The Margrave

by Catherine Fisher

  She was the last.

  There were more cells, but they hurried her straight past. Quist in front now and two burly Watchmen close behind her. As they climbed some broad steps, Carys allowed herself a wry smile. She was obviously a big threat.

  The steps were Maker-material, unworn. At the top was a door; Quist knocked and went in. In seconds he was back.

  “Inside,” he said. And then, to the Watchmen: “Stay here. No one to come in or out.” Pushing Carys before him, he stepped in behind her.

  THE ROOM WAS LONG. At the far end was the biggest desk she had ever seen, and sitting on a corner of it, watching her, was a woman. Carys was thrust forward. As she walked, the distance made her feel small; she passed an empty fireplace and a dead fly on the floor. There was nothing else in the room. She lifted her head, defiant. Maybe the fly was lucky.

  The woman was pretty and small, with a sharp, narrow face. Her hair was scraped back; she wore a castellan’s emblem on her shoulder. Her face was calm and quite unreadable. Carys walked up to the desk and stopped. There was a small stool; the woman nodded, and Quist pushed her onto it. She had forgotten the rooms of the Watch were so utterly cold.

  The woman’s scrutiny was thorough; her gaze traveled over Carys, taking in every scratch, every muscle of her face. Carys tried to keep the fear out of her eyes. The silence chilled her. And then she noticed the woman was fingering something. Some silver discs on a chain: the insignia. Before she thought she said, “Those are mine.”

  The castellan showed no surprise. Instead she put the slithering chain on the table. When she spoke her voice was oddly husky. “Welcome back to your family, Carys Arrin.” Then she pushed the discs over the desk. “If they’re yours,” she said, “put them on.”

  2

  Ask questions with cold rigor. Display one weapon on the wall, where the subject must see it. Bring them past closed rooms where the lash sounds. But do not allow screams, which bring anger and stiffen resistance. Do not threaten. Behind you looms the shadow of the Watch; that is threat enough.

  Directions for Interrogators, WP9/7623

  FOR A LONG MOMENT Carys was still, with surprise more than anything. Then she picked up the chain and slipped it over her neck.

  The castellan gave a thin smile. She nodded at Quist, who came and lit the two tall candles on the desk with the spark from a tinderbox. The yellow flames lengthened, their tiny sizzle loud in the hush.

  “Good.” The woman nodded. “It always helps when the prisoner knows exactly what resources the Watch has for dealing with her.”

  Carys folded her fingers together. “What is this place?”

  Quist went and stood behind the castellan’s chair, like a shadow. She leaned back; he put a hand on her shoulder and to Carys’s amazement the woman reached up and stroked it, without looking.

  “I’m afraid I’m the one conducting the interrogation. But it will do no harm to tell you that its official designation is Watchtower 277. Broken Mountain. It once had another name, most people still use it. The Castle of Halen.”

  Halen. One of the Makers.

  The small woman leaned forward. “Now listen to me, Carys Arrin. When my captain here sent a message on that he had captured a renegade spy I was very pleased with him. You must know that Maar has you on every wanted list?”

  “I’m flattered,” Carys said drily.

  The castellan smiled. “You’re well trained. But then, so am I. Only the flicker of your eyes is enough for me. You’re afraid, Carys, and that’s natural. You have everything to be afraid of.”

  She let the candlelight dance on her face. “Unless . . .” Carys frowned. She knew she was supposed to ask “Unless what?” to be grasping at straws, but she wouldn’t. Instead she stood up. “I’m not playing those games. If you want to interrogate me, then do it, but don’t bother with the tired old tricks. I’m not some terrified farmwife.”

  Quist had taken a step, but the castellan waved him back. Her calm did not waver. Carys already knew she was a formidable opponent, probably a trained spycatcher. But there was something else going on here, something she couldn’t work out yet.

