The Lost Heiress

by Catherine Fisher

  A distant, eerie howl had risen out of the floor, from far beneath. Silent, absolutely still, she waited, and at last it came again, indefinably closer, but muffled, as if layers of stone—rooms, dungeons, cellars—were between her and it. Not human. She crouched down with her ear to the stone slabs. Somewhere down there, unguessable levels below, something prowled. Tucking her hair back, she cradled the bow, her skin prickling with the menace of that wail. Whatever it was sounded hungry, and ferocious. After a while she stood up and walked on, the bow racked and loaded. Maybe Braylwin had been telling the truth after all.

  Once more she thought she heard a similar thing, very faintly under the Corridor of Combs, but no one else there spoke about it, or even seemed to notice, hurrying past her with their arms full of papers.

  Finally, she went back to her room late on the third afternoon, in despair, but Braylwin’s snoring and the overflowing bucket in her room were too much. Furious, she flung the water out of the window and spun around, glaring at Tamor’s bright eyes.

  “What are you staring at?” she hissed. “Can’t you do something! Galen would say you could. Well, do it!”

  Storming out, she leaned over a balcony in the Room of the Blue Rose and kicked the ornate balustrade. Crowds milled around her. No one spoke. In all this filthy anthill, no one cared about her—no one even knew her. Even Braylwin had given up having her followed. She wished, suddenly and fiercely, that Raffi were there, so she could talk to him, laugh with him. She’d forgotten the last time she’d laughed.

  Then, just below her, she saw the clerk, Harnor. He crossed the room quickly, a file under one arm, and she called him, but he didn’t hear. Suddenly she wanted to talk to him, to talk to anybody. She darted down the steps in time to see him vanish through a doorway, and she ran after him, pushing through the crowd.

  Harnor was in a hurry. He was walking quickly, and she couldn’t catch him until he’d crossed the Walk of the Graves and two courtyards.

  By then she knew he didn’t want to be seen.

  He was going somewhere, and he was uneasy. He looked around too often and, passing the guard-posts, he seemed scared and alert. Carys kept back, interested. She began to trail him, using all the cunning of her training.

  He went down a long corridor and through the third door. Opening it gently, she saw this was some kind of store area—great cupboards and shelves overflowing with unsorted papers. There was no one in here. At the end of the room was a smaller door; through that she found steps, leading down into a damp passageway with a dead rat in the middle of it. Water dripped somewhere near.

  Ahead, in the dimness, Harnor’s thin shape padded.

  She was intrigued. What was down here? And why was he so nervous about it? Twice she had to wait, breathless, as he stopped and stared back. At the end of the stone passage was a turning, then another. He walked quickly; he knew the way well. And then, as she peered around the last corner, she stared into dimness, astonished. It was a dead end.

  But Harnor had vanished.

  Carefully Carys walked down after him.

  The corridor ended abruptly; a stone wall with rainwater running down it in green seams. It was solid and firm, and so were the walls on each side; she ran her fingers along the greasy stones in amazement.

  So where had he gone?

  Suddenly she knew with a shiver of joy that this was important, this was what she had been searching for. Feverishly she pushed and prodded each stone, knelt and ran her hands around the joints and edges of the wall. And she felt a draft.

  It was slight, but cold. Putting her fingers to it, she touched a wide crack lost in the blackness of one corner and found a small raised circle, smooth and warm. She knew it was Maker-work; there had been panels like this in the House of Trees. She took a deep breath, and pressed it.

  Silently, with a smoothness that amazed her, a section of wall melted. A small doorway stood there, and beyond it a room was pale with light.

  Carefully she lifted the crossbow and stepped inside.

  10

  Promotion must be earned. Be ruthless; there are many who will be passed over.

  Rule of the Watch

  SHE WAS STANDING IN A DIM HALL. Light filtered through one window high up in a wall; the rest seemed shuttered or blocked.

  The hall was crammed full of objects, piled high, and someone was moving down in the shadows among them. She heard steps, creaks, the bang of something closing.

