The Margrave (23 page)

She stood back. Behind her he saw Felnia, a little taller now, dressed in heavy crusted gold, sitting on a great throne, far too big for her. She frowned when she saw him, her high voice petulant. “Where have you been? You’re always supposed to be bringing me a present—I never get to see it.” On her lap was the scruffy toy cub. She waved its paw at him. “Say hello to Cub. And hurry up, Raffi. We’re all waiting for you.”

“Yes, but who’s Kest?” He looked around anxiously. “Is it me? Am I the one?” He was asking the toy.

It winked at him, its eyes jewel bright. “You’ll see,” it whispered.

I
T SHOULD HAVE TAKEN TWO DAYS to walk to the Pits of Maar—if there had been a road, or if there had been daylight. At first the sulfurous sleet blinded them. Galen made a line of power, a blue crackling thing between himself and Quist, and it wrapped itself around Carys’s wrist, tight, and around the Sekoi’s waist, and held them as they stumbled. How long the sleet stung them Carys had no idea, but they walked out of it at last onto a desert of green translucent glass, a slippery surface embedded with tiny bubbles.

She pulled the scarf off her face and gasped in air. They were all filthy; the sleet had left a crust of yellow scum; the Sekoi rubbed its fur in silent disgust.

Galen leaned on his stick and looked around. “That way,” he said finally.

She put the useless lodestone away. “How do you know?”

He glared at her. “I know. Now hurry.” He would not let them rest. The ground was treacherous, smooth so that they slipped and had to climb the rounded slopes on hands and knees, sliding back as much as they progressed, but also with hidden chasms and ravines of jagged upright shards of glass. If she fell against them, they would cut her to pieces. The sky was purple, lowering with an eerie storm that flickered, silent among the clouds. As it got darker, the glass flickered too, phosphorescent under their feet. At first she thought they were reflections, then she knew that the sparks leaped deep in the vitreous mass.

“Galen,” she gasped finally. “Slow down!”

He gave her a black look, then crouched, breathless.

The Sekoi sank to its knees gratefully.

“We’ll have to take more time.” Carys took out the water, drank, and passed it around.

“There is no time.” In the storm flicker Galen’s face was white. He glanced at her. “This whole area is unstable. I can feel it, Carys, burning and molten and shuddering under us. While it’s quiet we have to—” He stopped, staring at Quist.

“What?” she said.
“What!”

Quist hauled her up, his face ashen. “Run. For God’s sake, run!” The ground shook. As she scrambled up, the whole world tilted. The floor was a cliff face now and she was sliding down it, the pack and water flask rattling and rolling in front of her, and as she slid Galen yelled far above her and she screamed, the slivers of glass cracking out below.

 

 

RAFFI SAT AT THE DESK, turning the pages of the books. Earth stared back at him, its peoples, industries, armies, machines, vast cities of glass, mud shanties. Over his shoulder the Margrave said, “There was a flood. The sea rose, I understand. I have never seen the sea, myself.”

“I have. The Narrow Sea.”

“You must tell me about it, Raffi. Really, I would love to hear.” It sat in the shadows expectantly, its strange eyes bright. “Tell me what the sea smells like,” it said.

 

 

CARYS’S FALL ENDED IN a scream of agony. The sense-line around her wrist jerked her up; she hung from it flailing and spinning, clawing with the toes of her boots and her free hand against the impossible wall of glass. A sliver cut straight across her fingers; blood welled out and ran like a tiny red waterfall. “Keep still!” Quist yelled. “Galen! I can’t hold her!”

She couldn’t see Galen or the Sekoi. Maybe the smashed world had swallowed them. The blue line around her wrist was a searing pain; she felt sick, completely dizzy, and below her there was nothing, a howling emptiness down which shattered fragments clattered. “Pull me up!” she snarled.

“I can’t.” Quist’s face was a blur. “I can’t . . .”

The sense-line weakened. It thinned, spun out, became a thread, went to nothing. She yelled in fury and as if in answer, some strange energy surged along it and it strengthened her; she heard Galen’s voice say, “It’s all right. You’re coming up.”

