The Margrave

by Catherine Fisher

  In the astonished silence the flames crackled comfortably. Then the Sekoi gave a low purr.

  After a moment Galen said, “You do right to chide me. Even in the heart of the worst it seems the Makers still move.” He looked at her sidelong. “And the girl?”

  “I saw no more of them, master. I walked for two days before sleeping in that ravine. Before the beasts . . .” She stopped suddenly, her eyes flooding.

  “That’s enough.” Galen stood and helped her up. “You must sleep. Tomorrow we take you home.” He helped her over to the blankets, talking quietly.

  Raffi washed the pan. The Sekoi watched him. Then it wrapped the rest of the fruit up and said suddenly, “Raffi. What is going on?”

  “Going on? What do you mean?”

  It was silent so long he turned and stared at it. It looked troubled. Finally it said, “For a long time, as you know, I thought Carys was not to be trusted. After our adventure with the Coronet I found to my shame that I was wrong. I would hate to go back to those suspicions.”

  Raffi dropped the pan. “Why should you?”

  “Carys is skilled at evading pursuit,” the Sekoi said quietly.

  “No one better.”

  “Indeed.” The creature leaned back against the stump, folding its arms. “No one better. At running, hiding, not being taken by surprise. So why do I feel so strongly that she let them capture her?”

  A spark stung Raffi’s hand, but he barely felt it. “What?” he whispered.

  5

  In his castle, Halen dreamed.

  He walked the silent corridors and in the

  mirrors saw only his own face.

  Outside, the world descended into

  Chaos. “Something evil is searching for

  me,” he whispered.

  Book of the Seven Moons

  THEY WERE TREATING HER LIKE an honored guest, Carys thought wryly.

  The straw was almost clean and the drinking water had only two dead spiders in it. The plate that had been banged in through the grille of the door had bread and cheese on it, and there had even been a flea-ridden blanket in one corner of the cell to make a softer bed. Scratching the bites it had given her, her whole body stiff with the damp and the hard stones, she rolled over and sat up against the wall, pulling her jerkin on and pushing the sleep-tangled hair from her eyes. But she’d slept surprisingly well.

  By the noise outside and the shaft of sunlight that slanted down the narrow embrasure of the window, it was early morning. All the work of the castle was well under way; wagons crunching by outside, the trudge of weary feet. She grinned. Maybe she wouldn’t have to work after all. Pulling the plate over, she began to eat hungrily, glancing around. The cell was big. A few rusty chains hung from one wall. In the wand of light from the window she could see scratches on the damp stones; names, verses, dates laboriously crossed off. They might be worth a look later.

  The cheese was strong, almost going bad, but she was glad of it. When she’d finished the last strip of bread, she fished the spiders out of the water and drank, then soaked the end of her sleeve and washed her face. Until she stopped, listening. There was a lot of noise outside; hammering, voices and yells, the clatter of wheels and marset hooves, but close by, insistent, there was something else. It was tiny, and it was inside the cell.

  Tapping. An urgent, quiet tapping. After a second, she knew where it was coming from. The wall facing her was of stone, rough-edged, the ancient mortar black and crumbling. Faint wet smudges of green algae glistened on its hacked facets. The tapping came from the other side; as she crawled closer she saw a tiny crack deep in the corner.

  Picking up a piece of loose stone she tapped back. There was silence. Then a whisper, hoarse and eager. “I thought you’d never hear me.”

  She groaned to herself. Of course, it was the spotty boy; she’d seen them put him in the cell last night. Still, there was something she wanted to know from him.

  “Have they fed you?” he whispered.

  “Never mind that.” She put her face close to the crack. “How did you know they were bringing us here? Out on the road, when you said the castle?” She could almost feel him grin.

  “My secret. But like I said, get ready. It’s all fixed, and when we break out, believe me, it’ll be big!”

  “Fixed? By who?”

  “My uncle.” His voice was breathless; his eagerness to tell her everything filled her with contempt and pity. “He’s behind it. Everyone’s terrified of him.”

