The Lost Heiress Page 4

  “How far to the meeting place?” Raffi asked anxiously.

  “About a day. We’ll spend a few hours here and travel on before dawn. You can get the food out.”

  Raffi nodded, unhappy. “But what about your hand?”

  The keeper glared at him. “Leave that to me.”

  As Raffi pulled some dried fish from the pack and ate it, Galen worked. He took leaves from the pocket at his waist: salve-all, Flainsglove, agrimony. Some he chewed, others he steeped carefully in cold water, binding them tight against his palm. The water should have been hot, Raffi knew. “Look,” he said, “we could make a fire. The fog will hide it.”

  “No time. A few hours’ sleep, that’s all. Then I’ll wake you.”

  Raffi lay down. It was useless to argue. Carys might have tried, but he knew better. There was something in Galen that was dark, untouchable: a grimness that all the unhappiness of his life had bred—the destruction of the Order, his hatred of the Watch. “A driven man,” the Sekoi had remarked once, and Raffi knew what it meant. And since Tasceron, since the Crow had possessed him, it was stronger.

  He began the night prayer wearily and fell asleep in the middle of it.

  When he woke he was stiff and cold and damp. It was still dark. Nettle-rash itched all down his cheek.

  Galen was gone.

  Instantly, Raffi was alert. He sent sense-lines sprawling and touched the keeper, close, scrambling out of the hole anxiously. In the lane it was deep midnight. The mist had gone; huge and still over the black land hung six of the great moons—Atelgar, Agramon, Pyra, Karnos, craggy Lar, distant Atterix. Fingernails and crescents of pink and blue and pearl.

  Galen was standing in the blended light, his arms folded, staring up. As Raffi splashed a puddle he turned, and for a second there was something other in him that looked out, sharpening the blackness of his eyes, his long glossy hair, the muddy coat.

  Then it was just Galen.

  Raffi swung his pack on reluctantly.

  “Slept enough?” The keeper strode off without waiting for an answer, down the moonlit track. “Sleeping and eating, boy. All you’re good for.” He swung his stick down from his back. “Now we step out. We’re meeting the Sekoi at Tastarn, and we need to get there fast.”

  “Then what?”

  Galen looked at him sidelong. “Then the Interrex.”

  “Where do we start looking?”

  Galen laughed, that sudden laugh that always turned Raffi cold. “You’ll be surprised,” he said.

  ALL THE REST OF THAT NIGHT, as the moons swung slowly above them, they walked, silent; out of the dark and into the morning, the sun breaking through infinite veils of haze over watery fens. Herons rose and flapped; acres of bleak rushes moved and stirred, their seed rising in clouds. The long track led down into hollows and marshy swamps, through endless plantations of spindly willow, and as the sun rose so did the midges, biting and stinging.

  At midday, worn and thirsty, they stopped. Galen was sweating, his coat hanging open, and as he ate, Raffi took a sideways look at him. The keeper was ashen, dark hair plastered to his forehead. The Kest-claw’s venom was working in him.

  “You should rest.”

  Galen rubbed his face with the back of his hand. “Two hours from here,” he said hoarsely, “is Tastarn. I’ll rest there.”

  But they went slower, all afternoon. It grew warm, even sultry; far off in the hills thunder growled and cracked. Galen stumbled, as if the energy of it had struck him like a wave. They left the track and crossed a stream, keeping east, through woods of delicate silver sheshorn trees that threshed in the faintest stirring of air. Munching berries, Raffi watched Galen anxiously, but the keeper walked fiercely, relentlessly. It was only when the roofs of Tastarn rose up among the trees that he staggered, crumpling against a great oak by the track.

  Raffi raced up. “Sit down!” he said. “Take a rest.”

  Galen slid down the tree till he was sitting, and leaned his head back. He looked gray; his hands shook as he dragged the water flask to his lips, then poured it over his face.

  Raffi crouched next to him. “Listen. You can’t go into the village, not like this. It’s not safe! We could both be caught too easily.”

  The keeper shivered. “Are you trying to give me advice?” he snapped.

  “Yes. Stay here. I’ll go in and fetch the Sekoi. He’ll be easy to find.”

