The Hidden Coronet #3

by Catherine Fisher

  Raffi felt lightheaded with tension and starvation. After so long out in the wilds, towns were alien places, crowded, full of secrets.

  The alley led onto a street, past shops. One had food sizzling outside; at another a potter was packing up, carrying in huge urns and vases.

  Raffi smelled the cooking, painfully.

  At the end of the street they came to a square. Trade was ending for the day but there were still plenty of people around, a few carts being loaded, someone selling cut-price flagons of wine. Marco bought one with his last coppers and they crouched under a colonnade and drank thirstily.

  “What now?” Solon muttered.

  “We could steal some food,” Marco said. Catching Solon’s eye, he grinned. “You people! All right. Somewhere to sleep.”

  “An inn?”

  Galen frowned. “Too risky. Besides, we can’t pay.”

  “Yes we can.” Raffi pulled something out of his pocket guiltily. “We’ve got this.”

  He laid it on the step and they all stared at it.

  A gold coin.

  Galen picked it up in disbelief. “By Flain, boy, if you’ve . . .”

  “I didn’t steal it. It must have fallen out of the money belt. It was inside my shirt.”

  The keeper flung it down. “It’s not ours.”

  “The Sekoi wouldn’t mind,” Raffi said sulkily, knowing very well that it would mind most bitterly.

  “You’re a sharp one!” Marco reached out for the money, but Solon was already turning it in his scarred fingers. The Archkeeper smiled.

  “It has come to us,” he said. “Certainly that was the Makers’ doing. If we sleep out in some alley, Galen, we risk being moved on, or taken up as vagabonds. And one night in a bed would ease my weary bones, I have to say.”

  Galen looked at him darkly. “If you’re willing to take the risk.”

  Solon flipped the coin. “I’ve taken worse, my son.”

  AFTER A CAREFUL SEARCH they chose an inn called The Myrtle Branch, in a dim back street far from the Watchtower. It looked clean, and through the smoke fug from its windows they saw the downstairs room was quiet, with only half a dozen customers. Serving them was a young woman, looking tired and harassed.

  “I’ll do the talking,” Marco announced.

  Galen looked at him. “You will not.”

  “Still thinking I’ll sell you to the Watch?”

  “I,” Solon said firmly, “will talk to her, and the boy will come with me. You two sit by the door and try not to look so disreputable.”

  He went in quickly, before they could argue, Raffi tripping over the step in his haste.

  Solon was wise, he thought. Galen would have scared her, and Marco she would have distrusted, but Solon was polite and kindly and travel-worn, and soon she was fussing over him as if he were her grandfather, fetching a hot drink and helping him off with his pack. He winked at Raffi and eased himself down by the fire with a sigh, stretching his legs out, clots of mud falling from his boots.

  “We’re visiting relatives. You’re my grandson, and those two are your uncles. We’re all the way from Marnza Bay. Know it?”

  Raffi shook his head.

  “Never mind. With luck no one else will either.”

  Galen and Marco came over and sat down. “All right?” Galen asked, looking around. No one seemed to be taking much notice of them.

  “Safe as houses.” Solon held out his hands to the flames, looking happy. “She’s even cooking for us.”

  Halfway through the meal, two Watchmen stalked in. Raffi nearly choked with terror, but after one glance Solon poured him a cup of ale, calmly. “We are in the Makers’ hands, Raffi. Let their will be done.”

  Gulping it down, Raffi thought that in his own way the Archkeeper was as reckless as Galen. He picked at his food, glancing in the mirror as the two men questioned the ale-wife. She pointed over toward them.

  Raffi’s heart thudded.

  He couldn’t swallow. The palms of his hands were slippery with sweat.

  “If they arrest us, go quietly,” Galen murmured. “Outside we can do something.”

  But the Watchmen nodded, took another look around, and went out. Raffi breathed out in silent relief, but Galen’s eyes narrowed.

  “We seem to be lucky,” Marco whispered, lifting his cup.

  The keeper looked at him. “Too lucky,” he said.

  They were given an attic room for the night.

