The Dark City

by Catherine Fisher

  In the sky, a light moved. It was a star that grew; it came closer to him, and the hum and glitter of it shook the frosted tops of the trees, and he saw how vast the stars were. It came down and landed. The whole world shook with its weight.

  The star opened and the man walked out. Flain was tall and his hair was long and bright. But the sight of him made the fur on Raffi’s neck shiver; he rubbed at it and someone’s hand caught his and said, “Raffi! Raffi!”

  Galen was crouched over him. Behind, the Sekoi was smiling. “I told you not to listen,” it purred.

  Galen glared at it. “Is he all right?”

  “Perfectly. Aren’t you?”

  Raffi nodded, confused. He looked over, but the storyteller mumbled on, and now the words were impossible to understand.

  “Listen,” the Sekoi said. “I’ve been advised that you should try the Street of the Wool-Carders. Apparently there may be a contact there. We should look for the name Anteus.”

  Galen nodded. “Where is that?”

  “Not too far. But near a Watchtower. I could show you.”

  Galen looked at it curiously. “Why are you helping us?”

  The Sekoi narrowed its yellow eyes. “Because the Watch think we’re worthless animals.” It grinned. “And in memory of our mutual friend, Alberic.”

  “Have you still got his gold?” Raffi asked.

  The Sekoi drew itself up, affronted. “My gold. He should pay his storytellers.”

  Carys laughed. She wished she knew where the Sekoi hoard was. That would be useful information. But the Crow was better.

  Back out in the black city, they headed for the Street of the Wool-Carders. All the streets seemed the same, but, crossing one huge empty square, Raffi sensed the space all around him, and eyes at his back. Spinning around, he saw only darkness.

  When he told Carys, she took the crossbow off her shoulder and loaded it. “I’ve been afraid of that.”

  “If only I could sense something clear!”

  “I thought keepers were good at that.”

  “Not here.”

  The street, when they found it, was very short and bounded by a low wall with some sort of neglected garden on the other side; dead branches snapped under their feet. They walked up and down it twice, but there were no houses, no doors.

  Galen leaned on his stick. “So much for the Sekoi,” he snarled bitterly.

  The creature rubbed its fur thoughtfully. “We may be looking for the wrong thing.”

  “How?”

  “Does not your Order have secrets, keeper? Signs, symbols? Things not known by outsiders?”

  Galen straightened. “Raffi. Go with him. Search every inch of this wall. Girl, come with me.”

  In the dimness they had to peer at the bricks, feel with fingertips. Halfway down Raffi stopped. “This is it,” he breathed.

  The Sekoi stared curiously at the mess of scratches. “It means nothing.”

  “Yes it does.” He turned. “Galen!”

  The keeper came at a run, shoving him aside. “Good, Raffi! Good!”

  On the wall was a broken inscription plaque, with the words “. . . memory of Anteus, who . . .” all that remained. But under that were new scratches, strange and meaningless. Galen’s fingers outlined them eagerly. A tiny bee, a circle of six dots and another inside, a group of enigmatic slashes and squiggles. Carys tried to get closer. “What does it say?” she hissed.

  Galen glanced at her. Then he said to the Sekoi, “Where’s the place called the Pyramid?”

  It looked surprised. “An hour’s walk south. Why?”

  “That’s where we go.”

  All the way there Galen said nothing else, but Raffi could feel the pain in him, the desperate rising hope. Some of the way they ran, as time was running out; even Carys felt eyes on her, the scurrying of shapes in the shadows. She constantly glanced behind her at the darkest corners. Once she laughed at herself—she was the Watch, after all—but in this place everything seemed full of doubt. She knew she was beginning to look like an outlaw, to think like one. She had almost forgotten herself, and the knowledge shook her.

  Overhead the draxi flapped, looming out of fog; Raffi glanced up at them with a shudder.

  Crouched under walls, against buildings, they ran deeper and deeper into Tasceron’s heart. Finally the Sekoi stopped by a smooth sloping wall. “Well, keeper,” it said, breathless. “Your Pyramid.”

  The top was lost in gloom. They walked around it. Four walls, with no opening. It was blank and smooth.

