guard. He only laughed and prodded his pike toward her again.

  The wound was deep into Lucy’s muscle. The pain was terrible, forcing a cascade of whimpers from her; she couldn’t stop herself, despite the malicious humor coloring the expressions of her captors. Her arm dangled against her side. Lucy cowered back, then jumped forward as the points of three pikes bit into her buttocks and thighs. The guards’ laughter cut through her pain. Rage unfurled inside her like a volcanic flower. At that moment, the blood from her arm trickled down over the cipher.

  The jolt of majick from it was like touching the sun. Lucy screamed as flames engulfed her. She dropped to the ground, twisting and rolling. She couldn’t escape it. It was too much. She screamed, hammering her fists against the paving stones. There was nothing else she could do. She was trapped. She couldn’t run, couldn’t hide. She needed release. Over and over she pounded the ground.

  She came back to herself abruptly, the majick draining out of her like swamping waves escaping out the scuppers of a ship. She was on her hands and knees, her head hanging as if her neck were broken, spittle dripping from her lips. Her ribs pumped as she panted deeply. She knuckled her eyes, trying to clear the gray film swathing them. Pain made her yank her hands down. She spread her fingers in dull surprise, turning them over. They were red and blistered like they’d been inside an oven. Her knuckles were shredded and swollen and her right pinky finger stuck out at an odd angle. She couldn’t move it.

  Lucy raised her head, turning to look around herself. Rain stung her face and raw hands.

  Twelve charred lumps lay in a crumpled circle around her. The wind whipped the smell of cooking flesh and burnt hair. Lucy began to retch, coughing and gasping. Feeling too helpless on the ground, she climbed to her feet, weaving back and forth, unable to rip her eyes away from the grisly remains of the guards.

  Urgency prodded at her. She should run. She should hide. She didn’t move. Slowly she became aware of another sound. She lifted her gaze. Shock shuddered through her like a blow. The street was on fire. The paving stones were burning, as were the buildings—buildings made of stone. The flames clung to the rock, feeding on it like wood. They rose high in the air, fanned by the charging winds. The roadway was molten orange. Lucy stared as a wall melted and collapsed inward. It wasn’t possible. She turned around. All the length of the alley as far as she could see was a wall of flames. Except Faraday and the island of ground she stood on.

  Lucy covered her mouth with a swollen, raw hand. “Oh, sweet Meris, no!” she whispered. The cipher had done this. She had done this. A majickal conflagration.

  Panic surged through her and with
it the primitive need to escape. She darted back into Faraday, the only route open to her. She ran back through the house to Sarah’s bedchamber. She pushed the bed aside, climbing onto the ladder, hardly aware of the pain of the pike wounds or her hands. She shut the door and began to climb down, but her burned and broken hands could not hold. She fell to the bottom of the shaft, head bouncing against the floor, her breath bursting from her lungs.

  She lay there gasping, her head spinning, pain clamping her skull. Tears ran down her temples and dampened her hair. What had she done? What had happened to Sarah?

  At last she clambered to her feet, tottering. She had to get away. She forced herself forward, limping through the tunnel, her mangled hands outstretched in the darkness. The cipher’s glow was gone and her hands were too burned and broken to manage a striker. Her head spun and she could hardly think. All she knew was an animal desperation to escape, to find a place to lick her wounds. And in Crosspointe, there was only one place she could go. The Riddles.

  Chapter 16

  The escape tunnel emptied out under a bridge on the Westenra Canal. Lucy tugged at the bolts securing the metal grate covering the tunnel. Silent tears ran down her face as pieces of flesh sloughed away. Her fingers grew slippery with blood and moisture from burst blisters. She gritted her teeth, finally wrenching the last bolt free. She kicked the grate and it fell open with a loud clang. She waited. When no one cried an alarm, she stumbled out She slid down the bank on her side, clutching her hands against her chest. The wind whistled beneath the bridge and blew whitecapped waves on the canal, and the rain continued its scouring fall. Blurry crescents obscured the edges of her vision and chills vibrated deep in her chest. She stumbled along the edge of the canal, slipping and sliding on the muddy ground. The bank rose steeply beside her. She took it at an angle, her feet skidding on the wet grass. She lost her balance, sliding down to catch herself on her ravaged hands. She cried out, black mist shrouding her mind. The wind shredded the sound. She lay still until the dizziness passed and the pain subsided. Escape. She had to find a place to hide.