  A bed was wonderful, even if it was only stuffed with straw. Raffi threw himself on the nearest and rolled over, one arm over his eyes, as Solon went to close the hangings on the windows.

  “Tomorrow,” Galen said, dropping the relic bag down in one corner, “we spend the rest of the money on food and leave as soon as we’ve asked about Watch movements.”

  “I’m not sure, my son, that that will be possible.”

  Something dry in Solon’s voice made Raffi sit up. He went over to the window and stood beside the old man, looking out.

  What he saw made him groan.

  The roofs of the town were already white.

  It was snowing. Hard.

  15

  Like a bear to honey,

  Moths to the flame,

  We seek our destruction.

  We have not learned how to be happy,

  How to stop our headlong rush to death.

  Poems of Anjar Kar

  SOLON WAS WASHING.

  He had stripped to the waist and Raffi could see the scars on his back and hands; horrible, twisted marks. He soaped himself in the hot water he had begged from the ale-wife, meticulously rubbing every inch of his skin. Maybe it was all that time in the cells, Raffi thought, that had made him so obsessive.

  “He could go straight to them!” Galen raged.

  “He won’t.” Solon groped for the towel. “He’s an outlaw.”

  “Not if he sells us for his freedom.”

  “My son.” The Archkeeper crossed the creaking boards and caught Galen’s arm. “You are sometimes like a tortured soul. Be still. I know Marco better than you do. He’s a rogue and a heretic, but he and I suffered in the same chains. He won’t betray me.”

  Galen folded his arms. “I pray to God you’re right.”

  “Which is exactly what we should be doing.” Solon pulled his shirt on over his head. Then he glanced back. “You have little fear of the Watch. But you have a deep hatred for what you think Marco is. Beware of it, Galen.”

  Silent, Galen nodded.

  They said the morning Litany, Raffi making the responses in a sleepy voice, wary of listeners at the door. Overnight the snow had fallen heavily; now it lay deep over the little town, clogging the narrow streets.

  As they finished, Marco wandered in, chewing a large piece of bread.

  “Breakfast is ready.”

  Solon and Galen glanced at each other.

  “So that’s where you’ve been.” Solon climbed to his feet.

  “Where else? Chatting up the ale-wife. Her name is Emmy. She’s got three small sons and her husband is away.” He winked at Raffi. “She’s pretty too.”

  Solon sighed. “Stop teasing the boy and lead the way. Sometimes I think I should have left you to the rope.”

  “Not me, Your Eminence.” He glanced at Galen. “Just think how dull your life would have been.”

  After breakfast they decided to work in pairs; Solon divided the money and they went out into the snow. All down the narrow streets shovels were scraping, voices rang sharp as bells in the frosty air. The wind raced, sending cloud shadows over the white plain below. Galen glanced up. “The wind’s rising.”

  “The weather is certainly strange,” Solon mused. “We’d best keep enough money for another night’s lodging. We’ll meet you back at the inn.”

  Watching Solon and Marco turn the corner Raffi said, “Will they be all right?”

  Galen’s look was hard. “Solon thinks so.”

  Trudging after the keeper between the heaps of cleared snow, Raffi trie
d a few sense-lines, but the world seemed icy and blurred, and all he felt was a cat in the house they were passing, rhythmically licking its tail, over and over.

  He bumped into Galen.

  “Stay alert,” the keeper snapped. He peered around a corner. “Any trouble, just walk away.”

  The market was busy. People were desperate to buy food in case the weather worsened; there was an air of panic and fear. Supplies were scarce and things were expensive; Galen had to haggle over prices. A few times he got into conversation with the stall-owners, and all most of them could talk about was the weather.

  “Huge floods out on the Morna river,” one man said, almost eagerly. “I’ve heard five villages are flooded, and a lot have died. On the roads east whole families are traveling: carts, oxen, the lot. They’ve had tidal waves on the coast and in Imornos sixteen people were killed when freak lightning struck a Watchtower and it collapsed on them. It’s like the end of the world.”

