The Margrave (19 page)

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.

T
HE 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 writing. 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:

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.

“Ah, yes. A word not to be spoken. One of the Order’s most holy words.” The creature made a strangled rustling creak in its throat; Raffi realized it was laughing. “What is Earth, Raffi?”

“Earth is the paradise of the Makers.” He gave the response reluctantly. It sounded like a betrayal in this place. “After death, we will go there through a door of air.”

“Will we now?” The Margrave nodded, amused. “And have you seen images of this place?”

“Once. In the House of Trees.” He was caught for a second by the memory of those pictures, the blue sky, the trees, the millions of brilliant and varied creatures.

The Margrave was watching him closely. Its smile faded; it sat back, almost sadly. “It is hard to have to break such wonder as yours. Such innocence. But Kest told me about Earth. And I have images here . . .” It stopped, and then went on gently, “Images of famine, of deserts, of people living in such conditions that you would not—”

“Liar!” Raffi couldn’t bear this. “Why are you doing this to me!”

“It’s the truth. They destroyed their paradise. They were always seeking to make it again.”

“NO.”

“Yes, Raffi. Not all at once, but gradually. They could never stop, you see, modifying, interbreeding, experimenting, even on themselves.”

Raffi stood up, pacing quickly among the cluttered furniture. It hurt to breathe. “I know what you’re doing. Trying to make me hate them. To sympathize with you.”

“I’m telling you the truth.” The Margrave sounded mild, matter-of-fact. “Kest explained many things to me. And I spoke to Flain too, when he would deign to come and stare at me. And that bully Tamar.” From the corner of its eye it watched Raffi’s horror. Then it stood and picked up the new dark velvet jacket it had brought and propped it around Raffi’s shoulders. For a second, in his utter disbelief, he didn’t even notice, tugging the jacket tight.

“How can you speak about them like that!”

“They were men, Raffi.”

“I know, but . . .”

“They were men. Just like Galen. As full of faults.”

He stared at it, then noticed the coat and flung it down. But he could not stop shivering.

“W
HERE ARE WE GOING?”

Ahead, the Margrave walked the dim corridor, the tiny blue lights at floor level casting bizarre shadows under its eyes and snout. “I promised I would show you my communications room. It’s not far.” It was carrying the second bundle of clothes, even richer than the first, under one arm. Raffi came behind, shivering and uneasy. It was the first time he had been out of the cluttered room; that place almost seemed a refuge now. His fear had ebbed; he realized that he could not hold on to such terror, not for day after day. It was already shrinking, becoming a small cold numbness at the heart of him. He would forget how afraid he should be. He would start to make mistakes.