by Lian Tanner
Duckling knew it was useless, but she tried anyway. She hummed, in a cracked voice, and her breeze came skipping past her as if this was just an ordinary day, and all she needed was a new kerchief or a bit of information.
But the Black Wind was there too, so big and terrible that Duckling felt as if their hiding place was about to burst open, throwing them all to their deaths.
‘Potoq,’ she whispered, because that was the name of the Black Wind in Saaf. ‘Please leave her alone. Please!’
The Black Wind ignored her.
Duckling cleared her throat and tried again, more forcefully this time. ‘I command you. She’s not ready to die. We need her; she’s our friend!’
A laugh whisked past her ear, the way a giant might laugh at the pleading of a mouse. The wind grew stronger. It stalked Sooli like a tiger, blowing her hair back from her face, blowing the life out of her, bit by bit.
Duckling racked her brains, trying to think of something that might help, but nothing came to her. Sooli’s face was growing greyer and greyer. Her arms had disappeared up to her elbows now. Her breath and her pulse were almost too faint to find.
Duckling’s own heart felt as if it was going to stop at the same time as Sooli’s, from fear and grief. She shut her eyes – and snapped them open again. ‘Otte,’ she cried. ‘The chicken!’
She snatched the startled bird out of his arms and sat her on Sooli’s lap. ‘Dora,’ she said, ‘you’re the Bayam. I know you don’t remember, but you’ve got to try, or Sooli will die. And she mustn’t. So do something. Anything!’
The chicken’s bright eye looked back at her.
‘Please,’ said Duckling.
The Black Wind ruffled the chicken’s feathers and flattened her comb. The chicken gave a squawk of annoyance. Then she settled herself more firmly and began to cluck.
The chicken wasn’t entirely sure what was required of her. But she could feel the darkness that was trying to overtake Veryshinygirl, and she didn’t like it.
It was the darkness of savage dogs, and badmen with sticks and cooking pots. It was the darkness of too much fear and not enough happiness. Too much eek! and not enough mmm.
So the chicken set out to bring some more mmm.
First, she told Veryshinygirl about earwigs. She described how they scuttled into hiding, and how a clever chicken could scratch at the ground with her powerful claws, turn them out of their hiding places, and snap them up before they could escape.
‘Crunchy,’ she said, in chicken language. ‘Mmm.’
That seemed to make the darkness retreat a little, so she kept going. Only this time, she talked about dust baths.
She talked about the pleasure of finding a sunny spot and scratching out a nice, chicken-sized hole. And how she would rustle up the dust with her feet, and fluff out her feathers at the same time, so that the dust got right down to her skin and soothed the itchy bits.
She talked about the warmth of the sun, the stretch of a wing, and the contented murmur of other chickens all around.
The darkness retreated further. The wind, which had been blowing the chicken’s feathers up the wrong way, lessened. Veryshinygirl grew a little warmer.
The chicken kept talking.
Deep in her heart, in that tiny part of her that still resisted the curse, she knew she was talking about life, which is as important to a chicken as it is to any human.
Life and love. Together they fought back against the Black Wind.
‘She’s breathing a little easier,’ whispered Duckling. She hadn’t taken her eyes off Sooli for the last five minutes, and neither had Pummel or Otte. At some stage, the three of them had grasped each other’s hands. It had felt important to hold onto each other when death was so close.
Now that sickening feeling was gone; the Black Wind had vanished. The heads of Otte’s mice poked out of the top of his too-big tunic, where they’d been hiding.
Duckling let go of the boys’ hands. ‘Sooli?’ she whispered.
Sooli’s eyelids fluttered. She took a huge, gasping breath – and opened her eyes. Duckling almost choked with relief.
Otte stroked the chicken, who was still talking to herself. ‘You saved her,’ he whispered.
‘Saved – me,’ croaked Sooli, in the voice of someone who had been on a long journey and never expected to return. She looked down. ‘My – hands.’
Her elbows and forearms were visible again, but not her hands.
‘Can you feel them?’ Pummel asked anxiously.