  The castellan opened a drawer in the desk. “My name,” she said unexpectedly, “is Maris Scala.” She took out a thick file of paper; putting it down, she shaped the loose sheets into a tidy block with her small hands. “This is your file. It makes fascinating reading. You were seen as extremely promising from a very early age. Stubborn, intelligent, quite ruthless. A great career lay ahead of you. You would very probably have been transferred to command, even become a Watchlord in your own right. And then one day they sent you after a keeper. One Galen Harn. And how everything changed. He must be a remarkable man, Carys.”

  Carys sat, stonily silent. She folded her hands in her lap and looked straight ahead. But she hadn’t missed that the castellan had known Galen’s name without looking it up.

  Scala turned the papers. “There is a new reward of forty thousand marks for you.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Oh. I intend to do much better than that.” The castellan looked at her archly. “Because, like you, I play by my own rules. I find they profit me better. Do you understand?”

  She was beginning to. But somehow she had to make the situation profit herself too. “You want information. For your own ends.”

  “I do. And we’ll begin now.” The castellan nodded at Quist; he fetched paper and a quill from an alcove and went and sat on the window seat, taking one candle with him. The draft made the flame quiver wildly, and as he dipped his nib in the ink Carys glimpsed the dim outlines of the shattered hills outside. The castellan’s eyes followed him fondly. Then she turned to Carys. This was it.

  “What has happened,” the woman asked, “to the relic called Flain’s Coronet?”

  “The Sekoi have it. In their Great Hoard.”

  “And where is this Great Hoard? Because it is no longer where you left it.”

  Carys blinked. “Then you know more than me.”

  “In this case perhaps we do. A month ago a triple patrol was sent out from Rendar, riding fast into the Sekoi country. It was known later that they found a vast arena, immensely old, with the smashed statues of ancient Sekoi blocking the road to it. The destruction had been recent, and thorough. The arena was empty. Nothing of any hoard remained, not even one gold coin.”

  The castellan smiled. “You look baffled. Is it that amazing?”

  “Yes,” Carys said, heartfelt.

  “The Watch have always underrated the Sekoi.” The castellan got up and wandered to the window, gazing out. “This Hoard, Carys. It was big?”

  “It was beyond counting!” She remembered the hills and valleys of treasure. How could they have moved it so quickly?

  “And you don’t know where it is now?”

  “No.”

  “I believe you.” Scala turned abruptly. “The Sekoi keep their secrets, even under torture. I should know. How I would love, Carys, to find the place they keep their children.”

  Cold, suddenly weary, Carys shrugged. “Don’t ask me. So the Coronet is gone, then.”

  Scala smiled. She looked very small in the black Watch tunic, the dark trousers, her face as delicate as a child’s, her deep brown hair caught in its silver pin. “Ah. Not the Coronet. We know, as you do, that the Coronet was given by the Sekoi to the Order, after that strange mass hallucination you all suffered, when you believed you had mended the weather.”

  Carys shrugged. “You seem to know all about it.” “We do. The Coronet belongs to the Order now. Therefore it must be in the Order’s safe house. On . . .” She came and turned a few pages, as if searching for the name, though Carys was sure she didn’t need to. “On the island of Sarres.”

  Carys had been waiting for this. She kept her face totally closed, though a sudden memory of Felnia with her arms wide running over the grass flickered in her mind.

  Scala turned. “Where is Sarres?”

  Carys was silent. Then she said
, “In the Unfinished Lands.”

  “More exactly?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Quist looked over. The castellan leaned against the table, folding her arms. “You’ve been there.”

  “I was blindfolded each time.”

  “The keeper still doesn’t trust you, then?”

  Carys shrugged. Secret delight filled her. Galen had been right. The Watch hadn’t found Sarres. When she and the Sekoi had delivered the Coronet four days ago, the sacred island had been just the same, the flowers in early summer color, Felnia dragging her to see a nest of sunbirds, a new line of scrawny goslings crossing the lawn. The Coronet was safe there, with Tallis. Carys would never betray them.

  A bell clanged out in the courtyard. Quist dipped his pen in the ink and turned a page. He looked up, impatient. “We’re not getting far.”

  “Patience, lover.” Scala tapped her fingers on the file. Her lips were delicately reddened. It was against the Rule.

