She glanced at Quist. He dismounted and came over. Carys dropped the horse’s hoof. Galen, she thought. Where are you?
“Arms out.”
She did it, glaring at him. He took her bow and then looked at the buttons on her coat, tugging the second one off and unscrewing it rapidly. “This is it.”
Scala said. “You see, Carys, we decided from the beginning to let you bring your friend Galen and his boy along. It’s the boy we want, after all. Now we’ve got the relic, we’ll arrange a little welcome for him, away from his army. I’m sure it won’t be difficult.”
Carys turned on Quist. He was the one who had to be kept busy, so she threw herself at him, punching, and he reeled back, grabbing at her. “You traitor!” she yelled. “All the time you’ve known things, about me, about the land, about what she did back there. And you don’t like the killing, do you? You don’t like what the Watch does to people.”
He had her wrists, tight.
“There’s only one way you could know,” she gasped. “Sense-lines. You’ve got sense-lines! You were a keeper!”
“No!” He pushed her off. “I was never . . .”
“Don’t be coy, lover.” Scala’s horse sidestepped. “Tell her the truth.” When he wouldn’t speak, she said, “He nearly was. Didn’t make the final test. But he’s good enough for me.”
Carys was furious, and it wasn’t all pretense. “You used what they taught you against them!”
“It’s just what you do against the Watch.”
“The Watch is evil! I know it. And you know it too!”
She grabbed at him and swung him toward her. “Think about Mathravale. Go on, face it! Think about what she is!”
Something rustled in the trees. Scala jerked around, but neither of them was looking at her now. “I do think about her.” Quist’s voice was a whisper. “That’s why I stay. To keep her from—”
“You can’t change her.”
“I can. She despises the Watch too.”
Scala swung back, amused. “Only when it suits me.”
“She does.” Quist was pacing now, deep in his own anxiety. “When we get the reward, we’ll leave, go somewhere far off. Away from the Watch.”
“It’s a dream! She won’t change. I should know: I used to be just like her.”
Quist stopped. “But you’re not now,” he said.
The words silenced her. And instantly, before she could move or prevent it, his eyes widened and he gasped, “They’re here!”
An arrow slashed from the trees; it missed Scala by a hairsbreadth. With a squeal, she fired back. The horses reared and whinnied. Then at least fifty men stepped out and aimed bows at them. After a grim second Scala climbed down from her horse. “If you knew about this and didn’t tell me, lover,” she snarled, “I’ll never forgive you.”
“Carys.” Galen was behind her. The relief of seeing him after all this time was so great, she almost ran to him; then she controlled it, smiled, and walked over.
“This wasn’t in the plan. Not that I’m complaining.”
“Plans change.”
It was then that she saw how grim he looked, how haunted. She glanced behind him; the Sekoi raised an elegant hand. “Where’s Raffi?” she asked quickly.
THE TWO WATCHMEN WERE BACK. They came in and held him down in the chair, one on each side. He barely noticed, staring at the box, so cold with fear that it hurt him to breathe. It was full of a swarming mass of worms. Tiny, blind things they were, obscenely pale. They spilled and wriggled like bubbling milk, a loathsome heap of unending hunger. “We keep them in metal,” the interrogator said quietly. “They eat through everything else.”
Raffi was shaking, he knew it. Ashamed, he knew too that this was what he had feared for years, in nightmares, hiding under hedges, ever since he had understood what happened to keepers.
“You know what they do, of course.” The interrogator had taken out a pair of finest chain-mail gloves; now he slipped them on, without haste. “We use just one, at first, on your chest, or your back. In seconds it will have burrowed its way deep into your flesh. It will eat its way through you with remarkable speed, an agony of searing pain. And then we will add another. And another. They tell me it is all but unbearable.” He stood. “I’ve seen what they leave of a man, keeper, and it isn’t pleasant.”
The Watchmen grabbed Raffi. He squirmed and fought desperately. The interrogator put his hands on the table and leaned over. His voice changed suddenly, became quick and low. “For your own sake, Raffi, you must tell us. What are the Crow’s plans? Where does his power come from?”