Sooli gulped. ‘Yes – but they are so cold! I think they are still tangled in the Grafine’s path. I think it is only the chicken holding me here. The great Bayam.’
‘What can we do?’ asked Otte. ‘How can we help you?’
‘I do not know,’ whispered Sooli. ‘But I must not touch you with my hands, in case you become tangled in the same path.’
The cat strolled up to the chicken and butted against her with gentle approval. The chicken squawked. The candle flame settled.
‘Raaashk nooow?’ said the cat, gazing at them all in turn. ‘Boook?’
Sooli closed her eyes, as if she didn’t want the other children to see the pain in them. ‘The Harshman has the raashk,’ she whispered. ‘I saw him take it. He cannot use it; he cannot use anything that is Saaf. But I cannot bear to think of it in his possession. We must get it back.’
‘But your hands,’ said Pummel. ‘We have to—’
Sooli interrupted him. ‘I do not know what to do about my hands. I have never heard of – of this, and do not know how to undo it. Just – do not leave me alone. Please.’
‘We won’t,’ said Duckling. ‘And don’t you get separated from the chicken. Not for anything.’
Sooli nodded, then nodded again.
‘Raaashk?’ insisted the cat. ‘Boook?’
It was hard to turn their minds back to things, after what had just happened. Duckling felt as if they’d been hit by the very worst sort of storm, and had not yet come out the other side. Pummel was right, they had to do something about Sooli’s hands.
But the cat was right, too. The danger of the Black Wind had stepped back a little, whereas the danger of the Harshman was as clear and present as ever.
‘So how can we get the raashk?’ asked Otte.
It was a question none of them could answer. Though Pummel said, very tentatively, ‘If I could get close enough to him—’
‘No,’ said Duckling. ‘You mustn’t go near him, not by yourself.’
‘Then the two of us,’ said Pummel. He didn’t sound at all happy about the idea, but he pressed it all the same. ‘Otte and Sooli could stay hidden, and we could try and sneak up on the Harshman. I’m sure the raashk would come to me if I was right there.’
‘He’s too strong,’ said Duckling, ‘and getting stronger all the time. I say we don’t go near him until we’ve got that book.’
‘But how do we find the book?’ said Pummel. ‘How many rooms are there in the Strong-hold, Otte? Counting all the towers.’
‘One thousand, seven hundred and eighty-six,’ whispered Otte.
Duckling and Pummel looked at each other, aghast. The Grafine’s book could be in any one of those rooms. And to find it, they’d have to leave their hiding place, which neither of them wanted to do.
‘No, wait, I can send my breeze,’ said Duckling.
Now that she thought about it, it was obvious. The breeze could whisk through all those rooms far more quickly than four children, and far more secretively. It could get into small places too, where a book might be hidden. Behind tapestries. Under wooden chests. Beneath lumpy, uncomfortable beds.
She didn’t wait for the others to agree. She hummed, and when the breeze came she whispered to it, ‘Seek a book, an old one probably. I think it’ll be tucked away somewhere, and not easy to find.’
She hesitated. What else could she say? There might be hundreds of books in the towers. Thousands. ‘It’ll smell like the Grafine. And maybe like witchery, only not S
aaf witchery. Go seek. Go find.’
The breeze circled her, as if it was no more sure than Duckling of what the book would look like. It brushed against the chicken, whose bright eyes followed it. It ruffled the fur on the cat’s back. Then it slipped through the narrow gap under the door, and was gone.
Duckling leaned against one of the bedposts and yawned. She couldn’t remember when she’d last slept properly, and tiredness was creeping over her like a fog. ‘What’s the time, do you think?’ she asked.
‘It’s nearly sunset,’ said Pummel.
‘We should sleep while we’ve got the chance,’ said Duckling. ‘Otte, does anyone else use this room?’
Otte shook his head. ‘Not at this time of day. The servants will come tomorrow morning, but we can be gone by then.’
‘All the same, one of us should stay awake,’ said Pummel. ‘What if Arms-mistress Krieg comes?’