  Creeping nearer carefully, she found she was moving between huge towers of dusty boxes, ledgers, astrolabes, collections of skulls, hanging maps that brushed her face with soft, cobwebby edges. Ahead was a patch of light, oddly unflickering. Silently Carys crouched behind a wooden crate and peered cautiously around.

  Harnor was sitting at a tall desk, in a pool of light from a lamp—a Maker-lamp, which lit his gray head and hunched shoulders with amazing clarity. He was reading a great volume of thick pages that turned with small, stiff crackles. There was no other sound at all. The hurrying lines and crowds of the tower seemed an eternity away.

  Carys looked around, noting everything. Galen might know what some of these things were—she had no idea. There were boxes, panels, piles of broken wiring, bizarre devices with screens and buttons and dials that she knew were relics, ancient things collected by the Emperors. There were priceless books, marble statues, charts of trees, and the complete skeleton of some small, unknown animal, as well as a globe showing Anara’s continents, even the Unfinished ones, strange pieces of paper pinned all over it.

  Harnor turned another page.

  In the silence Carys scratched her cheek thoughtfully. Then she stood up and walked forward into the light.

  He was so engrossed that for a moment he didn’t even notice her. When he did, his whole body jerked with terror; he leaped up, knocking the stool away with a smack that was deafening in the silence.

  “You!” His eyes flickered over her shoulder, wide with fear. He seemed too choked to say anything clearly. “How . . . did you . . . ?”

  “I followed you.” She perched on the edge of a table, the crossbow loose in her hands. “You needn’t worry. There’s no one else with me.”

  As soon as she’d said it, she realized she might have made a mistake. But he was terrified. He swallowed, rubbing his face feverishly, then took a step toward her. She raised the bow, but he’d stopped already, gripping the desk as if to hold himself up.

  “For God’s sake,” he said hoarsely, “for pity’s sake, don’t tell them!”

  “I’m not surprised you’re worried.”

  “Don’t play with me!” It broke from him like a cry of agony. “I’ve got a wife, two children! What will happen to them! Think about them, please!”

  “I’m not going to tell anyone.”

  “But you’re a spy. You work for Braylwin and if he—”

  “If he knew, you’d be in chains so fast you wouldn’t have time to blink, but I’m not him. I don’t work for him.” She grinned. “Haven’t you noticed how he has me watched?”

  Confused, Harnor clutched his head. “Everyone is watched.”

  “Except you, it seems. A small, timid man nobody notices.” She waved the bow, curious. “How long have you been coming here?”

  He shrugged, then stammered, “I—I’m not sure . . . about twenty years.”

  “Twenty years! Does anyone else know about it?”

  “No.” For a moment his glance was proud, almost greedy. “This is mine. No one else’s. Except . . .” He put a hand to his head hopelessly. “Except you.”

  Carys smiled. Deliberately she laid the bow on the floor and folded her arms. “Listen to me, Harnor. I’m not investigating you. Finding this place was an accident. Sit down.”

  He sat numbly, as if he had suddenly become old, his hands clutched together, his thin face drawn. She could see the sweat on him. Leaning forward, she said quietly, “Will you trust me?”

  “What does it matter! You’ve found it all now.”

>   “I certainly have.” She glanced up at the towers of boxes. “What is all this? Are they all relics? Are there other rooms?”

  “Lots.” For a moment he stared down bleakly. Then he began to speak, and there was a faint edge of defiance in his voice, almost lost, but she caught it.

  “I wanted to be a spy once. Out there, hunting outlaws, free, on my own. But they sent me here to keep accounts; year after year, petty records, endless reports, and I was weighed down by it, it buried me, closed over my head.” He stared hopelessly. “You can’t imagine that. You’re too young. Oh, at first I was hopeful, I put in applications, I bribed people. I waited my life away, but it was all useless. I was too ordinary. Just a number, a small, despairing pen-pusher no one cared about. I lost hope. This place does that to you.”

  She nodded, swinging her foot. “I’d noticed.”