  A few people nodded. One woman made the Makers’ sign with her hand furtively; seeing Raffi had noticed, she walked quickly away.

  A small woman selling dried fruit said, “Talking of the Watch, I’ve heard they’re after someone big. Hush-hush.”

  Galen frowned. “Keepers?”

  “Who knows.” She poured raisins into a small sack. “My brother supplies the Watchtower—he says they’ve had reports the Sekoi are migrating. They’re no fools.”

  They could find out nothing more. By midday the wind was gusting, flapping the faded awnings and chinking flag-ropes in their metal rings. Galen drew Raffi into a doorway. “Before we go back, we’ll check the shrine.”

  Raffi closed his eyes in despair. “Galen . . .”

  “I know. But we have to make certain no relics are left there. It’s our duty.” He pushed past, swinging the bag over his shoulder. Raffi stared after him. He imagined Carys standing nearby and said to her, “He’s mad.” She grinned. “Go on, Raffi. You made the choice.”

  THIS SHRINE WAS AT THE END OF an alley that had been completely blocked with snow. A narrow trail had been dug for half of it, but then the snow lay thick and untrodden. Wading into it, Raffi felt the packed crystals crumple under his boots. In places it was waist-high, and he was soon soaked and bitterly cold, the strange gusty wind plucking at his coat. He clenched his fists, trying to keep the holes in his gloves together.

  On each side deserted buildings rose, every ledge and architrave edged with snow. Light showers of it drifted down on him. Trudging along the street he saw all the doors were barred, the windows shuttered. In the houses nothing moved but spiders.

  “This whole area is empty,” he said uneasily.

  “Good.” Knee-deep in a drift, Galen dragged his coat tighter. “No one to bother us.”

  There were wide steps leading under the portico of the shrine; Galen crunched up them and tried the door. It was locked.

  The wind moaned over the rooftops. Raffi looked back nervously up the lonely street.

  “Around the back.” Galen half turned, then stopped. There was a broken panel in the base of the door. He crouched and pulled more of it away. It left a hole.

  Not a big hole.

  Galen looked up.

  “Don’t tell me,” Raffi muttered. He dropped on his hands and knees and peered in.

  The darkness smelled of damp, a strange musty stench.

  “Don’t take long,” Galen said.

  Raffi laughed mirthlessly. Then he squeezed his head and shoulders through the gap, squirming in. There might well be traps, he knew. Drawing his knees up he crawled farther and straightened, trying to see in the dimness. From the cracked dome a pale snow-light drifted down.

  “All right?”

  “So far.”

  “Take a quick look. I doubt there’ll be anything, but it’s possible. I’ll watch the street.”

  Carefully, Raffi groped in the dim interior. Rubble lay strewn on the marble floors; he tripped over smashed furniture and a great charred heap of wood where someone once had made a bonfire. Reaching into it he pulled out a broken statue of Theriss, her face half gone. Chilled, he thrust it back.

  Something slithered over the floor.

  He turned, listening.

  Around the building the wind howled, confusing his sense-lines. All he could feel was decay and loss, a great bitterness of despair. A door was slamming far down in the corridors below, and bleak daylight pointed one long finger through the broken dome, lighting soiled frescoes of Soren and Flain high on the walls.

  Their eyes had been hacked out.

  Raffi clutched the fingers of his gloves. He was desperate to get out. But first he had to look.

  Between snow-dusted rubble he clambered to the apse. Here was where the relics would have been, stored in gilded chests around the curved wall. But most of the chests were smashed, the floor below them shattered as if some great battering ram had been used. The last one was intact, but opening it he saw nothing but a mass of darkness inside.

  A small black moth fluttered out and landed on his sleeve. Wind rattled the doors.

  “Galen?” he whispered.

  No answer.

  He brushed the moth away but it drifted back, and two more with it. They were coming from inside the chest. Wondering if anything was at the bottom, he put his hands in.

  The blackness rustled.

