The Margrave

by Catherine Fisher

  He wanted to answer, to scream defiance, to run, to get out, but the airlessness made him weak. He leaned wearily against the wall. “I can’t breathe.”

  “I know. But I wanted to show you this place, because this is where I was born. In here.”

  It was a chamber in the center of the cave, a sphere of some crystalline glass. It rose out of the steamy chamber like a vast pearl. The Margrave reached out and smoothed its surface. “Kest called it the womb of the world,” it said, its voice hoarse. “Flain said it was a crucible of fire.”

  Raffi stared through the shimmering air, stepping forward. For a second then, through the drift of gases, he had thought he had seen something inside, like a curled body, a mass of wires suspended in fluid. The air choked him. Chest heaving, he tried a sense-line, and knew at once.

  “There’s something alive in there.”

  The Margrave looked up at him, its eyes swiveling to his face. “Long ago, Raffi, I knew I could not live alone. Endlessly I have tried to repeat Kest’s work.” It turned and put both hands on the glass, leaning its face against the steamy heat. “But I cannot make another like myself,” it whispered. “Until I find one of the Sekoi’s children.”

  For a moment Raffi stood rigid; then he turned and stumbled up the stairs, gasping, tripping, clutching at the smooth hot rail, and when he had hauled himself to the top he doubled over, coughing and retching, his whole body cold with sweat. He crouched, desolate. He felt so alone, as if there were no world out there at all, no sky, no Sarres, that he was alone in this darkness, this terrible nightmare. “Galen.” He said the name like a prayer. “Galen.”

  Behind him he heard the creature’s rustle as it climbed up, but he couldn’t face it yet, couldn’t bear to see it. He stumbled numbly back to the cluttered room.

  LATER, IT CAME IN AND SAT BESIDE HIM, near the brazier. For a while it was silent; then it touched the tray. “You haven’t eaten.”

  “No.” He stared listlessly into the flames. It was always cruelty he had feared; the savagery of the Watch. Not this. He hadn’t been prepared for this. For kindness. For the creature’s way of telling him its secrets. He should hate it—he did hate it, for what it had done, for the destruction of the Order. But if this was hatred, it was strange, it was like pity. Nothing was clear anymore. Nothing was clear.

  The Margrave ate quietly, watching him, its long tongue flicking out after fragments.

  Finally Raffi spoke. “You’re trying to turn me against the Makers. It won’t work.”

  “I’m telling you the truth.”

  “The Order knows the truth.”

  “The Order had legends and broken relics. Out of them it has created a dream. A beautiful, remarkable dream.”

  Raffi rubbed his head in both hands. He felt desperate. “They came from God. They were not evil.”

  “No, they were not evil. But they created evil. And as for God . . .” The Margrave gave a shrug. “Of that being, I have no knowledge.” It smiled its lipless smile, the scales of its skin glistening. “When I was in Solon, and saw the body of Kest, Raffi, what a shock that gave me. To see him again, after so long. In all my long life he has been my only companion. He taught me everything, though he was a quiet, dry man, sparing with words. He had fallen out with Tamar and Flain and Soren, so he stayed here and worked with me. For years no one else even knew I existed. When they found out, they wanted to kill me. But in the end, they couldn’t.” It shrugged. “And it was too late. For Kest. For the planet.”

  “What were they like?” he whispered. “Really like?”

  “Flain was tall indeed, a man with great authority but frayed with care. Tamar, frankly, I detested, and he me. His expertise was fauna development—perhaps he thought he should have created me himself. Soren, I rarely saw. The others, Theriss and Halen only once, when they came here at the end. Both had been made bitter by their ordeal.”

  Quite suddenly, the whole room shook. Far below, the machines made a great rumble. The Margrave stood anxiously, but the sound settled and it sat again, slowly. “They will fail soon,” it muttered.

  “Can I ask you something?” Raffi said absently.

  “Of course.”

  “It’s just that . . . in the Book it speaks of the seven Makers, but there are only ever six. Kest, Flain, Tamar, Halen, Soren, Theriss. The other one is never mentioned. There are no stories of him, no images. I asked Galen about it once, but he said it was the deepest secret of the Order and may well have been lost, but I’m sure he knew more than that.” He bit his lip nervously. “Was it you they meant?”