  “Well, think of spending decades here. All the years of your life.”

  They were silent. Then he looked up. “But somewhere, deep down, I wouldn’t give in. I thought, if I’m trapped here, I’ll make this place my adventure. I’ll learn it, as no one else ever has. If there are secrets, I’ll find them.” He glanced at her, and she saw his eyes were very bright. “I explored, Carys. I learned every corridor, every gallery. I spent years searching, all my spare time, planning, charting in my head, writing nothing down so they’d never know. And then, one day, I came into the corridor and found the hidden door.”

  He wasn’t scared now. He was trembling, exultant. “There are whole suites of rooms here no one knows about. All the things in them, the Emperors’ things, the Maker-things, are mine. I’ve spent years with them, these statues. Look . . . look at this, how beautiful it is!”

  He jumped up suddenly and, picking up a cube, thrust it into her hands. As she turned it she gasped, because trapped inside what seemed like glass was a whole landscape, a place of green fields and strange trees, and the sky there was blue, a deep, perfect blue. It wasn’t a flat picture. Somehow it was real.

  “That’s the home of the Makers, Carys, and there’s more here, much more. It would take years to show you all of it; beautiful books, statues you almost think are watching you. I love these things. I’ve grown to love them.” He stopped abruptly and looked straight at her. “I know it’s wrong. But I do.”

  She frowned, thinking how he had suddenly become alive, and then his eyes fell and he was Harnor again, aghast at seeing her there. To give herself time, she got up. “Take me around,” she said.

  For the next half hour each of them forgot all danger. Even Carys was dazzled by the treasures the rooms contained. Harnor had piled them all here, cleaned the frescoes and wall paintings so that they glowed: bright, colorful scenes of the world’s Making that would have silenced Galen. There were wonderful fragments of sculpture, jewels, crystals, strange artifacts, bizarre machines, a whole collection of brilliant and intricate tapestries. Fingering a small device that clicked a flame on and off, she looked up and saw him watching her.

  “Did you mean it?” he whispered. “About not telling him?”

  “I meant it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want you to help me.” She put the flamemaker in her pocket and sat herself in a huge, winged chair, feeling like some empress. “You see, I’m a bit like you, Harnor. Not quite what I seem. You say you know the tower. I want you to get me to the Overpalace. To the Great Library.”

  He stared at her in horror. “But—”

  “Do your passages go that far?”

  Bewildered, he ran his hand down an exquisite silver figure. “No . . . at least, well, yes they do. There are ways, but—”

  “No buts. That’s where we’re going.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I want to find things out,” she said shortly. “About who I am.”

  To her surprise he laughed, a bitter laugh. “Oh, do you? Well, you won’t find anything.” Seeing her stare, he looked away. “You wouldn’t be the first. Even I tried that. Many years ago. The library is dangerous to get into, but I went there. Once was enough. There are no records, Carys. Each child’s first name is entered and that’s it. No one cares where they came from. It’s not important.”

  She got up, furious, and stalked over to a box and stood looking down, seeing nothing. What would I have done anyway? she asked herself coldly. Gone and found the village? My parents? They wouldn’t have even recognized me.

  “We’re still going,” she growled.

  He glanced frantically around. “You’re crazy!”

  “Listen, Harnor!” She turned on him, blazing with wrath. “You’re not the only one who breaks the rules. I know a keeper, well, two of them . . .”

  He stared at her, aghast. “A keeper!”

  “That’s right. And he’s made me think. Who is it that runs the Watch? What do they want with relics? Why stamp out the Order so savagely?”

  He shrugged. “Everyone knows the Order was evil.”

  “But the relics! Think about it! They were once full of power, a power we know nothing about. The keepers do. I’ve seen that. What I want to know is why the Watch teaches us it doesn’t exist!”

  He shook his head in fear. “I don’t want to think about this.”

  “Get me to the library, and you won’t have to.” She came over quickly. “I’ll go then. You’ll never see me again. And you’ll still have all your treasures.”