‘I waaatch,’ said the cat, and she leaped down and strolled across to the door. She made herself comfortable there, and began to clean her belly with long strokes of her tongue. But her ears were pricked, and Duckling knew she would not let them down.
There was room for all of them on that huge bed, so Duckling curled up next to Pummel, and he curled up next to Otte.
Sooli didn’t move. ‘I – I am not sure if I can sleep.’ She was shivering again. ‘I am not sure if I should.’
‘Come here,’ said Duckling, making a space between her and Pummel. ‘We’ll squash up against you and keep you warm. It should be safe enough as long as we don’t touch your hands.’
They rearranged themselves with Sooli and the chicken in the middle, and Duckling closed her eyes, wondering where Grandpa was and whether he had done anything about the food carts yet.
As she drifted toward sleep, Otte whispered, ‘Duckling, how did you know the chicken would help Sooli?’
Without opening her eyes, Duckling murmured, ‘I didn’t. You did.’
‘No, I did not.’
‘Yes, you did. When you went into the trance, you picked up the chicken. You always pick up whatever can fix people. It’s usually potions and stuff, so I didn’t realise straight away …’
‘Thank you,’ whispered Sooli.
And they slept.
Pummel always woke up before dawn, because that was milking time. He couldn’t see the sunrise, not from so deep inside the Strong-hold, but he could imagine it.
He imagined the farm too, and the cows ambling towards the milking shed with their warm flanks and sweet grassy breath, and a wave of homesickness swept over him.
‘Are you awake, Frow Cat?’ he whispered.
The lone candle had gone out sometime in the night, but a quiet answer came from near the door. ‘Awaaaake.’
‘I wish I could talk to Ma,’ whispered Pummel. ‘But I’m glad she’s not here. I’m glad she’s safe on the farm, a long way away from the Harshman.’
He stretched his arms, then stiffened. A warm breeze had stroked his face as it passed.
Duckling mumbled something in her sleep, then she was wide awake too, and whispering, ‘Did you find it?’
Pummel couldn’t hear the answer. But he heard Duckling’s quiet groan of disappointment.
He fumbled for the tinderbox that sat on the tall-backed chair beside the bed. It took him several tries to light a new candle, and by the time it was done, Otte and Sooli were sitting up, blinking and yawning. Sooli’s hands were still invisible, and when she realised it, a thin sheen of sweat sprang up on her forehead. The chicken burbled quietly, but did not leave her lap.
‘No luck,’ said Duckling. ‘My breeze went all over and couldn’t find anything that looked like the right book.’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘Maybe the Grafine hid it too well. Or maybe the breeze just didn’t recognise it. That’s the trouble, we don’t know what it looks like.’
The cat leaped up onto the bed. She yawned, so that her sharp teeth showed, glanced at Sooli’s invisible hands and said, ‘Meeee.’
‘You what?’ asked Duckling.
‘Seeeearch.’
‘For the Grafine’s book?’
The cat blinked agreement.
‘How will you know if you find the right one?’ asked Otte.
The cat sniffed, as if to show what a ridiculous question that was. ‘Go noooow,’ she said.
‘We’ll have to move from here,’ said Pummel. ‘Will you be able to find us?’
Another sniff. Another ridiculous question.
Duckling hopped off the bed and opened the door a crack to make sure no one was lurking nearby. The cat strolled through, her tail high.
It was hard to go back to a cramped little rathole after the comfort of the Grafine’s bedchamber. But Pummel knew it was necessary. Anyone might throw open the door of the bedchamber and discover them there.
This rathole was about the same size as the one in the Bear Tower. It was on the third floor of the Keep behind a heavy tapestry, and it stank of mould and mice droppings.
While they waited for the cat, Otte showed them the scraps of paper that the ninth Margrave had left tucked into a slot in the wall. They were covered in feverish writing, and all of them spoke of one plot or another.
‘Graf von Bere is trying to kill me. But I will kill him first.’
‘Grafine von Finkel is experimenting with poisons. Watch her carefully.’