  Slowly she sat up. Her borrowed cloak dragged on her, its wet length an anchor. But she didn’t dare abandon it. She couldn’t get all the way to the Riddles without something to cover her bloody clothes and mangled hands. Crawling on elbows and knees, she lurched up onto the narrow frontage road that followed the canal’s winding path.

  Back toward Faraday she could see the glow of the flames. They licked the night, undaunted by the rain. The fire was bigger than she thought possible and spreading quickly. She sucked in a breath. It could destroy half the city. If it reached the docks…She bit her lips, struggling to her feet. There was nothing she could do to stop it. And there was still the Jutras threat. And finding Sarah.

  Fire bells rang and water carts pulled by mule teams clattered by, followed by volunteers carrying buckets. Lucy huddled inside her cloak, her feet dragging. Her hands felt like they were being chewed in a meat grinder. Cold made her bones ache. Her heart beat sluggish and heavy and she felt clumsy and nauseous. The only thing she knew was that she had to keep moving, keep putting one foot in front of the other.

  A few hours after dawn she crossed into Blackstone. She was so near home…. Like a fish on a line, shecouldn’t resist the pull of it, of refuge. She shuffled along, the rain becoming heavier as the wind eased. She circled around to the southern side of her neighborhood and crossed through a small park at the end of her narrow street. She hid inside a cluster of leafless lilac bushes, barely keeping herself from bolting home, diving into bed, pulling the covers over her head, and pretending the previous day had never happened. The rain thinned for a moment, and Lucy strained to see up the street. If she could only warn Blythe and James before—

  She never finished the thought. The telltale scarlet-lined cloaks of the Crown Shields flashed through the curtain of rain. There were half a dozen in front of the house. Doubtless there were more inside, searching through her things like they had done at Faraday. The idea made her grit her teeth, but then she chided herself. She’d killed men; she’d stolen cargo out of a warehouse; she’d hoarded true ciphers—she had no right to resentment. Sarah and Blythe and everyone else were the only ones entitled to that.

  Lucy chewed her upper lip, her chin trembling. Because of her stupidity and greed, her friends were going to prison. But they weren’t guilty of anything. They would be questioned and released in short order, she told herself. She didn’t believe it. How could they prove they hadn’t helped her? They were guilty by association.

  She couldn’t keep her stomach down and retched violently into the gray thicket of lilac bushes. The only thing that came up was bitter bile. The taste burned her mouth and nose and her chest ached with the violence of the expulsion. She wiped her lips with the back of her arm, taking satisfaction in the pain that lanced through her from the pike wounds. She deserved it. She cast one last look up the street and then backed away.

  The rain broke by midmorning, though the sky remained cloudy. The streets soon became crowded. People were tense, talking in hushed, angry voices about the Jutras. Word of the fire was beginning to spread and fear began to take root. Was the city about to burn? Were the Jutras behind it?

  Lucy was finding it harder to keep herself going. Exhaustion and weakness tangled her feet and her vision had gone blurry. Her stomach cramped with hunger and her mouth was parched. Though she had money in her satchel, she couldn’t open it. Her hands were curled into swollen claws. Her peeling skin was black and yellow and the flesh below oozed with pus. When she thought she’d pass out, she took refuge in a gazebo in a rose garden. Burlap packed with straw had been wrapped around the skeletal canes to protect them for the winter and there was little chance that any gardeners would be working and discover her. She collapsed on the plank floor, huddling into herself. She quickly fell into restless unconsciousness.