  “He’s going to break you out?” she asked, puzzled.

  “No! The whole place is full of his people. The Watch have no idea! Lots of the workmen, the prisoners, are under his orders; we’ve been infiltrating this place for weeks. I was in on the plan from the start. Well”—he gave an odd, self-conscious laugh—“you could almost say it was my idea, really. He thinks the world of me. I just said, “Uncle, I’ve got this brilliant—’ ”

  “I’m sure,” Carys said acidly, “but what’s the use of having all your men made workslaves?”

  “Don’t you see! It’s a stroke of genius. When he attacks, we let him in. We’ve got weapons, brought in under the cartloads of stone. The Watch will never know what hit them!” His voice fidgeted, as if he was wriggling in delight.

  Carys shook her head. “It would take an army. And what about—”

  “We’ve got an army! My uncle’s the most ferocious warlord there is!”

  Bolts rattled. Instantly, Carys jerked away from the crack.

  Voices rang in the stone corridor, keys clinked; it sounded as though the prisoners were being taken out to join in the work. She listened, catching the rattle of chains, waiting for them to come for her, but no one did, and the shuffle of feet and barked orders died away into an eerie silence. As if the place were empty.

  After a few minutes she edged back to the crack. “Are you still there?”

  No answer. So it seemed she really was spared hauling stone. That was one good thing; it gave her time to work out what to do. And for something else.

  She got up, went to the door, and lifted the grille as far as it would go, a dark slot in the rusty metal of the door. Then, with all her concentration, she listened. It took at least five long minutes before she was absolutely sure there was no sentinel outside, or anywhere in the corridor. Someone was talking, but the low voices were a long way off, probably in the guardroom near the gatehouse. It seemed safe. In any case, she’d have to take the chance.

  Going to the darkest corner of the cell she worked quickly. Shrugging her jerkin off, she undid the third wooden toggle. Only it wasn’t wood, just carefully painted to look that way. It came apart easily, the Maker-material smoothly unscrewing, and inside it tiny lights pulsed, green and blue. There was a small button in the center; she pressed it and held it down, counting the seconds off silently. Four minutes. To make sure she made contact. She released the pressure, counted one minute, then repeated the procedure, every muscle in her body tensed, listening for the slightest rustle outside the door.

  Still no one came.

  While the button was held down the lights changed color, blue to red. As soon as the time was up she screwed the whole thing together hastily, pulled the jacket on, and huddled up against the wall, her heart thudding. If they had any way of knowing . . . Of course they didn’t. Calm down, she told herself firmly. It was quiet now, outside. Gradually her mind relaxed.

  The boy’s boasting was odd. Especially if it was true. He might just be trying to impress her, but it seemed more than that. Scala worried her more. Carys had foreseen nothing like her. It was obvious the castellan and her captain were working for themselves—they wanted to know where Raffi was so they could pass the information on and pocket the rewards.

  Raffi. That was the thing she couldn’t grasp—why Raffi? Was it just a way to get to the Crow? What on earth could the Margrave want with a . . . She stopped, her mind cold. Wait a minute. Just wait a minute.

  She remembered now. It had been the
night after they’d used the Coronet of Flain—a night stop on that hurried journey out of Sekoi lands. Just the two of them. Raffi had been huddled by the fire, oddly quiet.

  She’d said so, and he’d stirred the flames. For a long time he hadn’t even answered; when he did, his words were hesitant. “Carys, when we were all caught up in that vision, when the weather-net was mended, I thought . . . someone came and spoke to me.”

  “Someone?” she’d asked. She’d been sewing a tear in her coat. She remembered how reluctant he’d been.

  “The Margrave.” And then he’d reached over and caught her fingers, stopping her, blurting it all out. “He spoke to me! He told me that he was going to find me, to seek me out. Just me! He said he wanted me . . . for some sort of apprentice. That we were linked. I’m sure it was real. I’m sure of it! It’s terrifying me.”

  She had stared at him. “Have you told Galen?”

  “No.”