  “Now what?” Carys muttered.

  Galen put both hands on the brickwork. He began to speak, words that not even Raffi knew—fierce, secret sounds—so that Carys stared and the Sekoi put its long hands together and chewed its nails nervously.

  The spell ended. But nothing moved.

  In a rage of fury, Galen slammed his hands against the wall, kicked it, beat at it. He moaned and cursed, his voice an agony in the silence. It chilled them all. For a moment Raffi wondered if Galen’s mind had gone. Then Galen turned. He looked over Raffi’s shoulder into the dark and there was a look on his haggard face that terrified them.

  But all he said was, “We’re going to have to improve your sense-lines, boy.”

  Carys spun around.

  The Sekoi snarled.

  Behind them, a row of armed men was waiting in the gloom.

  20

  There will be one who will return from the black pit.

  And yet he will not be the one who went.

  Apocalypse of Tamar

  “MY NAME IS NOT FOR YOU YET,” the old man said. He nodded to the nearest swordsman. “Search the pack.”

  They were inside the Pyramid, though Raffi still wasn’t sure how it had opened. The scuffle in the street had been brief; the men had dragged them in and flung them down there in a heap. The Sekoi had a torn ear, and Carys’s crossbow was in a swordsman’s hand.

  Now Raffi watched in fury as the pack was tugged open; one by one their clothes were tossed out, the water flask, the tinderbox. Finally the relic bag. The swordsman tossed it to the old man, who held it a moment.

  “What might be in here?”

  Galen was silent. Raffi’s heart thumped.

  The old man smiled. His face was small and narrow, his hair gray as ash, clipped short. He wore black gloves. Opening the bag, he took out the relics, laying them carefully on the table. “A device for far-seeing! I’ve heard of such a thing.”

  He laid the Maker-gifts in a row, and Carys stared at them. She had no idea what most of them were: a green tube, a box with buttons on it, a flimsy see-through cube. The old man’s hand paused in the bag. Raffi felt a sharp tingle of emotion from him, a shock of surprise. Then the black glove came out; it held the glass ball they had found long ago on the island.

  “What’s this?” The old man looked up intently. “Where did you get this?”

  Galen’s voice was grim. “I’ve never seen it before.”

  The old man stared at him for a moment, then he sat on a wooden bench. “Shean,” he said after a little while. “My name is Pieter Shean. I’m a Relic Master of the Order of keepers, as you are, Galen Harn.”

  Galen’s face didn’t change. “Prove it.”

  Shean shook his head. “What harm have they done us, my friend! But hear this.” He said nothing, but Galen’s eyes widened briefly; he sat upright and Raffi felt the sudden surge of joy in him.

  “I have not heard a voice in my mind these three months,” Galen muttered hoarsely.

  “I know it. I feel all the pain of it.” The old man nodded to the swordsmen. “All is well. Go back out.”

  The men went. One of them grinned at Carys and handed back her crossbow with a flourish. Annoyed, she snatched it. He wouldn’t smile if he knew who she was. Then she squashed the thought. This Shean hadn’t lost his power. She’d have to be careful. And take a good look around.

  The old man waved them to seats. “I’m sorry for your treatment. My men needed to be
sure you weren’t Watchspies. Of you, keeper, I’m sure, and your boy, and the Sekoi have rarely harmed us. But who is this girl?”

  “Carys Arrin.” Galen kept her quiet with a look. “We met her far from here, on the downs in our own country. The Watch took her father.”

  Shean studied her carefully. “Did they? When?”

  “Months ago,” she muttered. “I thought they might be bringing him here.”

  “I know of no prisoners brought from so far. It would be more likely they would take him to Arnk, or the Pits at Maar.” He turned to Galen. “Are you sure of her? The Watch have so many spies.”

  Galen was silent. Then he said, “I know her by now.”

  “We trust her,” Raffi put in unexpectedly. “She wouldn’t betray us.”

  Shean nodded slowly. “Is that so, girl?”

  Carys looked at him, trying to keep her mind empty as she’d been taught. She felt strangely miserable. “Of course,” she murmured.

  “I hope so.”