  “Look.” Carys sat up and leaned forward. “You and I know that the Margrave lived in Solon the keeper for months. He saw Sarres, the Hoard, everything. What is there left for me to tell you?”

  Scala lifted her head, eyes steady. “The Margrave?”

  “Oh, yes.” Carys stared her out. “The Kest-creature that controls the Watch. That lives down in Maar. You wonder why I gave up my glorious career, Castellan, and he’s one reason. A beast and a man, mingled, bred together. A thing of evil working through you. And me, once.”

  She’d said too much. Shown feeling. Always a mistake. Her face was hot and they were both watching her closely; Quist had stopped taking notes. He looked at Scala. “Is this true?” He sounded appalled.

  She gave a husky laugh. “Keep writing, lover. I ask the questions.”

  He looked back at the page quickly.

  Behind Carys the door opened. An elderly man shuffled in with a flagon and three cups; no one spoke as he set them down. Carys tried to think fast. They were still only playing with her. Letting her think she was winning. She had to be very careful.

  The servant shuffled out. As he closed the door a clock was chiming, far off in the castle. Ten o’clock. She felt drained, bone-weary.

  The castellan poured wine into the cups. “Yes,” she said. “I have heard this legend of the Margrave. I thought it a tale to terrify the people, that grew in the telling. Useful, no more. But you say it’s true?”

  “I’ve said too much.”

  “Carys, you and I are very alike.”

  That was an old line. The odd thing was, she thought Scala meant it.

  “And if this creature exists, it explains a few things. Because I admit the orders concerning you have been puzzling me.” Sipping from the cup, Scala reached for the first sheet of paper and swiveled it around. “Most of the things you could tell us we already know. We know Galen Harn has been calling himself the Crow . . .”

  Quist went quite still; Carys noticed it.

  “. . . and that he claims to have spoken with the Makers. We know of Sarres, if not its location, and we know the Order is re-forming sense-lines of communication across the Western Province. We know their secret group in Tasceron is led by one Shean, from a place called the Pyramid, though I have to say when we eventually found a way into that, it was empty. All these things are important, but Maar doesn’t seem to think so.” She looked up. “The strange thing is there is just one demand that keeps coming, in every directive, every batch of orders. One person who has to be found, arrested, captured by any possible means. Captured alive. And I think you know him.”

  Carys was silent.

  The castellan leaned forward. “Tell me where he is, and you can come back to us. It will be as if you never left. All your promotions back, your record wiped clean. That glorious career, Carys. If not . . .”

  Carys put the tips of her fingers together. “I want time to think about this,” she said carefully.

  “You can have tonight. No more.”

  “I may not know where he is.”

  “You were on your way to meet him.”

  “He’ll have moved on. Galen is unpredictable.” Her mouth was dry.

  The castellan nodded. “You’ll have some meeting place, I’m sure. But you misunderstand me, Carys. The urgency is not for the man Harn. These desperate orders from Maar concern only a boy.”

  “A boy?”

  “A mere scholar. His name”—she sifted the papers—“is Raffael Morel.”

  Carys stared in utter shock. “Raffi?” she breathed. The castellan smiled, and drank. “So you do know him,” she said.

  3

  The loyalty of the faithful is vital, though our service to them does not depend on that.

  Second Letter of Mardoc Archkeeper

  THE TWO SMALL BOYS WERE DIGGING for shar-roots in the open field. They had a dog with them, but Galen whipped a sense-line firmly around it and said, “Go on. Remember the father’s somewhere near.”

  Raffi wriggled through the branches and out onto the path. He walked along it making a cheerful whistling noise between his teeth, letting the boys think they saw him first. Then he stopped. “Hello.”

  The dog was a big one, half wolf. Sleepily it thumped its tail. The older lad glanced at it, but its stillness seemed to reassure him. “We’re not to speak to tramps.” He turned back to his digging.

  “That’s a pity.” Raffi leaned on the gate. “Because I wanted you to help me. I’m looking for someone.”

