The Margrave

by Catherine Fisher

  The Sekoi was asking something, concerned, but all he could feel was the Maker-light. It faded, then pulsed again. When it was gone he felt abruptly cold. The Sekoi watched, intent. “Can you speak?”

  “Yes.” Raffi turned to Galen. “It had to be a relic! Something still alive.”

  Galen nodded. He stood up and went to the door and opened it, looking out to the jagged hills.

  “The relics are here.” Alys went to the bird’s cage and put her hand in. “Jem pecks any strangers, so we feel it’s the safest place.” The bag she pulled out was small and covered with sawdust; hastily she brushed it clean, then emptied the contents out onto the table and made the sign of honor over them reverently. “These are all we have.”

  From the door, Galen didn’t turn. “Look them over, Raffi,” he said morosely.

  A little disappointed, Alys stared at his back.

  Raffi fingered the objects. Already he knew there was no energy left in them; none of these could have produced that point of power. The Sekoi, always curious, leaned over his shoulder. There was a small bracelet and a cube that opened and was empty inside. Beside them lay a smooth black object with many buttons, each with a Maker-symbol. He had seen several of these. Galen thought they had been used to control larger relics. He pressed a few buttons. Nothing happened.

  The Sekoi’s long fingers turned the rest; a broken silver disc, and a blue-lidded object with strange devices, which opened to show a cracked screen and more buttons.

  “Anything?” Galen asked.

  “No.”

  The keeper turned, came over, and looked down at the sorry collection. “How are the things of the Makers lost,” he muttered, as if the sight chilled him. “All their power, all their greatness. Dwindled to this.”

  Raffi glanced up. It was unlike Galen to show doubts; his faith was always fierce and restless. Or had been, until they had lost Solon. That treachery had devastated him, perhaps even more than Galen knew. Now he said, “Put them back, Mother. Keep them safe. They’re only empty shells now.”

  “Something made that signal.” Raffi slid the relics into the bag.

  The keeper turned away, his face dark. “But not from here. We must get to the castle! And before nightfall.”

  Raffi sighed. He’d been hoping for a good meal, a wash, maybe even some extra sleep. From its wry grin he guessed the Sekoi had too. But both of them knew Galen had made up his mind.

  They left the dilapidated farm within minutes, Alys and her daughter waving them off, after cramming the packs with all the food they could spare. Galen had given them the Blessing solemnly, as if he sensed the old woman’s disappointment; she kneeled in the mud to receive it, tears running down the wrinkles of her face.

  “When you find the girl,” she called now, “give her my thanks.”

  Raffi turned, walking backward. “We will. Take care of yourself.”

  GALEN WAS SILENT. All the way back to the road he went at a ferocious pace; Raffi scrambling after him, too breathless to complain. The Sekoi strolled behind, its long legs keeping up effortlessly. “Our friend is troubled,” it said after a while.

  “Guilty,” Raffi gasped.

  “Indeed? About what?”

  “I don’t know what. And he can’t forget . . . about Solon.”

  As they climbed, the Sekoi was silent. Then it said, “Raffi. Did you believe what I told you about Carys?”

  “No.” And he threw himself up the slope, bending back the thorns. He didn’t want to think about Carys. Not now.

  For hours they climbed into the Broken Hills. The air grew colder and the road narrowed to a track winding along mountain ledges, skirting dizzy drops into the green valleys below. Finally they were so high, the mist closed in, slowing them; once Raffi only realized he was too close to the edge when his foot dislodged a stone that rattled over into silence. The wind whistled strangely, and the broken rocks confused the sense-lines; in all the ravines and arches he had the feeling of silent movements, as if the hills were busy with sly gatherings, watching eyes. His legs ached with the long effort; his lungs were raw with the damp.

  Night was falling before they saw the castle. It loomed up suddenly, a blackness in the mist.

  Galen stopped, then crumpled onto a stone, white-faced. He eased his stiff leg with a hiss of pain.

  The Sekoi flung itself down on its back and dragged in breath, its whole body quivering. When it could speak it gasped, “Even if Carys is in this place, Galen, we cannot just walk in and ask for her. We must not rush headlong into danger. We need a plan.”