  There was silence. A soft warm rain began to fall on them, pattering lightly on the leaves overhead. Galen dragged his hair back. Raffi knew he was struggling to think; the fever was confusing him.

  “I won’t be long. You’ve got plenty of water. You could sleep.”

  “I don’t need sleep.”

  “Well, rest. Can you manage some sense-lines?”

  Galen glared at him. “Just about.”

  “And you’d have the box.” The box was the relic, the light-weapon of the Makers they’d stolen back from Alberic. Since then neither of them had used it. The dwarf might have emptied it of power, Raffi thought suddenly. But no. He wanted it back.

  Sweat or rain ran down Galen’s chin. “All right,” he whispered at last. “All right. But be back by dark, Raffi, or I’m coming in to find you.”

  Nodding, Raffi slipped off the pack and pushed it into the bracken.

  “Wait,” Galen said. “Leave your beads.”

  For a moment Raffi hesitated; then he slipped off his two threads of blue and purple beads and put them in the keeper’s hot hand. Without them he felt strange; as if some protection had gone. But Galen was right. It would be safer.

  He stood up. “Will you be all right?”

  Galen glared at him, furious. Then he said, “Nightfall. Remember.”

  With a grin Raffi turned and ran down the track into the soft rain, and only when he got down to the stream did he glance back.

  Galen was gone. Only a quivering of branches showed where he’d moved. For a moment Raffi felt guilty, leaving him, but there was no choice. And it should be easy to find the Sekoi.

  Oddly happy, he jumped the stream and crossed a field of sheep, climbing a wall into a narrow road. Small houses loomed out of the rain, a goat chewing thoughtfully outside the nearest.

  He walked warily into the village. It was busy. A small market was going on in the main street; he heard and smelled it even before he turned the corner. Pens of squalling hens and slow black cattle bellowing their discomfort; men standing around a great bull; stalls of hot bread and cooked meats, clothes, garish rings and belts. He wished he had some money, just to buy something. Not wanting to speak to anyone, he wandered around, hands in pockets, watching carefully. Above the marketplace rose the ominous black Watchtower; he could see men on its roof. A group of them moved through the market too, wearing the usual dark motley of worn armor, whips tied around their waists. The crowd opened for them, no one looked around.

  Raffi backed away, behind a food stall. An old man was there, his arm deep in a barrel puling out apples.

  Raffi decided to take a risk. “I’m looking for a Sekoi,” he said quietly. “Tall. Brindled, a zigzag under one eye. Have you seen it?’

  “Seen it!” the old man grunted, straightening. He looked at Raffi curiously. “It’s been cleaning everyone out for days. In Marcy’s, it’ll be.”

  “Marcy’s?”

  The old man wheezed. Then he turned Raffi around and pointed. “Marcy’s, son. Not for the likes of you.”

  It was a low, squalid building, the roof patched and the windows all but smothered in ivy. One dim door hung open; even from here he could smell the stink of the place.

  “Take my advice.” The old man leaned back into the barrel. “Keep your hand on your money.”

  “Thanks,” Raffi muttered.

  Squeezing between cattle, pigs, sausage-sellers, jugglers, he made his way up to the broken hanging shutter of a window and peered in.

  The room was smoky; fires burned there, and lamps were lit. It was crammed with men, a noisy, jostling, uproa
rious crowd. In the middle was a table and around it some players were gambling at cards. Large piles of gold coins were stacked in front of them. Three of the players Raffi could see, the other was hidden by the passing crowd.

  Then he ducked back with a sudden indrawn breath.

  The horseman, Godric, was standing by the hearth. He had a gray tankard in his hand, its lid open, and he was drinking from it now, his eyes fixed on the card game.

  Someone laughed. Men moved away.

  And through the gap Raffi saw the fourth player, chatting and shuffling the cards with its seven fingers, a great stack of yellow gold heaped in front of it.

  It was the Sekoi.

  And Alberic’s man was watching its back.

  6

  I watched him, day by day.

  Suspicious, I followed his eyes, the movements of his hands.

  I knew my brother plotted.