“I don’t know,” he gasped.
“What’s the point of needless pain? You’ll tell us anyway, you know that. You know your own weaknesses. I could help you.”
“No.”
Struggling, he prayed for a mind-flare. Nothing came.
“Galen wouldn’t want you to suffer. He’d tell you to . . .”
“NO.” He shook his head, screaming it out. “No! NO!”
The man straightened. The coldness slid back over his face like a lid. “I see,” he said distantly. He took a pair of fine tweezers from his pocket and reached into the box with them, delicately lifting one tiny worm and bringing it around the table.
Raffi fought and screamed. “No!” he yelled. “Flain! Flain!”
AN EXPLOSION ROCKED THE ROOM; the lights flickered. The interrogator was so surprised, he almost dropped the tweezers. He stood over Raffi, listening. Another crash, immensely loud. At once he swiveled. “What’s going on! Find out!” A Watchman ran out hurriedly. The interrogator’s eyes looked down at Raffi in fury. “It’s a pity they’re too late,” he whispered.
Raffi moved with the strength of raw panic. He flung the guard forward so that both men crashed into the table. The box tipped; the Watchman let out a scream of terror. Raffi dived around the mess, out of the door, and ran.
Noise boomed and rang around him, the whole building echoing and throbbing. Left, right, heedless, sobbing and praying, he raced into the dark, down corridors and endless stairways, always down because there was no other way to go. The darkness was thick and airless. Voices rang; once he was sure he heard Carys calling for him and he yelled and screamed her name, banging in the dark against the smooth Maker walls.
And then faintly down at the turn of another black, suffocating corridor, someone said, “Raffi.”
“Galen!” He ran, so weak all at once he could hardly keep upright, and the figure waited for him, tall in the darkness. As he came up, he was gabbling in foolish relief. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. About everything. This is all my fault. Where’s Carys? Where is everyone?”
The shadow did not answer or move. Raffi stopped. Miles back, in the pounding darkness, someone was screaming. He licked his lips. “You’re not Galen,” he whispered.
A faint mustiness stirred in the darkness. “No.” The voice was dry and crackling. “I’m not Galen,” it said.
The Crucible of Fire
19
Who can speak of the beauty of Earth?
Not Plain, not Theriss.
Who could bear to remember its loss?
Not one of the Makers.
Litany of the Makers
THE FIRST THING HE KNEW—long before he woke—was that he was warm. Furs were piled on him, and under them were silken sheets, and he was comfortable, so comfortable that his whole body was as relaxed as ever he could remember. Then fear came back and ruined it. He sat up abruptly.
It was dark. Across the room a brazier glowed red with hot coals. He looked around, listening intently, but there was no sound. He swung his feet quickly out of the bed. On the stool next to it were some new clothes, folded and sweet-smelling, and water in a crystal bowl and some soap. He ignored it, heading straight for the door, his legs weak.
It was locked. He shook the handle quietly, then turned his back on it and looked around. It was the room he had seen in the vision on Sarres, so long ago now. The room where the Margrave had been writi
ng. There was the desk, a high, peculiar structure, and behind it the dim outlines of spheres, and shelves of piled books, statues, relics. The room was crammed with objects.
He couldn’t remember how he had gotten here. He had seen the Margrave in the corridor, and after that there was darkness, a blur of fever. He had been ill, he knew. The long torment had been too much for him; even now his limbs ached, though his head was clear. Perhaps it had been days. Someone had given him drinks. Wiped his face. Someone. Something.
Panic gripped him. How long had he been here? He tried a sense-line, and instantly felt sick and dizzy. All around him things were distorted and strange. And he must be miles belowground; all its weight lay on his mind. He stank too. He was still wearing his old clothes. Slowly he crossed to the water and looked at it, and then washed, reluctant at first and then enjoying the freshness and sweet smell of the soap, scrubbing his tangled hair clean. When he had finished, it was almost a shame to pull his ragged shirt back on, but he did. Then he put a hand out and fingered the new clothes.