Jerking, like a toy on a string, she was hauled out, the Sekoi leaning right down over the terrible slivers of glass. As soon as her feet were over, Galen dragged her upright. “Run,” he said. “For God’s sake, hurry.”

They fled through chaos. The landscape was smashed as if some great fist had pulverized it; now rain came and lashed against it, and out of the cracks tiny crabs came scuttling, many-legged, their shells gleaming like steel. One caught hold of the Sekoi; the creature dragged it off, a pincherful of fur with it. “I thought nothing lived here,” it snarled.

The desert became a forest with bewildering speed, a darkness where trees were smothered with vines that sprouted and coiled. Galen led them remorselessly on, between trunks livid with algae and some soft, crumbling fungus that released spores in vast clouds.

“Don’t breathe them,” Quist warned.

Carys tugged the scarf back over her face.

“Thanks for holding on,” she gasped.

“Had no choice.”

“If Galen hadn’t strengthened the line, though . . .”

“Galen didn’t strengthen it.” He ducked under a mossy bough. “Neither did I.”

“But . . .”

He looked back. “You should try the Order, Carys. It seems you have possibilities.”

Amazed, she grinned, slipping under the mutated leaves, trying to ignore the sickening stench. Darkness was thickening; at first she thought it was nightfall, and then she knew it came from something ahead, a great cloud that hung in the air and vibrated. Had that power really come from her? She felt no different. But that pulse of energy—the memory of it warmed her. I’ll show you, Raffi, she thought in delight.

They came out of the trees. Ahead was a dry cinderfield littered with odd globe-like yellow growths. Above it, like a swarming cloud, hung the wasps. Thousands of them.

 

 

“WHY DID YOU SAY the Sekoi was a prince?”

The Margrave seemed distracted. “What?”

“The Sekoi. You said . . .”

“Ah, yes. Well, they are a highly secretive race, but I have managed to learn a little about them, down the years. The tribemarks, for instance. Your friend has a mark that shows him to be of high blood—prince is probably the wrong word for it. Has he ever told you his name?”

Raffi shook his head. Catching his reflection in the glass cabinet he tugged the collar of his uniform up. It made him look older. “How did you find out about them,” he muttered, not wanting to know. “Have you experimented on them?”

“Yes.” The Margrave looked surprised. “Of course. One who seeks knowledge, Raffi, seeks it everywhere. Kest always said there were no limits.”

He closed his eyes, then said, “Why do you want one of their children?”

The Margrave smoothed its scales with a ridged hand. “That is not for you to know. The owls guard them.”

“The owls?”

“In some secret place. I have never found out where.”

“So you have never seen one.”

It stood and Raffi thought it was disturbed. “I didn’t say that. But forgive me, Raffi. Something is happening outside.” It crossed the room and went out.

Raffi put his head in his hands. For a moment he was lost in the pain of it all, then a draft touched his face. He looked up quickly, went to the door and pulled it. It opened.

 

 

CARYS SAID, “IT HAD TO BE WASPS. I hate wasps. Always have.”

“And these are agitated.” The Sekoi lowered the seeing tube and passed it to her. Reluctantly, she took it. At first they were hard to distinguish, just a swarm, a mass of jagged movement. Then the relic adjusted to her focus and she drew in a hiss of breath. The wasps were orange and black, and small. There were thousands in the swarm. Their buzz made her hands shake.

“They know we’re here,” Quist said drily. He and Galen had been talking, sitting on the ground. To her shock, as she turned, she saw Quist was putting on the purple and blue crystals. “Those are Raffi’s!”

He shrugged. “They have a reservoir of power we need to use. Don’t worry, Carys. Your friend, if we find him, can have them back. If he wants them.”

“Too right he will,” she muttered grimly, giving Galen a sharp glance. The keeper looked away. She took the spare crossbow off her back and jammed a bolt in angrily.

“What good will that do?” Quist said.

“It’ll make me feel better.”

Galen took a breath and stood, the dark power in him almost visible. “Now,” he said, “we must keep together. I can protect us a little, but anyone who falls behind will be lost. Are you ready?”

She nodded, tight-lipped.