  “The Makers will send a way in,” Galen growled.

  The creature’s mew of impatience was slight but audible. “Maybe. But we need—”

  “We need to trust them.” The keeper turned to Raffi. “Did you feel that?”

  “Someone’s close by.”

  “More than one.” Galen stood wearily. “Let’s get closer. Keep as quiet as you can.”

  The Castle of Halen was a great black wall in the dark. A deep ditch had been hacked outside it from the rock, and the Wall rose out of that, built of strange shiny black stone, glossy and volcanic, buttressed by wedges, each block as tall as Galen and smoothly fitted. Vast towers swelled out along it. Far above, linking them, a wooden palisade rose against the stars.

  “Unclimbable.” The Sekoi squirmed under a yewberry bush and looked up. “Unless you’re a suck-foot rat.”

  “Perhaps we should work our way around to the gates,” Raffi whispered. Familiar as his own smell, fear was churning in him, the ominous black hulk of the castle hanging over him, heavy as dread.

  But then the Sekoi’s fingers closed on his arm. “See there,” it hissed.

  A movement. Up on the parapet. Something rippling, rattling, unrolling fluidly down the Wall; two of them, no three, four, the end of the nearest flapping to and fro just in front of where they were hiding.

  Ladders? Rope ladders?

  It was the Sekoi who broke the astonished silence. “If this is luck, I don’t believe it.”

  “I told you.” Galen’s voice sounded choked. “You should trust Flain.”

  “Galen, this has to be some trap!”

  “Does it?” The keeper turned. “Look.”

  Suddenly the night was alive. Men were running from the rocks, scrambling down into the spiked ditch, hauling themselves hastily up the swinging, twisting ladders. From the parapet someone yelled. Swords clashed. A trumpet blared inside the castle.

  “An attack?” Raffi breathed.

  “Come on!” Galen was out, running; he plunged down into the ditch, staggered, and hauled himself up. Then he grabbed the nearest ladder. And climbed.

  7

  Defense is a first priority. Take any steps necessary to keep key personnel out of enemy hands. If important prisoners cannot be evacuated, shoot them.

  Rule of the Watch

  THE CELL DOOR BANGED OPEN. Carys jumped down from her desperate squeeze into the window embrasure. “What’s going on out there!”

  “The castle’s under attack!” Quist grabbed her and hustled her out into the corridor, shoving her under a flickering light. “Did you know about this?”

  “Me!” Her heart jumped, but she laughed coldly. “I’m hardly likely to mess up the deal of a lifetime. They can’t get in, can they?”

  “They’re already in.” The corridor was full of men, hurrying; arms were being given out, orders snapped. “The gates are open; the lower barbican’s been taken. They had help from inside.” Quist looked flustered; he pushed her on.

  “Who are they?”

  “Outlaws. We’d had reports.”

  “It would take an army!”

  Quist banged through a door and thrust men aside. “That’s what they’ve got. Scala’s livid. She’d hang every prisoner if she had time.”

  Flainsteeth! Carys thought. The spotty kid had been telling the truth. Grabbing a crossbow from a pile, she looked wildly around for bolts.

  “Come on!” he yelle
d. “Now!”

  Scala’s room was empty. Quist ran to the window. “Wait here. Touch nothing.” In seconds he was gone, into the noise.

  Carys barely paused. She flung down the crossbow, grabbed a quill and dipped it, then scrabbled desperately for some small piece of parchment that wouldn’t be missed. Anything! There was a roster for prisoners; she flipped it over and began to write hurriedly, the ink sputtering into little sprays as she rushed. It was the old code—her own. He’d worked it out once, so he could do it again. She managed barely half a dozen words; then Quist was coming back, and as he burst in with Scala running behind him, she dropped the quill and turned, blocking them from seeing it, her fingers cramming the stiff wet sheet into her pocket.

  “This is unbelievable!” Scala went straight to the window. “The whole of the outer court is overrun. Most of the prisoners are armed. There are fires in three quadrants. I’ll have the head of every Watchsergeant left alive after this.” She was furious, but it didn’t overwhelm her; even now she was planning. “Sound the retreat. I want the fourth and fifth patrols to regroup at the inner gates. We’ll hold them there.”