  “Keeper,” Galen said urgently, “can you do anything for me?”

  Shean looked uneasy. Finally he said, “I will try. It depends on how deep your hurt was. Eat first. Then you and I will meditate, and try the healing.” He looked at the others. “We will be some time, but there’s plenty of food here. In the room beyond are beds, and water for washing. Make yourselves comfortable. You have come home, keepers.”

  The food was good. Raffi felt he hadn’t eaten properly since leaving Lerin’s village, and though Carys was quiet, she ate well too. The Sekoi picked delicately at fruit, spitting out pips and looking around the room curiously.

  Later, when Shean and Galen were gone, they all slept, on small comfortable couches near the fire, and the Sekoi in a nest of cushions it had piled in one corner. Deep in the night, Raffi opened his eyes. Galen was standing in the warm darkness, looking into the fire.

  Raffi propped himself on one elbow. “Did it work?”

  But already he knew the answer. Galen gave him a look that went right through him; the keeper’s face was drawn and exhausted.

  “What does the keeper fear, Raffi?” he muttered hoarsely.

  “Despair,” Raffi whispered. “But Galen . . .”

  “I know despair,” the keeper said. “Despair and I are old friends.”

  “It’s not your fault!”

  “It must be. I have failed in some way. I have to pay and this is the way God chooses.”

  Raffi shook his head hopelessly. He felt like crying. “We’ll find the Crow. The Crow will cure you.”

  Galen didn’t answer. He sat in the chair, knees huddled up, staring into the flames. When Raffi went back to sleep, he was still there.

  Journal of Carys Arryn Date unknown

  What’s happening to me?

  First I feel sorry for Galen, and now the old man’s got me feeling guilty. This place doesn’t help. It must be one of the last strongholds of the Order anywhere, and I should be glad that I’ve found it, but the whole thing seems . . .

  CARYS STOPPED. Then she crossed out everything furiously and started again.

  They have a Relic-chapel here. I saw it this morning, though Galen spent most of the night in there. It is really very beautiful; Raffi was almost moved to tears. There are superb statues, so real they might almost be Flain and Tamar and the others. Candles burn before them. Relics are kept in boxes of gold—the Sekoi was squirming with jealousy. The windows are pieced together from broken fragments. Seeing it was strange. Old Jellie would have hated it, and so should I. It’s just . . . the statues looked too real. I almost thought Flain was looking at me.

  Superstition is easy to catch.

  Now we’re waiting for Shean. I think he has some idea where the Crow may be. If there is such a man.

  SHE CLOSED THE BOOK and stuffed it away quickly as the old man shuffled in with Galen. They sat down. All at once it felt like a council of war, and Raffi’s nerves tightened as the tension gripped him.

  Shean began. He laid the small glass globe carefully on the table, his hand trembling slightly. “Galen has explained how you came to find this. I’m not sure, but I think I know what it is. I have spoken to him about it; that knowledge lies only between us, for now. It is a great relic, and if it is what I think, then it will lead you to the Crow.” He looked uneasy. “If that is where you still wish to go.”

  Galen looked up, astonished. “Of course it is.”

  The old man paused, moistening his dry lips. “The House of Trees, keeper, if anything remains of it, is under the darkest, most dangerous part of the city. Those who have gone there have not returned.”

  “So you know where it is?” the Sekoi asked drily.

  “We have . . . some idea. There is an ancient list of ways—a list of streets. It dates almost certainly from before the fall of the city. Others have copied it and, I presume, followed it. As I say, none have come back.”

  “You haven’t tried?” Carys was surprised.

  The old man’s gloved fingers twisted together. “No. I feel it’s important I am here. We must gather, find our scattered brothers, rebuild the Order. This will be our center—the heart of the network. We need you here, Galen. Stay with us.”

  Galen stared at him. “What about me? I need the Crow!”

  “My son,” the old man said softly. “Have you ever thought that there may be no Crow?”

  “NO!” Galen leaped up, his face dark and wrathful. “Never! And how can you say that! Even think it! What has happened to your faith, old man? Has this city of horrors smothered it?”