  The boy dug, stubborn. The younger one, about six, just stared, rubbing dirty hands. Then he crouched and began to pile the roots up, arranging them in patterns.

  Raffi felt Galen’s impatience. “Look. You might have seen her. She’s got short brown hair and she’s about my height. Wearing dark green trousers and a brown coat. She’s in a group of Watch prisoners, and we know they came this way. Have you seen them?”

  No answer. The small spade chipped relentlessly at the hard soil. Raffi glanced behind, desperate. From the bushes the Sekoi’s long hand waved him on. Then the boy said, “What are you paying?”

  He shook his head, bemused. “I haven’t got anything.”

  “Not much use asking, then.”

  “I could help with the digging. If you tell me.”

  The spade stopped. The boy looked back, then held it out. “Dig first.”

  Raffi cursed under his breath, then climbed over and took the dirty wooden handle. He shoved it into the clods of soil.

  “Careful,” the boy said crossly. “The beggars are up the top.”

  He dug again; briefly the sliced orange tip of a root showed. Before it could wriggle away, the boy was on it, grabbing it and tugging and scrabbling till it came out, flexed once in the damp air, and then went rigid.

  “Well?” Raffi snapped.

  “Two more.”

  The sun was overhead; it was warm. Raffi gritted his teeth and dug quickly. “All I want . . . is to know . . . if you’ve seen her.”

  “I’ll tell you. When I’ve got my twenty.”

  The last root was deep, and kept wriggling deeper. Finally the boy sliced it out with his knife, cut it neatly in half, and dropped it on the pile. His brother leaned the two halves together tidily.

  Raffi flung down the spade. “So?”

  “Haven’t seen her.”

  “What!”

  “Haven’t seen her.”

  “You cheeky little brat.” Raffi was furious. “You said . . .”

  “Didn’t say anything.” The boy turned toward a distant barn. “Dad! I’ve finished.”

  Instantly, before Raffi could move or the boy take another breath, Galen was out of the hedge and had both the boy’s hands caught tight in a vicious grip. “Listen to me, you little wretch,” he snarled, his eyes black and hard. “I know you’ve seen her, so you tell me where she is. Now!”

  The boy went white with fear. In a sobbing whisper he gasped, “On the road. The big road. They took them all away to the Broken Mountains.”


  “How long ago?”

  “Two days.” The boy was breathless. Galen let him go and said, “Come on.” In seconds he was gone, up the lane, the Sekoi racing after him.

  Raffi looked at the boy. “Sorry,” he said, awkward. “But you should have told me.”

  The boy glared at him with hatred. Then he turned and screeched, “Dad! DAD! They’re killing me!”

  Raffi ran.

  THIS WAS HARD COUNTRY. The lanes were empty, people scarce. There were few great trees, just small gnarled orchards and the tiniest green shoots of what might be barley springing through the fallow ground. Over it, rising like the spines of a nightmare, were the Broken Mountains.

  Galen and the Sekoi were waiting at the foot of the next slope, all the small white sheep huddled into the far end of the field. Raffi climbed the stone wall and dropped into the grass. “I’d have found out,” he said irritably.

  “We haven’t got that long.” Galen swung the pack off, pulled out the water flask, and drank.

  Raffi shook his head. “The father might talk.”

  “Let him.” Galen offered the water to the Sekoi, who took it and wiped the lip daintily with a square of purple silk it took from a pocket. Then it drank, the shaven patch under its ear looking sore and cold, the ragged stitches itchy. It had fidgeted too much when Galen put them in. Now it passed the flask and said, “Galen, I think the small keeper may be right in part. We shouldn’t let our anxiety for Carys cause us to be careless.”

  Morose, Galen turned away. He stared up at the hills and his gaze was dark and deeply uneasy; Raffi could feel the sense-lines move in an invisible unraveling all around him, into soil and stone, always searching. The keeper was worried. More than that. Curious, Raffi grasped after the feeling; it was brief and hastily hidden, but for an instant it had been clear and it astonished him. Guilt. Galen felt guilty.