  The Margrave raised a scaly eyebrow. “I don’t know. I know of only six. Though I was kept in here, and never went outside.” It frowned. “I have only seen your precious sunlight dimly, Raffi, through Solon’s eyes. Kest in his wisdom made a bad mistake with the optical nerves. I cannot bear the light.”

  Raffi was silent. Then he said, “Maybe he did it deliberately.”

  The Margrave’s frown cleared. It seemed amazed. “Do you think so?” It shook its head. “In all the years, I have never thought of that! It is so good, Raffi—”

  “To have me here. I know.” His voice was grim.

  The Margrave looked piqued. “Come now, my scholar. You will settle. After all, it’s better than your other life. Do I insist you starve yourself, make you fast, make you sleep out in all weathers? Are you hunted here?”

  “No.”

  “Do I make you learn huge chunks of unprofitable books?”

  “NO.”

  The Margrave laughed. “And do you have to endure my terrible moods? My black rages? I am a temperate creature, Raffi, compared to your last master.”

  Raffi’s chest ached. “Don’t abuse Galen,” he snarled, the intensity of it surprising even him.

  “I will not, although he deserves it. Your loyalty to him is remarkable. I cannot see how you stayed with him so long.” With its taloned fingers, it selected a fruit and bit into it. Raffi stood, restless. “So you miss him,” it said quietly.

  “Yes, I miss him! And I miss the sun and the trees and the weather! I can’t live cooped up down here! I can’t live like this!”

  “Then we must do something about it. Perhaps you would be better off without the abilities of the Order—the only things they have that I really envy.”

  He went cold. “What do you mean, without them?”

  The Margrave just waved its hand. “I can take them away. If you want.”

  Dread stirred in him. “No. Never.”

  “So be it,” it said quietly.

  Raffi came and stood behind it near the brazier, red light edging his face. “And what if I killed you,” he breathed. “And escaped.”

  The Margrave almost choked on the fruit stone. “Oh, Raffi,” it said, when it had got its breath back. “I am so, so happy to have you here.”

  THAT NIGHT, IF IT WAS NIGHT, Raffi pushed the sense-lines farther, desperate with worry. It was exhausting, forcing his bruised mind against miles of rock, through tiny fissures, slithering up the cracks in tilted strata. Claustrophobia made him gasp and wheeze; once he had to stop and sit up, shaking. There was nothing but rock, nothing alive, not the merest thread of a root. After hours he had to let himself fall asleep, worn out by the effort.

  He dreamed of Sarres. The sunlight was so bright it made him cry out, and the grass was green and freshly cut, the smell of it warm on the breeze. The old house looked quiet, and somewhere Artelan’s Well was bubbling its crystal music, but on the lawn among the grazing geese was a silver staircase, and Flain was walking down it, wearing the Coronet, a glimmer in his black hair. Raffi ran toward him, but when he got there he stopped in amazement, because it wasn’t Flain at all, but Galen, who said to him irritably, “What’s all this nonsense you’ve been listening to, boy?”

  “I haven’t. At least . . .”

  “Don’t lie to me, Raffi. You can’t hide it from me. I’ve been there before you, remember?” And behind him there they all were, Tallis i
n a dress of leaves, and the Sekoi standing where Tamar stands in the images, and to Raffi’s delight it carried what must surely be a Sekoi cub, a black furry thing that wriggled and squalled. Behind it was a tall man in dark Watch clothes, and looking at him crossly, Carys, in a coat made of blue sea foam, her red hair grown long. “About time, Raffi,” she snapped. “What have you been doing? You keep your mind on us and don’t forget it.”

  She stood back. Behind her he saw Felnia, a little taller now, dressed in heavy crusted gold, sitting on a great throne, far too big for her. She frowned when she saw him, her high voice petulant. “Where have you been? You’re always supposed to be bringing me a present—I never get to see it.” On her lap was the scruffy toy cub. She waved its paw at him. “Say hello to Cub. And hurry up, Raffi. We’re all waiting for you.”

  “Yes, but who’s Kest?” He looked around anxiously. “Is it me? Am I the one?” He was asking the toy.

