The Margrave

by Catherine Fisher

  “Why should I?” he hissed. “You murderers killed my wife. If I could see, I’d slice every one of you up slowly. God, so slowly.”

  “You listen, and listen hard.” Carys took the letter out of her secret pocket. “I’m not in the Watch. Got that? I’m working undercover. I’m a spy for the Order.”

  “Are you? And I’m the Emperor’s lapdog.” His hatred was like a wall, a solid barrier between them.

  “I haven’t got time to argue. These two are the enemy here, not me. Now take this. If anyone finds it on you, destroy it.” She shoved the letter inside his shirt; he squirmed and kicked out blindly as if it were poisoned. Carys jumped back. “It’s true,” she snarled fiercely. “The letter is for a keeper. His name’s Galen Harn. He’ll be here in hours. Or should be.”

  “You must think I’m totally stupid!” The blind man had stopped struggling. Now he gazed toward her, head tilted, his features distorted with loathing. “And that bitch of a castellan wants me dead.”

  “You knocked her down. She’s not the sort to forget.” Carys looked around anxiously. “But Quist’s talked her out of it. They’re just going to leave you here. Listen! Get the letter to Galen. It’s important! Tell him the Margrave wants Raffi! He’s got to leave Raffi behind. Have you got that?”

  For a second he looked doubtful. “A keeper.”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re all dead.”

  “Not this one.” She scrambled up. “I’ve got to go. We’re riding on.” She walked away, then stopped and turned and stood for a second looking down on him. “Have you ever heard of a place called Mathravale?”

  There was silence. Then, deliberately, he spat at her. “You lying, murderous scum,” he whispered.

  “AND I SUPPOSE YOU WANT ME to attack this as well?” Alberic gazed sourly at Flor’s Tower through the relic-tube; Galen took it from him impatiently and snapped it up.

  “No. Carys came through here, so we have to follow. What do your people say?”

  The dwarf leaned back against the birch trunk. “They say the road’s all broken up with mudslides. We’ll have to go through the Hungry Wood.”

  “May I ask,” the Sekoi asked apprehensively from up in the tree, “just why it’s called that?”

  “Deathwort. Clusters of it.”

  “Ah.”

  The dwarf scrambled up, Milo hastily brushing leaves from his clothes. Alberic gave him an absent clip around the ear. “Stop fussing me, boy.”

  “Sorry, Uncle.”

  “And stop Uncle-ing me! It’s Chief to you. Go and find Taran; tell him he’s to take over the rearguard.”

  As the boy ran off, Alberic stared after him in exasperation. “Never promise your sister you’ll make a warlord of her son.”

  “You have a sister?” the Sekoi asked politely, dropping through the branches.

  Alberic scowled. “Ugly as sin. Looks nothing like me.”

  They made their way down the track. Below, in a hollow, the war band rested and drank, their gaudy greens and scarlets lighting the wood. Galen stalked ahead, dark and morose, bending under the low branches with their delicate spring leaves. Last night, the Sekoi knew, he had been deep in the newly made sense-grid, sending messages to Tallis and to the keepers at Tasceron. Shean and his group had left the Pyramid; things were so bad in the city they were searching for the House of Trees, and three new keepers in the forest of Alkadis had been traced. But none of them had any news of Raffi. When the Sekoi had asked what Tallis had said, Galen had shaken his head sourly.

  “She wasn’t surprised.”

  “She said that?”

  “She didn’t need to.”

  Now, watching the keeper climb into the saddle of one of Alberic’s horses, the creature felt Godric at its elbow. “Well, Graycat,” the big man said. “What’s at Maar for him?”

  The Sekoi scratched gloomily. “Death.”

  “His?”

  “Or the Margrave’s. It will come to that.”

  Godric picked his teeth. “Do you really think that thing exists? Half man, half animal? That they could have made something like that?”

  “Oh, I think so,” the Sekoi said softly. “I think they were capable of that.”

  “And could he kill it? I mean, the Order, they think all life is holy, right? Even plants! Could he bring himself to kill anything in cold blood?”

  “That’s what I wonder, friend.” The Sekoi was watching Galen.