  What his plan was I could never see.

  Apocalypse of Tamar

  CROUCHING UNDER THE TANGLE OF IVY, Raffi watched the smoky room in despair. How could he warn the Sekoi?

  The creature was enjoying itself. Its seven long fingers rippled the cards expertly, flicking them out into rapid fans and shuffles. It was laughing, its yellow eyes bright as the gold stacked in front of it, the fur on its sharp face tense with excitement.

  Carefully Raffi rustled the ivy. No one even looked. He glanced at Godric; the man had his great scarf open, showing his black stiff beard and the glint of the rusty breastplate. He had found somewhere to sit—the end of a bench full of bargaining market-men—and he leaned there, a threatening shadow, his eyes always on the Sekoi’s back.

  It was hopeless.

  Raffi turned away and stared out into the rain. What would Galen do?

  Pray.

  The answer came at once as if someone had said it, and he nodded, sending his mind out in the long call to the Makers: to Flain the Tall, Soren, Lady of Leaves, Tamar, Beast-bringer, Theriss, Halen. Surely one of them could send him some idea.

  He turned back, rain dripping on him from the tattered thatch. The Sekoi’s fingers whisked in a few more coins. The other players looked disgusted. The shadow that was Godric drank in silence.

  He would have to try some sort of Rapport. It was probably too hard for him. And it meant going inside.

  Desperate now, he went around to the door and cautiously edged down three steps into the noise. The stench and smoke made him cough: a smell of beer and bodies and sizzling food. Before he even began, he knew he couldn’t do it. There were too many people shoving him, too much shouting and laughing. Someone grabbed his arm; he turned in fear and saw a woman, her face painted green and blue, holding him with sharp nails.

  “Lost, darling?” she simpered, her voice slurred. “You’re not Tomas, are you? Tomas looks like you.”

  He tugged away and ran, pushing through the crowd, fighting his way between bodies up the steps and out into the cool rain.

  Soaked and shivering, he kicked the wall furiously. Galen needed him! He had to do something.

  All at once the idea burst in his mind.

  Soren must have sent it; she had made the trees, put seeds in the earth, sap in the veins. He breathed his thanks to her in relief.

  Then he went back to the ivy.

  He had to work a long time to wake it. It was sluggish, sleepy; it twisted away from him. It had forgotten the keepers, had been asleep too long, was too tired now . . . Patiently Raffi squatted by the gnarled stem, fingers in the cracks, telling it over and over what he wanted it to do, explaining every detail as if to a tiny child. It was young, he knew, and the power of the Makers was weak in it; it had no memory like the old yewman that had once talked to him. But something was there. He argued with it, coaxed it, ordered it, went on repeating the task.

  The leaves sighed, as if a breeze moved them. It moaned and complained and then, reluctantly, a tendril began to creep in through the broken window.

  Breathless, willing it on, Raffi gripped the sill and watched it, the thin bine with its tiny glossy leaves slithering jerkily down the wall, along the floor, between benches, boots, table legs, behind settles, dragging through the filthy straw. It stopped once, and the drowsiness of forgetting came to him, a great wariness and confusion, but he insisted and it moved again, rustling, tapping, ten years’ growth in ten minutes, a mighty outpouring of its green effort.

  Now it was under the Sekoi’s chair, blocked by people passing from its right. Raffi moved impatiently.

  A corkscrew of leaves was climbing up the chair leg.

  A roar of laughter burst out somewhere in the room. Raffi held his breath. The ivy curled, slithering up, out into the air, feeling its way. Delicately it wrapped a frail bracelet around the Sekoi’s wrist.

  For an instant, the creature went rigid. Then it picked up a card, put another down, and dropped its hand below the table. It glanced around swiftly, then to the left, then across the room till its eyes came to the window and met Raffi’s. He made a quick slash with his finger across his throat and jabbed it toward the Sekoi’s back.

  With a wry smile the creature looked down.

  Raffi ducked under the sill, cold with relief. The creature’s sharp, striped face had made not a flicker of surprise—no wonder it won at cards, he thought happily. But the fur on its neck seemed thicker, even from here. He prayed Godric hadn’t seen him.