  It winked at him, its eyes jewel bright. “You’ll see,” it whispered.

  23

  “Our children break our hearts. We do not speak of them. ”

  Words of a Sekoi Karamax,

  recorded by Kallebran

  IT SHOULD HAVE TAKEN TWO DAYS to walk to the Pits of Maar—if there had been a road, or if there had been daylight. At first the sulfurous sleet blinded them. Galen made a line of power, a blue crackling thing between himself and Quist, and it wrapped itself around Carys’s wrist, tight, and around the Sekoi’s waist, and held them as they stumbled. How long the sleet stung them Carys had no idea, but they walked out of it at last onto a desert of green translucent glass, a slippery surface embedded with tiny bubbles.

  She pulled the scarf off her face and gasped in air. They were all filthy; the sleet had left a crust of yellow scum; the Sekoi rubbed its fur in silent disgust.

  Galen leaned on his stick and looked around. “That way,” he said finally.

  She put the useless lodestone away. “How do you know?”

  He glared at her. “I know. Now hurry.” He would not let them rest. The ground was treacherous, smooth so that they slipped and had to climb the rounded slopes on hands and knees, sliding back as much as they progressed, but also with hidden chasms and ravines of jagged upright shards of glass. If she fell against them, they would cut her to pieces. The sky was purple, lowering with an eerie storm that flickered, silent among the clouds. As it got darker, the glass flickered too, phosphorescent under their feet. At first she thought they were reflections, then she knew that the sparks leaped deep in the vitreous mass.

  “Galen,” she gasped finally. “Slow down!”

  He gave her a black look, then crouched, breathless.

  The Sekoi sank to its knees gratefully.

  “We’ll have to take more time.” Carys took out the water, drank, and passed it around.

  “There is no time.” In the storm flicker Galen’s face was white. He glanced at her. “This whole area is unstable. I can feel it, Carys, burning and molten and shuddering under us. While it’s quiet we have to—” He stopped, staring at Quist.

  “What?” she said. “What!”

  Quist hauled her up, his face ashen. “Run. For God’s sake, run!” The ground shook. As she scrambled up, the whole world tilted. The floor was a cliff face now and she was sliding down it, the pack and water flask rattling and rolling in front of her, and as she slid Galen yelled far above her and she screamed, the slivers of glass cracking out below.

  RAFFI SAT AT THE DESK, turning the pages of the books. Earth stared back at him, its peoples, industries, armies, machines, vast cities of glass, mud shanties. Over his shoulder the Margrave said, “There was a flood. The sea rose, I understand. I have never seen the sea, myself.”

  “I have. The Narrow Sea.”

  “You must tell me about it, Raffi. Really, I would love to hear.” It sat in the shadows expectantly, its strange eyes bright. “Tell me what the sea smells like,” it said.

  CARYS’S FALL ENDED IN a scream of agony. The sense-line around her wrist jerked her up; she hung from it flailing and spinning, clawing with the toes of her boots and her free hand against the impossible wall of glass. A sliver cut straight across her fingers; blood welled out and ran like a tiny red waterfall. “Keep still!” Quist yelled. “Galen! I can’t hold her!”

  She couldn’t see Galen or the Sekoi. Maybe the smashed world had swallowed them. The blue line around her wrist was a searing pain; she felt sick, completely dizzy, and below her there was nothing, a howling emptiness down which shattered fragments clattered. “Pull me up!” she snarled.

  “I can’t.” Quist’s face was a blur. “I can’t . . .”

  The sense-line weakened. It thinned, spun out, became a thread, went to nothing. She yelled in fury and as if in answer, some strange energy surged along it and it strengthened her; she heard Galen’s voice say, “It’s all right. You’re coming up.”

  Jerking, like a toy on a string, she was hauled out, the Sekoi leaning right down over the terrible slivers of glass. As soon as her feet were over, Galen dragged her upright. “Run,” he said. “For God’s sake, hurry.”

  They fled through chaos. The landscape was smashed as if some great fist had pulverized it; now rain came and lashed against it, and out of the cracks tiny crabs came scuttling, many-legged, their shells gleaming like steel. One caught hold of the Sekoi; the creature dragged it off, a pincherful of fur with it. “I thought nothing lived here,” it snarled.