  “There are ropes down every wall.” Quist’s voice was almost a whisper. Carys pushed in beside him and looked down.

  The castle was in ferment. Fires burned everywhere; cressets and fiery torches bobbed in the dark. There were swarms of men coming over the north parapet; as she watched, a whole group came out of a turret and along the Wall-walk yelling; they cut down four astonished Watchmen and sliced the ropes of the great artillery machines with precision. Then they were gone, swinging down into the fight. The courtyard was an inferno of noise. Arrows thwacked against the stones; the clang of swords was deafening.

  “Whoever they are, they’re experts,” she muttered.

  Directly below them there was a roar and a great yell of triumph. The inner gates crashed in; horses and men rampaged through them, the last Watchmen hacked down as they fled.

  Carys turned. “This place is finished.”

  “Not so,” the castellan said icily. “We can defend the keep for as long as it takes.”

  “You won’t get all your men in here.”

  “Then we won’t. Those left outside will die.”

  “But we’ll be trapped! Maybe for months! Have you got that sort of time to waste?”

  “She’s right,” Quist muttered.

  “You think I should leave my command? Desert all our men?” It was impossible to tell whether she was angry now, or teasing them.

  “Listen to me.” Quist caught her elbows. “Horses are ready at the secret gate. We can ride straight to Maar. Whatever report you put in, I’ll back it. We can’t afford to be trapped here, not now we’ve got this chance. Someone else might find the boy, and we’ll have lost everything!”

  Scala stared at him. She seemed amused; her lips curled in suppressed laughter. “You’ve changed, lover. You’re getting as ruthless as the best of us.”

  “I’ve had a good teacher.”

  They were silent, till Carys snapped, “Well? Or we’ll never get out.”

  For answer Scala swung to the desk; she grabbed a packet of papers from one drawer and a strongbox from another. Quist caught a dark cloak from a hook and swung it around her. Then they were running.

  The corridors were deserted now, and shadowy. Flame light reflected through arrow-slits and the acrid, choking stench of smoke was everywhere. They raced down the stairs, past the prisoners’ cells, then turned a corner and stopped. All the doors were unlocked.

  And barring their way, with a sword far too big for him and a bunch of keys, was the spotty boy.

  GALEN DUCKED as a fire-arrow slashed over his head. “Hurry!” he said, reaching down. Raffi felt the strong grip on his sleeve, hauling him rapidly over the battlements. Breathless, he crawled to the inner edge and looked down.

  It was a battle. The gates were wide, and as he stared another set of inner gates crashed down. The invaders were hard to see in the dark confusion of flame and shadow, but they were well-armed and seemed to know exactly what they were doing. Fire-arrows fell like rain; the noise of yelling and the clatter of metal almost deafened him.

  The Sekoi flung itself down behind him. “Now what! She could be anywhere!”

  “She’s important.” Galen pointed up through the smoke. “She’ll be in there.” The keep stood like a solid rectangular outcrop of rock. From all its battlements and galleries, parapets and arrow-slits, a hail of bolts was flying, and every few seconds a whistling wave of arrows slashed down into the turmoil below. Beacon fires blazed from its top. Huge wooden artillery fired with fierce discipline.

  Raffi’s mouth was dry. “We can’t get in there.”

  “We’ve gotten this far.” Galen scrambled up. “There’s one entrance—that narrow bridge.” He ran along the walkway; two Watchmen turned, but he shoved one aside ruthlessly and the Sekoi caught the other and had cracked the man’s head hard against the wall before Raffi could move. After that they were lucky. The fight in the courtyard was fierce; all the defense was concentrated there. Racing down a spiral staircase they forced open a door at the bottom and came into some dark kitchen entry, slippery with fat. All the torches had burned away except one; the Sekoi grabbed it as they passed, then flung it down with a snarl as it went out. At the end was an archway; they took a breath, then ran across the trampled mud, to the bridge.

  Raffi was terrified. The battle was raging all around; just behind him a Watchman fell with a screech and instantly had his throat cut by a tall man with a sword who swiveled on the Sekoi. The creature leaped back. “I’m no Watchman, friend!” The man spat, and swore, and vanished into the throng.