  “You should. But Raffi, we all had strange, muddled visions. I know I did. I thought I was back in the Watch-house.” Had she told him that? She wasn’t sure. But she thought she’d convinced him the whole thing was a nightmare, that he’d let it worry him too much. They’d ended up laughing about it, and he’d never mentioned it again. But thinking back now, he’d still been a bit quiet, right up until the time she and the Sekoi left for Sarres.

  Could it be true? She shivered, dragging her knees up in the straw and wrapping her arms around them. This was serious. If Scala wasn’t lying, then the Margrave really was searching for Raffi. And that complicated things.

  There were two things she could do now, it seemed to her. The first was to refuse Scala’s offer. If she did that she’d end up on some work-gang and the plan would be finished. The second thing was to tell them where Raffi might be found—or at least make a convincing deal with them. It was what was needed. But it was dangerous. If she did it, she might never get out of this alive.

  Footsteps.

  She curled instantly; the door rattled, banged open, and Quist walked in. He looked down at her. “I know you’re awake. Come on; she wants her answer.”

  He walked ahead down the corridor; brushing herself down, Carys followed, leaving a trail of wisps of straw. There were guards, but Quist waved them away. Opening a door to the outside, he bowed her through, mock polite.

  “Have you known Scala long?” she asked, squeezing past him.

  “Forget it. I’ve had the training too. You’ll get nothing from me.”

  The were standing on a high gallery near the top of the keep. Watch flags flapped above them; the sudden fresh air made Carys feel giddy. It was a cool, bright day and the castle lay below her flooded with sunlight, swarming with workers. Lines of wagons were straggling out of the distant barbican; even from here she could hear the yells and whipcracks of the wagoners.

  “Where are they going?”

  He looked at her, as if weighing what to say. Then, as if it were no secret, he shrugged. “The Wall.”

  “What wall?”

  “You’ve been away too long, Watchspy. You’re out of touch.” His voice was morose, his fingers tapping restlessly on the smooth battlements. Then he turned, his dark hair lifting in the wind. “You know the Unfinished Lands are spreading.”

  “Everyone knows that.”

  He nodded. “The Watch has calculated that if the present rate of expansion continues, the Finished Lands will be halved in twenty years. We’ll be surrounded by chaos and each year it will close in on us. In fifty, maybe less, it will close over our heads. Farms, towns, villages, everything gone. No one will be left alive.”

  Carys looked down at the bedlam of noise. “So the Watch is building a wall?”

  “Not just any wall. A vast, immensely strong structure, from here to the Narrow Sea, as a start. Sixteen leagues. Eighty spans thick, of rubble and hardcore faced with the smoothest Alavian marble. Forty spans high with a parapet even higher. Towers every two leagues. Only one gate. No weak points.”

  “You sound very proud of it.” She was silent, thinking of the immensity of the effort. “But will it work?”

  “Nothing will be able to burrow under or scale it. We’ll wall in the Finished Lands. No pollution will come to them.” He saw her disbelief and laughed. “Come on. She hates to be kept waiting.”

  The castellan’s room was warm in the sunlight that slanted from its windows; in the daylight Carys saw they were thickly glazed with the unbreakable Maker glass.

  Scala had her hair loose. It brushed her small shoulders as she looked up from a file of papers. “Sleep well?”

  Carys didn’t bother to answer. Instead she leaned on the desk with both hands and said, “I’ve made up my mind. These are my conditions. I want an assurance from you—countersigned from Maar—of my reinstatement and I want copies of it sent to every Watchhouse and Tower. I want a third of all rewards and promotions. Up front, I want two thousand marks, my own armed patrol, and a permanent suite of rooms in the Tower of Song.”

  “I see.” Scala didn’t even blink. “Fairly extensive demands for a prisoner. And in return, what?”

  Carys took a breath. It was a simple sentence, but it cost her a great effort to say it.

  “In return I go with you to the Pits of Maar and together we inform the Margrave—face–to-face, if he exists—exactly where he can find this Raffael Morel.”

  There was a long silence. Then Scala smiled. “It seems fair.”