  She started awake when a squad of Hornets trooped past. She shrank down. Her teeth chattered loudly and she couldn’t stop them. More passed, as well as groups of Howlers, Corbies, and even Eyes. It was like a stirred wasp nest. Lucy put the edge of her cloak between her teeth to silence them, pretending to be invisible. She remained so throughout the rest of the afternoon, her mind moving hazily over the events of the last days, but she couldn’t fasten on to anything. Every memory was slippery, squirming away as soon as she grasped at it. Soon she sank into confusion and again fell asleep.

  Night found her shambling through the crowded, constricted neighborhoods of Cheapside. It was grimier here, with dirt streets and few sidewalks. The once-trim houses were run-down, with peeling paint and leaking roofs. Buildings leaned against one another like drunken sailors and the windows lacked glass. Lucy’s boots and the hem of her cloak were soon caked with mud. Mindlessly she slogged on, dragging her feet, unable to lift them over puddles or debris, stopping every few dozen feet to rest.

  It took her most of the night to reach the leading edge of the Riddles. She stumbled across the Maida Vale and slipped inside the tumbled maze with a feeling of release. Sobs clawed up her throat. She bit them back. The Crown Shields might not be searching for her here, but there were other dangers in the Riddles.

  She swayed, gathering herself. In her long walk, she’d arrived at a plan for what she’d do when she arrived. If she wanted to find the traitor, she needed healing. She needed Keros. And here, where majick was more sparse than in the rest of Sylmont, her talent would guide the way.

  She braced herself against a wall, avoiding the vomit and piss staining its length. Closing her eyes, she opened her senses, feeling the draw of majick from a constellation of sources. Even here in the Riddles, majick glimmered from every corner. For conveniences. For safety. For power. One source felt immense, like the moon pulling the waves. She ignored it. The majick of Keros’s house had been smaller, elegant even. She scowled, sorting through the glittering shards until she found the one that felt like his house. She began to walk. But she was nearly out of strengt
h. She could hardly see, hunching over like an ancient crone. But she kept on, winding a snarled path. The Riddles had been built nonsensically to confuse invaders. Streets often went nowhere. Tunnels ended in walls. There were few straight lines anywhere and the blocks were haphazardly shaped and sized. Several times she found herself in a dead end, having to retrace her steps until she could follow the thin call of majick again.

  Someone spoke. She hardly heard it. It was taking all she had left to keep herself from collapsing. A hand on her arm, tugging on her cloak. Shouts. She stopped, forcing herself to hear.

  “Didn’ya hear me, old woman? Twitch me yer cloak and what else ye got. Ye’ll not be needin’ it so long. Knackers can’t be far behind ye.”

  Lucy turned her head ponderously, peering out from beneath the folds of her hood. The gangly youngster was hardly more than a boy. Behind him stood two skinny girls in garish dresses. The boy’s cheeks were covered in downy whiskers, patchy around his mouth, and he was dressed in a fine waistcoat that hung to his thighs, the armholes dropping to his waist. Beneath were expensive trousers, now ragged and holed, tied with a rope around his waist. His feet were bare and he held a handful of her cloak in one fist, the other cocked threateningly back.

  “Are ye maggoty? Give it to me!”

  He yanked hard and Lucy stumbled into him. Unthinking, she grappled his hand when he shoved at her, seizing it in her bloody, charred left claw.

  “Don’t touch me.” It was little more than a whisper. But her fear and fury merged and the cipher on her arm flared. Searing cold poured through her hand into him.

  He screamed and struggled. Lucy let go almost immediately, the agony from her hand swallowing her in a scarlet tide. The boy turned and ran, followed by the girls. Lucy stood wavering, waves of pain and confounded power rolling through her. She whimpered and cried, snot running down over her lips and chin. Her bladder loosened and hot urine ran down her legs. She knew she could not let herself fall. She’d never get up. With her remaining strength, she pulled together all the shattered bits of herself she could find and told herself to move.