  The desert became a forest with bewildering speed, a darkness where trees were smothered with vines that sprouted and coiled. Galen led them remorselessly on, between trunks livid with algae and some soft, crumbling fungus that released spores in vast clouds.

  “Don’t breathe them,” Quist warned.

  Carys tugged the scarf back over her face.

  “Thanks for holding on,” she gasped.

  “Had no choice.”

  “If Galen hadn’t strengthened the line, though . . .”

  “Galen didn’t strengthen it.” He ducked under a mossy bough. “Neither did I.”

  “But . . .”

  He looked back. “You should try the Order, Carys. It seems you have possibilities.”

  Amazed, she grinned, slipping under the mutated leaves, trying to ignore the sickening stench. Darkness was thickening; at first she thought it was nightfall, and then she knew it came from something ahead, a great cloud that hung in the air and vibrated. Had that power really come from her? She felt no different. But that pulse of energy—the memory of it warmed her. I’ll show you, Raffi, she thought in delight.

  They came out of the trees. Ahead was a dry cinderfield littered with odd globe-like yellow growths. Above it, like a swarming cloud, hung the wasps. Thousands of them.

  “WHY DID YOU SAY the Sekoi was a prince?”

  The Margrave seemed distracted. “What?”

  “The Sekoi. You said . . .”

  “Ah, yes. Well, they are a highly secretive race, but I have managed to learn a little about them, down the years. The tribemarks, for instance. Your friend has a mark that shows him to be of high blood—prince is probably the wrong word for it. Has he ever told you his name?”

  Raffi shook his head. Catching his reflection in the glass cabinet he tugged the collar of his uniform up. It made him look older. “How did you find out about them,” he muttered, not wanting to know. “Have you experimented on them?”

  “Yes.” The Margrave looked surprised. “Of course. One who seeks knowledge, Raffi, seeks it everywhere. Kest always said there were no limits.”

  He closed his eyes, then said, “Why do you want one of their children?”

  The Margrave smoothed its scales with a ridged hand. “That is not for you to know. The owls guard them.”

  “The owls?”

  “In some secret place. I have never found out where.”

  “So you have never seen one.”

  It stood and Raffi thought it was disturbed. “I didn’t say that. But forgive me, R
affi. Something is happening outside.” It crossed the room and went out.

  Raffi put his head in his hands. For a moment he was lost in the pain of it all, then a draft touched his face. He looked up quickly, went to the door and pulled it. It opened.

  CARYS SAID, “IT HAD TO BE WASPS. I hate wasps. Always have.”

  “And these are agitated.” The Sekoi lowered the seeing tube and passed it to her. Reluctantly, she took it. At first they were hard to distinguish, just a swarm, a mass of jagged movement. Then the relic adjusted to her focus and she drew in a hiss of breath. The wasps were orange and black, and small. There were thousands in the swarm. Their buzz made her hands shake.

  “They know we’re here,” Quist said drily. He and Galen had been talking, sitting on the ground. To her shock, as she turned, she saw Quist was putting on the purple and blue crystals. “Those are Raffi’s!”

  He shrugged. “They have a reservoir of power we need to use. Don’t worry, Carys. Your friend, if we find him, can have them back. If he wants them.”

  “Too right he will,” she muttered grimly, giving Galen a sharp glance. The keeper looked away. She took the spare crossbow off her back and jammed a bolt in angrily.

  “What good will that do?” Quist said.

  “It’ll make me feel better.”

  Galen took a breath and stood, the dark power in him almost visible. “Now,” he said, “we must keep together. I can protect us a little, but anyone who falls behind will be lost. Are you ready?”

  She nodded, tight-lipped.

  They moved in a close group, and as soon as they were out of the trees, the wasps were on them. Carys hissed, knuckles white on the bow. The air was a turmoil of wings, the swarm flying down, across, hovering, darting, a roar of anger. But keeping them away was a clear space, like a weather-warding she had once seen Raffi make to clear fog; it surrounded them like a crystal sphere and the wasps that barged into it snapped into sparks of flame. The cinderfield was deep in dust. It stretched far to the eastern horizon beyond the swarm, into darkness. Before them the Unfinished Lands shimmered in turmoil.