“I had them brought especially for you.” The Margrave stood in the doorway. When Raffi didn’t answer, it came in, closing the door behind it, a deft, small movement. All the old fear came with it, swallowing him. It came like a wave and stole his breath, his heart thudding in his chest. He backed away. The Margrave stood still.
“So we really meet at last, Raffi. And you see me. I’m not, am I, as terrible as they say?”
Raffi swallowed. Then he surprised himself and managed one syllable. “No.”
The creature was taller than a man, but slender. The face, in this eternal dimness, had jewel-bright eyes with heavy lids that blinked quickly, and a snout almost like a jackal’s, but it was still a face. Its skin was reptilian, an iridescent shimmer of tiny regular scales, faintly gold in this light. It smiled. “Good. I am not so beautiful that I keep a looking glass, but the tales the Order tells of men that die when they see me are unjustified. And insulting. But then, I am evil, am I not? And evil must be ugly.”
Raffi swallowed. “Please,” he whispered, “let me go.”
The Margrave’s smile widened, though it had no lips. As it walked its stiff robe rustled. “Now, Raffi, you’ve only just come. Do something for me. Wear those new clothes.”
“No,” he said.
“Yours are filthy!”
“I don’t want anything from you.”
“That’s foolish. I suppose you won’t eat, either?” The Margrave drew aside, and a servant came in, carrying a tray. Raffi gasped. The servant was a Sekoi. Or had been. Its face had no intelligence, no expression. The short fur was black, its clothes dark velvet, as rich as the Margrave’s. With its seven fingers it unloaded dishes of meat and rice and honeyed cakes and a flask of wine. Then it went out, never saying a word.
Raffi stared after it. “What have you done to it!”
The Margrave came and sat near the brazier, the lurid glow lighting its face. “Nothing. There are two of them left—the remnants of one of Kest’s programs on longevity. It was never a success and they lost their intelligence through it. They have no speech, and can do only menial tasks. They are hardly companions.” It reached over and took a piece of meat, dipping it into the sauce and eating with a flicker of a long tongue. “You see. Not poisoned.”
Raffi came and looked at the food. The smell of it made his empty stomach groan. He reached out and took some meat, and ate it.
“Excellent.” The Margrave leaned back. “As Carys would say, starving is no use.”
He swallowed, hard. “You know about Carys.”
“About all of you. Remember, I traveled with you. Or rather, Solon did.”
The name jerked Raffi back to himself. He dropped the food and turned away. The Margrave clicked its long tongue irritably. “Ah. Now, that was a mistake. I should have known you would resent all that.”
“Resent it!” Raffi turned in fury. “You destroyed him! An old man . . .” He stopped. “Look, what do you want with me? Is it information? Is it to know where Sarres is, where the Coronet is? If so, you’d better call your Watch thugs and start the interrogation all over again, because I’ll never tell you anything.” He was shaking, but the Margrave poured wine calmly. Its hands were scaled, with short, ridged nails.
“I never expected you to.”
“Then why bring me here!”
“I brought you here to save your life. You have been ill, Raffi, and I have cared for you. For many days.” It drank, watching him over the rim. Then it lowered the cup and said, “Your master Galen and his army of thieves attacked Maar.”
“WHAT!” Raffi sank into a cushioned chair.
The Margrave’s strange eyes blinked. “I warn you, Raffi, this will not be pleasant news for you. But I feel you are strong enough now to know the worst. Prepare yourself.” It looked away. “Galen used his Maker-power to open the door of Maar. It was quite extraordinary. No one else in a hundred years has ever managed it. He and your other friends—including Carys, by the way—stormed the building. Or tried to. But Maar was the Makers’ first work on the planet and they built it to last. And to defend itself. Laser weapons were triggered, crisscrossing the plain with light, and all the internal force-fields reactivated. As well as a few modifications of my own, of course. With a garrison of four thousand men against them, your friends had no chance.”
“I didn’t see four thousand men,” Raffi said coldly. “It seemed empty to me.”