  With a gasp he jerked back and saw it was made of moths, millions of them. In a great cloud they swirled out, fluttering onto him, clinging to him as he beat them away. They were on his face, his neck, and as he squirmed and dragged them off, he felt to his horror all their millions of wings swarming over his mind, clustering like a weight, a rustling darkness piling on top of him. He tried to yell, but the sound was muffled; he couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. The moths smothered him; as he fell to his knees, the seething mass of furred abdomens and tiny antennae crawled into his clothes and sleeves, into his mouth and nose so he coughed and choked on crumpled bodies, their wings clogging his throat.

  “Galen!” he screamed, sending the mind-call out, but the moths smothered that too; there were so many of them, their tiny malevolent minds hissing with the instinct to bite and suck. He beat feebly now, writhing, curling up on the floor knowing only the great mass clustering all over him; he was a blackness of moths, more and more of them till his mind darkened and his choked breath stopped, pulling him down a warm tunnel where he could sleep, deep in the weight of wings.

  “Raffi!”

  The yell was in his head.

  Light broke over him, sense-lines like whips of pain that made his whole body convulse and jerk and cough. He was hauled up roughly, yanked upright, bitten and sore, retching.

  All around him the air swirled. Moths filled it like dark snow, fluttering, in his eyes and hair, resettling even as Galen dragged him to the smashed door. His face and neck stung, he felt sick and giddy; but as he heaved himself out, the cold wind shocked his mind into clearness.

  Galen stumbled after him, a drift of moths crisping from his clothes.

  They ran down the steps and crumpled into the snow.

  Raffi spat out fragments of wings, coughed them up, shuddering with cold and shock.

  “Dear God!” the keeper raged. He staggered up, black hair blown in his eyes by the wind. He looked wild and furious; Raffi grabbed his coat.

  “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Whatever you’re thinking of. Don’t.”

  Power cracked down his arm, sharp blue sparks of it.

  “I should burn it,” Galen snarled. “As it ought to be burned! Not leave it like this, defiled, a nest of Kesthorrors.”

  “And bring every Watchman in the town down on us!”

  Galen clenched his fists. “I could burn the whole town, Raffi! All of it!” He glanced down and it was the Crow that Raffi saw, a black restless shadow enveloping them both, charging the wind with energy.

  “I know,” Raffi breathed. “I know you could. But it would be wrong.
We don’t want vengeance, Galen.”

  Galen closed his eyes and wrapped the coat tightly around himself. “Sometimes,” he said, his voice hoarse and bitter, “sometimes we do, Raffi. More than anything.”

  IT WAS DARK when they got back to the inn, the wind roaring now, gusting them against walls. Galen was limping and they were both in pain from the bites of the moths, even though Raffi had tried rubbing melted snow on to cool the irritation. With nightfall the town was deserted, all doors and windows barred against the rising storm, but to their surprise the inn room was full.

  Some sort of urgent discussion was going on. Many of the people looked like refugees, newly arrived. As Galen and Raffi pushed their way in, they found themselves at the back of a crowd, the heat of the room stifling after the chill air. A great fire burned in the hearth, and a stout man on a stool next to it was talking into an attentive silence. Raffi slammed the door, forcing back the wind. A cold draft roared the flames; a few people turned and looked at him.

  Galen moved quickly to the staircase opposite, but Solon reached up from a small table by the window and caught his arm smoothly.

  “Thank God,” he whispered. “Where have you been?”

  “Busy,” Galen growled. “Where’s Marco?

  “Gone to look for you. I think you should listen to this.”

  “I’m not . . .”

  “Please, Galen. It’s not good.”

  “The filthy Order,” the man by the fire announced crisply, “have got to be responsible.”

  Galen turned instantly.

  “You’ve no proof of that,” a woman said bitterly.

  “What other explanation is there! The weather’s gone mad. You’ve all seen that. Now the Watch, have they got the power to do something like this? Do they have the knowledge?”

  The crowd murmured. Someone waved for more ale; the woman, Emmy, brought out a fresh jug.

  “Who is he?” Galen snarled.

  “Some troublemaker. Keep calm. It’s just Watch propaganda.”

  But Galen wasn’t calm. Raffi knew that.