  Godric shrugged. “Mind you,” he said. “With his temper . . .”

  “SHE’S TAKING HER TIME just to fetch a glove.” Quist looked back through the trees anxiously.

  Carys sat among the roots of a barnut and chewed a piece of sweetgrass. “Relax,” she muttered. “Scala doesn’t need you to look after her.”

  Quist glared. “You talk too much.”

  They were silent a moment; an awkward silence filled with the varied birdsong of the copse, and the distant yelping of a pack of jeckles invisible in an abandoned clearing of green corn. Then Carys threw the grass stalk down. “I want you to tell me about Mathravale,” she said quietly. “You were there, weren’t you?”

  She had caught him off guard. His glance was quick and wary; then he wouldn’t look at her at all. Instead he pulled tiny mosses off the tree with his fingers. Finally he said, “Yes. I was.”

  “You said some of the children were taken to Marn Mountain. That might have been me.”

  “Maybe, but—”

  “But nothing.” Suddenly she was angry. “I want to know what happened. I have a right to! Everyone else does.” She stood up and came close behind him. “Do you have any idea of what it’s like not to know who you are? Where you came from? Who your parents were? I don’t know any of that. All I can remember is that pit of a Workhouse. I want more than that.”

  He stared steadily back along the track. “What if the truth is worse?”

  “I still want to hear it.”

  “It’s against the Rule.”

  She snorted; he smiled sourly. “No. That’s never counted for much. But Scala . . .”

  “Scala needn’t know. Just tell me!” For a second she thought he wouldn’t and felt a surge of despair that surprised her. But then he crouched, leaning against the tree, and began to pick fern leaves, shredding them rapidly.

  “I was in the tenth patrol. We gathered at Carmelan, over three hundred of us, from all the towers around. It was just before dawn. I was young and scared and excited. The story was that there were keepers in Mathravale, a whole nest of them, with all their sorcery. The people there were hiding them. So we lined up and at dawn we rode down, like a great wave, whooping and yelling, and it was fine, Carys, it was fine. I hated it, and yet I felt so alive. The orders were clear: Find the keepers. Use any methods that were necessary.”

  He didn’t look up. “Mathravale is a long, wide valley with a river that runs slowly. It was filled with ripe cornfields, and there were sheep and geese outside the cottages. I remember thinking, as we roared down, how peaceful it was. Then the dogs in the nearest farm started barking, and all hell broke loose.” His fingers never stopped moving, the pieces of fern torn smaller and smaller.

  “They—we—dragged the families out. The commander—Darmon, his name was, he’d lost an eye in some Sekoi battle, and he was half mad. He roared out that all he wanted was the keepers, only them, and if they gave themselves up, no one else would be hurt. But no one came. No one moved. He screamed at the people to tell us where they were.”

  “And did they?” She knew the answer already.

  “No. The silence was terrible. There was only a baby crying; I remember its mother was desperate to hush it, pushing the corner of her shawl into its mouth in terror.”

  “What did they do?” She was close behind him, her heart thudding, a slight sweat dampening her back.

  “Darmon killed a young boy. Dragged him out and held a sword to his neck and when still no one spoke, cut it. Then the men went wild and attacked us. God knows why
they did it. They had no weapons, just pitchforks and spades, they must have known it was hopeless. Why didn’t they just tell us what we wanted to know?” He was arguing with himself bitterly, lost in memory. “It was a massacre. They stood no chance. The women ran into the houses, but we burned everything, buildings and crops. Cut down anyone who crawled out, even the dogs and cats. The screaming is what you never forget. Nothing was left. Nothing but ashes and smoke. And silence.”

  He stood abruptly, brushing the leaves off. “All down the valley it was the same. We came down like a black storm. Darmon lost control. We all lost control. It was a madness. At some stage a woman came running from the hills, an old woman on a stick, with two boys screaming at us to stop, that they were the keepers, the only keepers. They were trampled, their bodies cut to pieces, whether they were telling the truth or not. Darmon had to have some trophies.” He looked down the track at Scala coming through the trees. “An old woman,” he whispered, appalled. “And two boys.”