  “Oh, it is.” Carys sat in the nearest chair. She leaned back and blew hair out of her eyes, wondering what Scala really thought.

  “We’ll leave as soon as possible.” The castellan looked at Quist. “Get things ready.”

  He shrugged. “It’ll take three days.”

  Carys thought of the spotty boy’s blurted secrets. “Make it two,” she said thoughtfully.

  6

  Are these the-ladders that lead to heaven?

  Who has ever climbed to their top?

  Poems of Anjar Kar

  THE YOUNG WOMAN ROCKED the crying child. “I suppose you’ve come for the babies and the lame ones now,” she said savagely. “No one else is left! Who’s supposed to sow and harvest? Who’s supposed to milk the cows? Don’t you people have any sense?”

  The Watchsergeant was hot and thirsty. The hut was dank. In one corner an old woman rocked, dribbling and mumbling to herself, spitting into the fire and then giggling with an odd, manic glee. It gave him the creeps. And the place stank—the pile of marset dung outside the door was huge and fresh. His stomach heaved. He took out a rag of handkerchief and pressed it over his nose.

  “I’m not taking anyone, woman. It’s a search. There have been reports of bandits. A lot of them, gathering in the hills.”

  “Bandits!” The woman snorted and waved her free arm. “Oh, yes. Here they are, look, hundreds of them. All crammed into this luxurious palace!”

  The Watchman shrugged. It was true he could see the whole of the inside of the hut and had no desire to go farther in; it was sooty and smoke-blackened, with lumps of what might be meat hanging from the rafters. One cupboard, a hearth with a dull fire, two box beds. Not much else. The floor was trodden mud. A real hovel.

  The old woman cackled and looked at him suddenly with the white of one eye. Her face was filthy, her long gray hair tangled. “Beware,” she said. “The owl and the kraken, the cold shadows of the moons.” She spat solemnly and the fire crackled. “Death is looking for you. He has long fingers.”

  “Don’t mind her,” the young woman snapped. “Her mind’s gone.”

  But the Watchman had had enough. He backed out, trying not to breathe the stink. “All right, but if you see anyone . . .”

  “I’ll stay in and bar the door.”

  The giggle from the dark corner chilled him. He walked quickly back to the horse, leaving the door to slam behind him. Job for one man, they’d said. No one had told him the place was a madhouse.

  After the Watchman had ridden away, the farmstead was silen
t for at least five minutes. Then the door burst open; the two women ran out, long spades in their hands. They cleared the great pile of dung aside quickly, then heaved up the trapdoor. Alys peered down. “Are you alive, keepers?”

  Galen’s hands came up; he hauled himself out. “We are. Though half choked.”

  Raffi was pulled out next. He had never been so glad to breathe fresh air in his life; he crouched and coughed it in till his eyes watered. The Sekoi gasped and spat and sniffed its own fur in disgust. “An ingenious idea, ladies, but I think I almost prefer capture.”

  “Inside,” Alys said. “Quickly.” The hut was almost as unbearably stuffy as the dark pit had been, but the fire cheered it. While her daughter-in-law built up the blaze, Alys smiled proudly. “Cara was superb. And you should have seen me as a madwoman.”

  “I’m sure it was most realistic.” The Sekoi sat, stretching its long legs with a purr of relief. “But now you are safely home, we should go as soon as possible. Let the keepers see these relics.”

  A cheep startled Raffi. In one dim corner a cage hung, with a green markeet in it. It eyed him beadily through the smoke. Galen had seen it too; he frowned. “There should be no caged souls in a free house.”

  The young woman said, “Keeper, the bird is happy here.”

  “Set him free. If he’s happy, he’ll stay.”

  She looked down. Finally she said, “Tomorrow I’ll do it.”

  “Tomorrow,” Galen said sourly, “is never . . .” He stopped. Rigid. The red light was tiny and it burned them both like a coal. Raffi almost hissed with the sudden pain of it; with his third eye he saw it, sharp as a star, like the point of a heated sword, searing him.