  For a moment, seeing his despair, she felt like Braylwin and hated herself. But when he looked up, his face was set.

  “All right. But only once.” He looked bleakly at the silver fish under his hand. “Be here tonight. And come armed.”

  11

  For a year they held me underground,

  bound with chains.

  They tried to enter my workrooms, but the Pit was sealed.

  My secrets lay deep. And they were well guarded.

  Sorrows of Kest

  THE RAIN WAS HORIZONTAL, crashing in sheets. Lightning flickered, white and silent. As Carys waited for the sleep-drug to take effect, she watched it from the window, hearing all the gutters and waterspouts of the tower gurgle their song. Far below, one dim torch burned in the corner of a courtyard.

  The third time she checked, the man was asleep, propped on his bench outside Braylwin’s door. She stepped over him, then went back and knocked the cup over with one foot, spilling the dregs. Just in case.

  All the way she was careful—doubling back, going by narrow routes, quiet back alleys. No sign of anyone following. When she was sure, she went down into the stone corridors.

  It took her a while to find the right dead end, and when she slipped inside, Harnor was waiting. He looked white and agitated.

  “Where have you been!”

  “Making sure I wasn’t followed.” She settled the crossbow. “Come on. I need to be back before morning.”

  He fidgeted, anxious. “Listen. There are things up there. Creatures. They roam the tunnels.”

  “You said you’d been there before.”

  “Years ago . . .”

  “Well then, you can do it again.” She was sharp, irritated. “Now come on!”

  He gave her one miserable look and led the way to a door in the corner. She’d need to watch him, she thought. He could lead her anywhere down here. Try to lose her, even. “Remember this, Harnor,” she said. “You get me to the library, or I make sure Braylwin knows everything.”

  For the first hour they barely spoke. He led her along filthy corridors and empty rooms, once across a courtyard choked with weeds, high wet walls all around them. Glancing up, she saw dark windows. All these empty rooms. The size of the place made her uneasy. Was it possible no one else knew about it?

  They climbed stairs, vast wide steps and narrow spiral ones, lit by torches Harnor kept in various places. Halfway up one she stopped, so suddenly that Harnor stared back in terror. “What? What is it?”

  Carys stood still, not answering. For a moment she had seen something amazing, a
s if a panel had opened in her head. Raffi had been there, and Galen and the Sekoi, all around a fire under some dark trees, vivid and close. She could even smell the burned wood, and Raffi had turned and seen her and called something.

  “Have you found the Interrex?” she whispered.

  But he hadn’t answered, and she couldn’t see them now.

  “What’s the Interrex? Is it here?” Harnor stared around in agony.

  “No.” She shook her head absently. “Forget it. Keep your mind on the job.”

  As they climbed higher into the warren of rooms and galleries she thought about it, pacing through vast dim halls. Was that the third eye Raffi talked about? It was amazing. And what did it mean? Had they found the Interrex? Galen had said she would know, but was that it? So soon?

  Then she realized Harnor had stopped. He was waiting by a gate, a grille of rusted metal. A small entrance had been made by twisting some of the bars. Beyond, the darkness was complete.

  “Once in here,” he whispered, “we’re in the Overpalace. Or rather, under it. About three floors below the inhabited parts. You should load your bow.” He took out an old curved knife from behind a stone. “I’ll have this.”

  “So what’s in there?” She racked the bow quickly.

  He shivered, unhappy. “Who knows. I’ve heard horrible noises, found droppings, chewed food, great holes torn in doors. Often I’ve thought I was watched.”

  She nodded. “But you’ve never seen anything?”

  “Once I thought . . .” His hands shook on the knife. “Each time, it was harder to come back. Last time I swore to myself I’d never come here again.”

  “After this you won’t have to.” She felt heartless, but she needed him. “Right. Now lead on.”

  It was darker here. Dust lay thick on the untrodden floors. Harnor seemed less sure of the way. Twice they doubled back through long galleries; once at a crossroads of four passages, he hesitated. Carys watched him gravely, and his eyes flickered to her in the dark.