They moved in a close group, and as soon as they were out of the trees, the wasps were on them. Carys hissed, knuckles white on the bow. The air was a turmoil of wings, the swarm flying down, across, hovering, darting, a roar of anger. But keeping them away was a clear space, like a weather-warding she had once seen Raffi make to clear fog; it surrounded them like a crystal sphere and the wasps that barged into it snapped into sparks of flame. The cinderfield was deep in dust. It stretched far to the eastern horizon beyond the swarm, into darkness. Before them the Unfinished Lands shimmered in turmoil.

They tried to stay together. Wasps dived at them; Carys found her shoulders so tense, they ached.

“What are these?” the Sekoi murmured.

They were passing one of the globes; carefully, without touching it, Galen took a sideways look. “Plants.”

“Pods.” Quist pointed. “Our movements might have triggered it.”

The pod trembled. Abruptly Galen stepped back. He whispered something, but the word was lost as the thing gave a great crack and instantly exploded, seed blasting out like pellets, deadly as shot. He took the full force. He went down hard; the Sekoi, half blinded, crashed into him. The Maker-power went out like a light.

Carys raised the bow, but it was useless. “Quist,” she screamed. “Do something!”

 

 

HIS MIND TOUCHED WATER. It was so tiny; a thread of moisture the sense-lines barely registered, but it was there. He stopped still in the dark corridor. Then he began to move his mind up along it, higher and higher, along the minute gritty channel it had made.

The rock shuddered. Someone screamed. Raffi opened his eyes wide in shock. “Carys?” he whispered.

 

 

THE WATCHMAN GRABBED GALEN and hauled him up. Carys caught the Sekoi’s arm, beating wasps off her face and clothes, screaming in utter fury and terror. The things stung her arms and hands, crawled into her clothes. She squirmed sideways, lost her footing and slipped, pulling the creature down a low bank, splashing into water.

Water! Instantly she plunged in, the Sekoi and the men close behind. Quist held Galen’s face above the surface, but already the keeper was flailing for himself, his black eyes open.

It was a river, and it stank. Foam swamped its surface, and the undercurrent was strong; they were bumped and whirled along in it, with dead animals and logs of wood and terrible slicks of foul rainbow oil. She tried not to get it in her mouth, but that was useless; it stung her eyes and made her retch, and when suddenly the Sekoi’s long arm wrenched her out onto a shelving spit of shingle she was violently sick, head down, on hands and knees. The filthy water ran from her clothes.

Behind, the creature’s fingers held her tight till the spasm was over. “Better than wasps,” it muttered. It almost sounded as though it was laughing.

 

 

RAFFI RAN DOWN THE CORRIDOR. He had already met one Sekoi; it had simply stood aside and let him pass. He couldn’t get used to their silence. It chilled him. But this was the room. The door slid open. He was lucky. It was empty. He went straight to the screen; it was blank, so he said, “Operate!” but nothing happened. So he opened his third eye and went into the relic at once, drawing its power into himself. After a few seconds it crackled into life.

He saw the tower of Maar. All around the dark cube were camped the forces of the Watch, rank on rank of them, silent as if waiting some signal. From the Watchtower a light suddenly hissed out, a blue searing bolt that struck the ground and made a patrol of horses rear and panic.

Then behind him a voice said, “Enough.” The screen blanked; the Margrave came and put its hand on his shoulder.

He pulled away, turning instantly. “Someone is holding the tower. It’s Galen, isn’t it?”

“Galen is not in the tower.”

“Liar!” He felt oddly betrayed. “They’re alive! Carys is alive. I know that!”

The Margrave watched him for a moment, then gave a small shrug. “Very well,” it said quietly. “She is alive.” It looked up at the screen. “As you can see.”

 

 

GALEN DABBED THE OINTMENT on her face. “Keep still.”

“It stings. For God’s sake, Galen.” She pulled away. “I’ll do it myself.”

He sat back, letting her take the small pot. They were both soaked and shivering.

“I detest this darkness,” she blurted out desperately. “It’s like that hell-hole Tasceron.”

Galen almost smiled, pushing his dark hair back. As the Sekoi drank and washed its swollen bites, Galen said, “Tasceron was beautiful once. Imagine the great processions there on Flainsnight, and Tamarsday, the people carrying the images, the music, the women throwing armfuls of red spindleflowers in all the streets. Imagine the joy of it.”