  Carys’s throat was dry, but she forced herself to ask, “About the children. You said . . .”

  “A few survivors were found. About thirty children were sent off to Marn Mountain.” For the first time, he looked at her. “That doesn’t mean . . .”

  “Sixteen years ago. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it was us. There were that many in our year. They worked hardest on us . . . we always knew that, but we never knew why.” She met his eyes, cold.

  He took a step forward. “Carys, the Order was to blame! To hide behind the people like that, to fill them so full of their faith that they would even die for it! They should have come out of hiding.”

  “If they were even there.”

  “They were! We knew. Our spies . . .”

  “Spies!” It was like a knife wound; she drew in her breath hard. “And you killed everyone!”

  “It was our orders. You know.”

  “Oh, I know.” She stared at him, cold as ice. “I know.”

  “Sorry to keep you.” Scala was smiling sweetly, pulling on her left glove. She looked smug and slightly heated, her fine skin smooth. “Shall we go?”

  Carys turned without a word and climbed on the horse. She couldn’t speak. She was so angry and bewildered, she was frozen by it, and that was good because when it melted, she didn’t know what sort of pain would come. Her parents must have been there, brothers, sisters, who knows what. Killed because they wouldn’t betray the Order.

  “You’re both very quiet.” Scala took the crossbow off her back and slung it at the saddle. “We haven’t had an argument, I hope?”

  “No.” Quist rode ahead grimly. “You were a time.”

  “Just something I had to finish, lover.” She rode after him, Carys trailing last. The horse walked slowly and she let it, staring into the dense trees. What would her family think of her now? How would they feel if they knew their daughter had done the betraying for them?

  “IT’S DESERTED, but they’ve been here very recently.” Galen crouched beside Godric.

  “The chief said to wait for him,” the big man said. “It’s the way we do things.”

  Galen snorted. “I don’t need your help.” He pushed out onto the track and began to walk down it, tall and reckless. The Sekoi slid after him; with a brief oath, Godric yelled an order and the advance guard moved on wearily.

  Soon they all had to dismount. The deathwort terrified the horses. They edged carefully around a great clump of it, and saw Galen standing in a small clearing, looking down.

  The Sekoi clapped a hand over its nose. “Dear God,” it muttered.

  It had once been a fair-haired man. He had been tightly tied between two deathworts, so that almost any movement would have brought him in range of their slithering leaves. But it hadn’t been the plants that had killed him. It had been the crossbow bolt through his heart. He had fallen sideways. The plant on the left had already found him, dragging part of the body into its acid pool. The stench was unbearable, the flies gathering.

  Galen kneeled. He said some words from the Litany quietly, and closed the man’s eyes. Then he reached out and examined the jutting end of the bolt. “Watch.”

  “I’d never have guessed.” Godric came up. “Poor devil. Why tie him up first?”

  “I don’t know.” Galen slid a hand under the jacket, beating flies away. He glanced at the Sekoi, a sudden tense look. Then he pulled out the paper. In seconds he had it open. “It’s coded. It’s from Carys!”

  The Sekoi stared. “She did this?

  “Of course not!”

  “But if the Watch knew of the message, then why not take the letter. It does not make sense.”

  Godric nodded to his men. “Maybe she’s traveling with someone more dangerous than she thinks. We’ll get what’s left of him buried before the chief comes. He’s a bit squeamish.” He turned. “If that’s all right with you.”

  Galen was staring at the letter. He didn’t speak.

  The Sekoi edged nearer, biting a nail. “Bad news?”

  When the keeper looked up, it seemed to the creature that it had never seen such intense, controlled despair. “He was right,” Galen breathed, his voice barely audible. “And God help me, I didn’t believe him.”

  “Right? Who?”

  Convulsively, Galen tore the letter in half, as if his hands worked without his knowing. Then he whispered, “Carys says the Margrave is searching for Raffi. Searching everywhere.”

  17

  With Flain gone, all Anara mourned. Plants would not grow; the beasts lay down and died. Even the skies wept a gray snow, and the Makers sat cold and silent around an empty throne.