  Already the ivy was falling back into sleep. He thanked it gravely and peeped in at the window again. The Sekoi said something to the player on its left, put down its cards, and spread them with a wicked grin. The groan of the others was loud enough to hear outside. As it gathered the money, it stood and flashed one look into a mirror on the wall, instant and sharp. But that was enough. It would have seen Godric.

  Raffi crept away. He was soaked to the skin and tired; the ivy had been harder to wake than he’d thought. And it wasn’t over. When the Sekoi came out, Alberic’s man would follow. He needed to think of something else now. The man was armed, after all.

  Wearily he crouched by the door and tried to plan, seeing all at once how late it was, how the sun had nearly gone. Moths danced in the smoky entrance; above the dim roofs flittermice squeaked and flapped. Galen would be getting worried.

  After a few minutes he realized, stupidly, that no one had come out—and that all the noise in the room had stopped. Only the bang and clatter of the closing market came to him.

  Suddenly afraid, he went to the steps and peered in. The room was dim. Fires crackled. Pipe smoke hung in thick blue layers. The Sekoi was sitting on the card table, its long knees bent up over a chair. It was telling a story.

  Everyone in the room was silent, listening intently. Only the jugs of ale moved, up and down as the men drank, absorbed in watching the creature’s strange, spread hands, its keen yellow gaze. It spoke quietly, but with an odd hypnotic purr in its voice, and as he came down closely enough to hear it, some vague anxiety drifted out of Raffi’s memory like smoke, and all that remained was the story.

  It was dark, and he was in a forest that spread endlessly all around him, and he knew his left arm was torn and bleeding. Far down between the trees evil things moved; they were creeping closer, the horrors that Kest had bred, things that slid and slithered and lurched through the wood. His skin prickled; he scratched his face and it was furred. A great sword hung heavy from his seven-fingered hand.

  Out of the forest came a screech so savage it made him shiver. He lifted the sword and waited, seeing the starlight gleam on the cold metal, the fur on his neck prickling, and he snarled, his eyes watching the approaching shapes that crackled through the undergrowth. The darkness was thick, poisoned with steams and smoke; he strained to see through it, every crisp leaf breaking, a glimpse of slithering tail, scaled claw.

  Then, out of the leaves the thing rose. A wyvern of Kest, huge, its wide wings blotting out the moons, the cold triplet of its eyes high above him, its scaly neck oozing blood and pus from the wounds the Cat-lords had
dealt it. They were dead, his own sweet princes, and it still lived, and his anger at that was so raw that he raised the sword with both hands and swung it at the beast, screaming, but it put out a great claw and caught his shoulder and said, “Raffi. Raffi! For Flain’s sake boy, listen to me!”

  Gasping, tears running down his face, Raffi stared at the Sekoi.

  It grinned smugly. “You’re back.”

  Slowly, bewildered, he lowered his empty hands. “What was . . . Who . . . ?”

  “You call him Kalimar. Last survivor of the Battle of the Ringrock. You know the story.” It glanced around darkly. “Come on now, before they stir.”

  Gripping his sleeve with its long fingers it hurried him away from the inn—he realized suddenly they were outside—and between the houses. The market was gone, the muddy ground trampled with straw and scraps of vegetables.

  Raffi shook his head. “The story didn’t finish . . .”

  “Didn’t have to. They all knew it. Start them off and leave them to it, small keeper.” It looked pleased with itself; it walked with a strange satisfied swing through the shadows, the fat purse bulging an inside pocket. “Could have been sticky though. So Alberic’s looking for us, is he?”

  Raffi nodded. He still felt stunned; waves of anger and grief flooded him and he felt sick. The Sekoi glanced down curiously. “You were far in, small keeper. Too far.”

  “I hadn’t meant to listen.”

  The Sekoi grinned. “They all say that. Where’s Galen?”

  “Galen!” Raffi stumbled. “He’s sick. A Kest-claw bit him on the hand.”

  The creature made a spitting noise in its throat. “Ack! Then we should hurry. He’ll need keeping warm. Is he delirious?”

  “No. He’s had it before.”