“Did it?”
“I don’t believe they even exist.”
The Margrave nodded. “Or the weapons.”
Raffi was silent.
“Exactly. The Watch is immense, Raffi. You heard the explosions. Don’t fool yourself. You know it would be carnage in such a battle.”
“Galen,” he said stubbornly, forcing the words out, “is more powerful than you.”
The Margrave watched him. “Galen, I’m afraid, is dead.”
“No!” He jumped up, storming off, blundering into the desk, gripping it tight. “I don’t believe you!”
“I did not expect you to. Nonetheless, it is true. Galen and your friend the Sekoi prince were killed in the first attack. The warlord Alberic may have escaped. His body has not yet been identified, but many were burned beyond recognition, as you’d expect.”
“And Carys?” He whispered it after a second, hating himself.
The Margrave sat back, looking into the hot coals sadly. “I’m sorry, Raffi,” it said.
The room was so silent. Nothing sounded down here but the faint silvery tick of some relic in a corner. He didn’t believe any of it. He wouldn’t. They were all alive, up there in the sunlight. Galen was alive, and they would be searching for him. “I will never believe it,” he whispered.
The Margrave shrugged. “I admire your loyalty, but it really makes no difference. You are here now. These are the Pits of Maar. And you will never leave them again.” It stood over him. “I want no information from you, Raffi. There will be no torture. I care nothing for Sarres—the planet is dying quickly and Sarres will die with it. But I cannot face eternity without a companion, and I have chosen you.”
Appalled, Raffi watched it as it went to the door and turned back.
“You will find the life easy, and pleasant. No work. No privations. Take some rest now. And welcome to Maar, Raffi.”
The door slid shut in the dark. Raffi picked up the new clothes and fingered their richness. Then he flung them, coldly, furiously, onto the fire.
TERROR WAS ALL AROUND HIM. He lay curled up on the luxurious bed, waiting, listening to his heartbeat in the silence. Down here in this eternal darkness there was no day; he had no idea what the time was. He felt completely, miserably alone. He longed for Carys to talk to, to plan with; for the Sekoi’s elegant stories, even for Galen’s intense silences. For Galen most of all. But it hurt even to think of them.
He swore feverishly, over and over, that he would never, never believe they were dead. He had to have faith, in them
and in the Makers. And it had been like this for Flain once, lost in the Underworld, and he had found his way out, and all the planet had risen into spring. Flain had been in this hell before him. The words of the Litany came to him and he murmured them aloud to the shadows:
I have been dead. I have been alive. There is nowhere that I have not been.
They had said it on the hill at Sarres. How long ago that seemed.
“I DON’T GIVE UP EASILY.” The Margrave picked at its breakfast with a ridged hand. Its voice was full of clicks and rolls and small crackles. “You must wear my clothes, Raffi. It means nothing . . .”
“It does to me.”
“You feel that because of your training. The Order puts too much significance into such things. I just want you to be comfortable now you are a little better.”
“I am,” he said, between gritted teeth. The brazier had gone out in the night and the Margrave had given no orders for it to be relit. He couldn’t stop shivering.
The Margrave smiled. “I could have the Sekoi put the clothes on you forcibly.”
“That wouldn’t mean anything to you, though. No victory.”
It looked at him with bright eyes. “Quite right. Raffi, I can’t tell you what a joy it is to talk to someone like you!”
Raffi picked at the fruit. He had to find things out. Much as he hated it. “How long have you been alone? Don’t you speak to the Watch?”
“I give my orders to the Watchlords through relics. Later, you’ll see them. And the Sekoi are dumb.”
“You said . . .” Raffi shivered, squirming back in the seat. “That you’d spoken to Kest.”
“Of course.” The Margrave blinked in surprise. “Raffi, Kest created me. Or rather, bred me. I’m the result—the only successful result—of his most ambitious program, to synthesize a form of life with the intelligence of a rational being and the physical strengths of certain animals. Earth fauna, mostly.”
“Earth?” Raffi whispered.
The Margrave Page 14