  Shean sat silent. Finally he said, “You may be right to rebuke me. I’ve lived here too long in the dark, Galen; seen too many martyrs, too many children dragged away. Under this room so many of their bodies lie, bought from the Watch, secretly buried. And maybe I’ve become weak. Maybe I’ve thought, if the Crow was here, would he not have saved us from this? Would he not have risen up and saved the city?”

  “You sound like a Watchman!” Galen prowled in disgust, then turned swiftly. “Even in darkness, we have to believe! I’ve learned that. It’s we who have to rise up, Shean, us, the remains of the Order! The Makers left the world to us, and if it’s lost, then we are the ones who lost it! We have the power! We still have it! And he’s waiting for us to find him, to come to him!”

  In the silence that followed, the Sekoi said quietly, “Indeed, many of our stories say the same.”

  Shean shrugged. “Then I hope you find what you want. Because it tears at you so much I won’t hold you back. I can give you the List of Ways, though you must swear not to let it fall into the enemy’s hands. But think hard, keeper.” He stood up and gazed across the room at Galen’s grim face. “Are you doing this to save the Order? Or to heal your own loss? Would you be so eager to face death if you didn’t think the Crow could cure you?”

  Galen glared at him bitterly. “I hope so,” he breathed.

  “Of course he would,” Carys snapped. They all looked at her in surprise; she felt a bit surprised herself, but she folded her arms and looked Shean in the eye. “He hasn’t come all this way for himself. I’ve seen that. Nor has Raffi. They believe in this Crow, and if you’d had their faith you’d have gone to find him yourself, years ago. Keep the questions for yourself, keeper. Mightn’t it be that you hide in here because you’re too scared to go out?”

  Raffi was grinning; the Sekoi smiled slyly. Galen’s look was hard and strange.

  Shean nodded slowly. “The Litany says the keeper is wise who knows the voice of truth. Maybe what you say is so.” He sat down again, looking suddenly tired and older. His black fingers caressed the glass globe. “You go with him then, girl?”

  “I’ve come this far.”

  “But you don’t believe in the Crow?”

  She hesitated, uneasy. “Maybe. I don’t know. I’d like to find out.”

  The Sekoi nodded. “And so would I.” It rubbed the fur on its face with one sharp finger. “It would interest us. We have our own ideas abo
ut the Makers.”

  “And heresy, most of them are,” Galen growled. He came over to the table. “Let me have a copy of this list,” he said quietly. “My friends and I will leave tonight.” He paused, and the black and green beads glinted at his neck. “With your blessing, keeper.”

  Shean stood. “You have it, keeper. And maybe you will be the one the prophecy speaks of. The one who will come back.”

  THEY LEFT AT NIGHTFALL, though in Tasceron night was eternal. Now they traveled light. Galen had left all the relics in the safety of the chapel; he took only the glass globe and the chart. They each carried a little food; Carys had her bow. The Sekoi went empty-handed, as before. It seemed able to go for a long time without eating; when Raffi asked how it would manage it just purred at him, “I could eat you, small keeper.”

  Raffi laughed, but uneasily. There were some nursery rhymes he’d heard from his mother . . . As if it knew, the Sekoi laughed too, a small, mocking, barking sound.

  Shean’s men went with them as far as a corner of a terrace, where a great set of wide steps led up into the dark. There one of them said, “This is as far as we go. Good luck, keepers.”

  Galen gave them the blessing; they melted into the shadows expertly. Watching them go, Raffi said, “Now we’re on our own again.”

  “We’re never on our own!” Galen glared at him. “You’ve been neglecting your lessons, boy. While we go you’ll repeat the whole Book to yourself, from the beginning to the death of Flain. Every verse, every prophecy.”

  Raffi pulled a face at Carys. She laughed.

  But he could hardly concentrate on his task. They moved through inky streets; twice steam hissed up from under their feet, scattering them in terror. Sparks lit the sky far to the north. No one spoke. Galen led them, guiding himself by the small scrap of paper Shean had pressed into his hand, rubbing soot from the walls, hunting the shattered name plaques of the ancient streets.

  When they came to the tunnel he was ahead of them.

  “Down there?” Raffi came up and looked at it dubiously.