  Book of the Seven Moons

  THEY HAD TIED HIM and put him on a horse, though he was so stiff, he could hardly sit. For about three hours, as far as he could tell, they had ridden west; one Watchman leading, two others behind.

  No one spoke. It was dark, a warm mothy twilight, and to suppress the threads of terror that squirmed through him, Raffi let his mind surge out into the sense-lines, into the relief of finding them again after the blank shock of the Journey. Above him the moons rose slowly, swinging over the stark line of the Wall, but the only sounds were the rippling brooks the road crossed on narrow arches, and the hoot of an owl far off in some woodland.

  The night was peaceful, and he let it soothe him. He knew they were taking him to Maar, but his mind veered off that darkness and he was happy to let it. He had always thought it would be some stark, forbidding place, but this was a quiet cultivated countryside, the fields freshly sown, smelling of rain, the small farmsteads with candle-flickers inside their unshuttered windows. He sent lines into the houses as he passed, rocking for a second in the cradle of a baby, tucked in under warm sheets, kissed on his forehead.

  The horse stumbled. “Keep awake,” a Watchman snarled.

  With both hands, Raffi grabbed the rough mane. They were taking him to Maar. After all his efforts, his foolish running, he was going there, where the Makers must want him to go. “We can never fall out of the hands of the Makers.” He almost heard Galen’s scorn. Oddly enough, it was some comfort. Carys might be at Maar, Galen close behind. It would be all right, he told himself carefully, intently. “Flain,” he whispered, “keep me in your hand.”

  Down the lanes the horses clattered, weary now. And ahead, rising out of the Wall, he saw a shape. It was black against the stars, so black at first, his eyes could not understand what it was, its darkness astounding him; a low cube without windows, without any decoration or surface features, completely and utterly smooth. A Maker-building. Intact.

  Its blackness was so matte, it was hard to focus on, as if it were a vacuum, an absence, a cube of nothing. Only the lack of stars showed where it was. As he rode nearer, the harness creaking in the silence, he saw how the glow of the moons did not reflect from it. It swallowed light, a place of non-being that even the sense-lines could not penetrate. All around it, stirring in the warm breeze, tiny black flowers covered
the ground. In the dark Raffi could hardly see them, but he felt them, and they were like nothing else on Anara. Their smell was sweet, almost cloying.

  Before the building the Watchmen halted. The one in front rode a few steps forward, and waited. He made no signal as far as Raffi could see, but after a moment, abruptly, a small door slid open and a man came out, in Watch uniform. He and the guard spoke quietly, glancing back.

  Raffi looked around. He was so tense, he felt sick. He had to do something, but what? He could startle the horses, maybe even the men, but he was tied and at the first gallop would fall, and what use would that be?

  The horse whickered, sidestepped, and a cold blade was pressed into the back of his neck. “Any sorcery,” the guard said briefly, “and you’re dead. Understand?”

  He nodded. It was too late anyway. The Watchman turned and waved. The others dragged Raffi down and shoved him forward, standing well back. “Not coming?” he said, shivering with fear.

  “Not us.” The guard grinned. “Nobody goes in there. Go on. Walk. It’s the last walk you’ll ever get.”

  He stepped between the black flowers. They drew aside from his feet; he felt the surface beneath them, and it wasn’t rock. It was solid and wouldn’t admit his mind. And from the low building ahead, he felt a constant hum, never varying.

  The Watchman by the door wore a different uniform; his insignia was gold, and a small gold stripe crossed his sleeve. He had no weapons, and didn’t speak, gesturing with his head for Raffi to go first. At the last second he wanted to struggle, run, but there was nowhere to run to. He stepped inside, and the door snicked shut behind them.

  This was Maar.

  IT WAS DARK. Corridors ran in all directions, lit only by a glimmer of blue Maker-power at ankle level along the walls. Raffi walked beside the guard, amazed. There was no sound, no scurry, no one. Even their footsteps were muffled. He had expected something like Carys’s description of the Tower of Song—a vast swarming anthill, a hub of Watch organization, but this sleek, faintly warm darkness terrified him more. And what were the Watch doing with all this Maker-power?