‘Graf von Junker talks to himself constantly. Is he deranged? Drunk? Or trying to lull my suspicions?’
But the scraps could not keep them entertained for long, and there was nothing else to do but worry. So it was a relief to creep out occasionally, to visit the privy, or to find food. Or just to escape from that awful space for a little while.
Not that the rest of the Keep was much of an escape. The Harshman had more of the grafs and grafines searching for the children now. Some of them did it willingly; some had been forced. And some were glassy-eyed, and didn’t seem to have any thoughts of their own.
From what Pummel could gather – pressing himself behind a door as a string of nobles raged past him – the Harshman didn’t think about food, and didn’t expect anyone else to think about it either. Some people managed to snatch a piece of dried sausage or a slice of cheese as they passed through the kitchens. Those whose minds the Harshman controlled couldn’t even do that.
Only the eager ones, who followed the Harshman like whipped dogs, ate enough. And they ate and ate, knowing that the food was running out, and soon there would be none.
Once again, Pummel was glad of Duckling’s upbringing. Late that night, she sneaked out to the kitchens and came back with a crust of stale bread and three wrinkled carrots, as well as a handful of grain for the chicken. The four white mice went out too, and found tiny scraps of food that they dropped into Otte’s hands.
It wasn’t a feast, but it was better than nothing.
Sooli hardly moved, except to go to the privy. The rest of the time she sat with the chicken on her lap and her gaze far away. Sometimes she startled for no apparent reason. Sometimes she shivered. When she tried to feed herself with her invisible hands, the bread turned to ashes.
So Duckling and Pummel sat next to her to keep her warm, and fed her with bits of bread that they broke off and slipped into her mouth.
At last, when the next dawn had come and gone, and Pummel was growing so restless that he was ready to search for the Grafine’s book himself, regardless of the danger, the cat came back.
She was limping, and her right ear was scorched, but she would say nothing about what had happened to her. All she would talk about was the book, and the news she brought was not good.
‘Caaan’t fiiind,’ she said. Then she set to work licking her sore paw, and would tell them nothing more.
Pummel’s mind was blank with dismay. He had been so sure that the cat would find the Grafine’s book. She seemed to be attracted to any sort of witchery, and although she was not nearly as quick as Duckling’s breeze, there was something unflinching about her.
Duckling shook her head, as if she was completely out of ideas. Otte shrugged helplessly.
But Sooli spoke for the first time in hours. ‘The ghosts,’ she whispered.
The Harshman liked being Margrave. He liked having slaves and underlings. He liked sending people running hither and thither with fear in their eyes and his orders on their lips.
But he did not like holding the cold inside himself for so long. It hurt. And the longer he kept it trapped in his bones, the more it hurt.
He could let it out, but then his slaves would fall asleep and be completely useless. Unless …
He leaned back on the Faithful Throne and studied the stone walls of the Great Chamber. What if he sent the cold into that stone? What if he let it spread through the walls themselves, and the towers, and the turrets?
The idea pleased him nearly as much as freshly spilled blood. The Strong-hold had already stood for five hundred years, and was guaranteed to stand for another five hundred. If he was a part of its structure, he would stand with it. He would be stone as well as bone. He would be unstoppable, even before he killed the Heir.
He turned the idea this way and that, looking for weaknesses. But he found none.
And so, slowly at first, he began to release the cold that was crammed up so painfully inside him. He directed it towards the stone wall to the right of the Faithful Throne, and when it reached the wall, he let it spread in every direction.
A dozen underlings who stood between the throne and the wall fell to the ground, their hearts stopped by frostbite. At the same moment, every warm-blooded creature in the Strong-hold began to shiver. The mice, the cows, the chickens and the dogs. The ravens that roosted on Lynx Tower. The servants. The servants’ children. The nobles and their children.
But the Harshman hardly noticed. Because it was working. He was part of the Strong-hold, and it was part of him. He was stone as well as bone.
Now nothing could defeat him.
Pummel was suddenly so cold that he could hardly think. He rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them and wondering what had changed.