  Galen hauled Raffi away from the corpse. The bridge was only wide enough for one at a time; one torch burned on it. At the far end the portcullis was raised.

  “Something’s wrong. Why isn’t it watched?” The keeper sent a swift sense-line across. Then he said, “Wait.” Grabbing both rails, he crossed quickly, then turned. “It’s safe. Come on.”

  The Sekoi shoved Raffi on. He took three paces and then stopped.

  “Hurry!” Galen yelled.

  Raffi couldn’t move. A point of danger churned in him; he couldn’t tell what it was, but he was sweating and gray.

  He put his foot down, on the central slab.

  “LEAVE THIS TO ME,” Carys muttered. Without hesitation she ran down and flung her arms around the boy before he could move, pinning him so tight, he dropped the keys with a squawk. “It’s . . . it’s all right,” he spluttered. “I said I’d save you. I’m here.”

  In his ear she whispered, “Shut up. Give this to the keeper.” Paper was shoved into his pocket.

  He stared over her shoulder, appalled. “Isn’t that the castellan?”

  Carys jumped back. “Where?”

  “There!” He turned.

  Instantly she hit him hard, in the stomach, and again, in the back of the neck. He collapsed like a sack, splayed in the straw.

  “Sorry,” she whispered.

  Quist leaped over him. “Who was that?”

  “Just a prisoner. Lead on.”

  Scala had her own keys. They unlocked a tiny postern door near the guard room and beyond it was an icy stone tunnel with a wooden gate at the end. Bursting through that, they found the horses, three already saddled.

  Scala gave Quist a haughty look. “That sure I’d come!”

  “Always.”

  Carys had climbed onto the best horse. She realized now they were down in the dry moat; high overhead, the keep’s defenses roared and smoked; the fiery moon Pyra burned above. Behind her, Quist wheeled his mount. Then a shout made her look up. On the bridge, directly above her, she saw Raffi.

  HIS FOOT CAME DOWN, the slab seemed solid . . .

  “For Flain’s sake!” Galen raged.

  Raffi barely heard him. All his instincts were crawling with horror; as his weight pressed harder, second by second, he seemed to himself to be already fal
ling, plummeting into some great pit in his mind. Then, with a click that jarred his very heart, the trapdoor crashed open.

  Raffi! The word leaped into Carys’s throat; she choked it to silence.

  He seemed to hang a moment; then as he fell, she gasped, the Sekoi lunging vainly after him, Galen grabbing at air.

  For Raffi, the black square of darkness rose up like a great mouth; with a scream, he reached out, grabbed, slid, grabbed again, and Galen’s hands had his sleeves, but the whole of his body was swinging in the dark, a sick giddiness.

  “I can’t hold him!” Galen was yelling. His hands slipped. Something dark leaped right over Raffi’s head; then the Sekoi’s seven fingers hauled powerfully on his arms, the cloth tearing. He looked down. Under his feet, far below, Raffi saw Carys.

  Her face was white, tiny. And then she had turned away and was galloping, the horse clattering right under him, and as Galen hauled him up he lost sight of her in the smoke, and collapsed on the bridge, weak with shock, shivering. The Sekoi pulled him upright and held him. “We have to get inside!”

  Arrows were bouncing from the rails. One fell through the trapdoor; Raffi saw how it plummeted into the dark. Then they were dragging him into the keep. He wanted to shout that it didn’t matter, that she’d gone, but somehow the despair of that knowledge kept him dumb; he didn’t want to say it, because that would make it real.

  They raced down the corridor of cells; from above, wooden boards were being slammed down on the bridge; the invaders hurrying across. The cells were all empty. Galen paused in the last, glancing around. “She was here.”

  “Not anymore.” The Sekoi looked up nervously. “This castle has been captured.”

  “And so have you!” The words were fierce; the sword that came out of the shadows so sharp against the creature’s neck that it breathed in alarm. Out from behind the door stepped a bruised lanky youth, his face pocked with spots.

  “You’re my prisoners.” He grinned, his teeth black.

  “We’re looking for a girl,” Galen snapped. “A prisoner. Carys Arrin.”