The Margrave (8 page)

Raffi envied it. He had slept badly, tossing and turning, worrying over Carys, about himself. Since he had seen the Margrave clearly, since that moment of icy terror when it had whispered that it was searching for him, fear had kept coming back, in waves. Fear of the dark. Of silence. Even of dreaming. And how could he make the Deep Journey like this? For weeks he had only pretended to meditate, sitting with the beads clasped tight in his hands, repeating the Litany desperately to fill the silence, because if he stopped and let the third eye of the Makers open, that dreadful profile would creep back into his memory, the turning, misshapen face, the dry rustle of its reptilian skin.

 

 

HIS BACK WAS WET WITH SWEAT, his heart thudding under his ribs. He flung the blankets off, tugged his jerkin on, and crossed to the window, lifting the bar and pushing the wooden shutters wide. Cold air swooped in. Behind him, the Sekoi groaned. Raffi leaned his elbows on the sill and looked down. The castle was eerily quiet. The stench of smoke was everywhere; far below him the inner gates were a mass of twisted metals and smoking, blackened stumps. Walls were scorched, battered into holes, but already, high above the keep, the Watch standard was down and a gaudy pennant of red and gold rippled in the mountain breeze. He rubbed sweat from his hair.

“What’s it like out there?” the Sekoi murmured sleepily.

“Quiet. Everyone’s under cover.”

“Indeed. I wonder where we might get something to eat.”

Raffi turned desperately. “Listen. Carys saw us. She saw me fall, but she didn’t stop, didn’t make any sign. She just galloped away. I could have fallen and she . . .” He shook his head. He couldn’t finish.

The creature stretched and scratched through the long fur at the back of its neck. “Small keeper,” it said carefully, “something is going on that we know nothing of.”

The door slammed open. Galen grabbed some sheets and pulled the blankets off the Sekoi. “Come on! I need you both.” He was gone almost at once. Raffi raced out after him, the Sekoi hopping far behind, hastily pulling its boots on.

“What’s wrong?”

“Wounded.”

“But Alberic’s got a whole squadron of surgeons and—”

“Not Alberic’s men. The Watch. Their wretched leaders have abandoned them and left them to die. They’re worth nothing to Alberic.”

“Galen!” Raffi caught up to him and grabbed his arm. The keeper glared at him.

“Don’t say it, Raffi.”

“I have to! We need to be careful! If we help these men and they live, they’ll remember us. They’ll file reports. Our names. What we look like.” A shiver of terror crossed his mind.

Galen may have felt it. He pulled away and looked darkly at Raffi, a look of contempt. “So we should leave them to rot?”

“No! I just think . . .”

“You don’t think, boy.” He glanced at the Sekoi. “I suppose you feel the same?”

The creature shrugged. “To the Watch one striped Sekoi looks very like another. But for you . . .”

“I . . .
We
. . . have a duty to anyone who needs help.” Galen turned and strode down some steps to a locked door. One of Alberic’s men was posted outside. He scrambled up, then scowled when he saw who it was.

“Listen, keeper. You’ve looked in here once.”

“Open it.”

“The chief won’t like this.”

Galen’s eyes were black with anger. “I said, open it!”

The man spat. Then he turned and unbolted the door. The smell was the first thing that struck them. A stench of sickness, of blood, that sent Raffi’s stomach heaving. For once he was glad to have eaten nothing.

The cellar was dark, but as their eyes adjusted, they saw it was crammed with men, dozens of them, sprawled or lying huddled, the remnants of the defeated Watch garrison. They were in a terrible state, exhausted and in pain. Most had been wounded. Some slept, others were so miserable, they could only rock themselves from side to side moaning softly, barely glancing at the opened door. One man, lying crooked at Raffi’s feet, was obviously dead.

The Sekoi snarled something bitter in the Tongue. Galen pushed past, down the steps; after a moment, hot with shame and anger, Raffi followed. They had brought water, and Galen tore up the sheets for bandages, sending Raffi racing back for more, and any food he could find. The Watchmen seemed too deep in shock to care, though one or two crawled up to help, and the Sekoi bent to comfort an older man, sobbing helplessly over his ruined leg.

When Raffi brought water they snatched it and drank thirstily, barely looking at him, and he tried not to look too closely at their wounds, black with dried blood, wrapped in rags and hasty field-dressings, already filthy. Galen and the Sekoi picked their way among them, rebinding an arm or a leg, making a few men comfortable, yelling at the guard to carry out the bodies of the dead.

“You’ll have to see the chief about that,” he said, sullen.

Galen straightened. He was hot with rage; Raffi could feel it, simmering out from him.

“Some of these men,” the Sekoi said quietly, “need urgent help. Some must lose limbs, before infection sets in.”

“We can’t do that!” Raffi was aghast.

“Not without killing them.” Galen bent and wrapped the last blanket around a Watchman’s shoulder; the man stared up with dull eyes. Then the keeper turned. “I think,” he said sourly, “that it’s time we spoiled Alberic’s little victory.”

 

 

IT WAS A LONG ROOM, high up in the keep, and had probably been the castellan’s, Raffi thought. But Alberic had made a few changes. The desk had been spread with a white cloth and was covered with dishes of hot food: steamy tureens, chicken legs, fresh soft bread. A small hog was roasting on a spit over the fire. All around the room plunder was stacked; sacks of metal objects, with candlesticks and goblets spilling out, piles of clothing, a scatter of silver ingots and whole arsenals of weapons. Alberic sat with a chicken bone in one hand and a great cup of wine in the other, in a high jeweled chair that had obviously been made to fit him. His feet were propped up on the desk. Behind, near the window, a luxurious bed with one glass ball on each bedpost spilled its silken sheets onto the floor.

When they saw Galen, the three bodyguards on the bench by the door stood up as one. The keeper eyed them. “You never used to be so timid, warlord.”

Alberic dropped the picked bone and licked his fingers. “Flain’s bloody thumb,” he said acidly. “It really is you. Not a bad dream after all.”

“No dream.” Galen came forward, picked up a chicken leg, and tossed it to Raffi, who caught it deftly. “Only too real.”

Alberic scowled and jerked his head ungraciously at the men, who sat. He was wearing a very fine dressing gown of ivory brocade—Raffi had never seen anything so sumptuous. Sikka was sitting with him, and on the other side of the table, his big, bearded henchman Godric, who waved Raffi over. “Come on, boy! God, how I remember what your master calls breakfast. There’s plenty here.”

Raffi edged nearer, but Galen stopped him with a glance.

“Well, keeper.” Alberic sipped the wine. “I can’t say I’m thrilled you’re here, but I’m not a man to bear hard feelings.” Godric almost choked; the dwarf eyed him coldly. “You’re free to go. As far as you like.”

“That’s very kind.” Galen pulled up a chair and sat on it sideways. “However, I think you’ll be seeing a little more of us, thief-lord.”

“More? I don’t think you get my meaning.”

“Or you mine. We’re staying.”

“I knew it!” Alberic flung down the wine cup. “And now you’re going to spin me some yarn that the Makers arranged all this! That my strategy—my brilliant strategy—and months of planning were just some ploy to get you and your worthless rabble in here!”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

Raffi’s chicken bone was picked clean. He went and dropped it on a plate. Godric winked, and passed him a peppered chop and a hunk of bread.

Alberic jumped down from his chair. He prowled wrathfully around the room, kicking a goblet that rolled across the floor. “You’re a fanatic, Galen, and dangerous to know. I’ve never got over that curse you put on me. I don’t think I’ve had a good night’s sleep since. Whatever you’re up to, you can count me out! I want nothing to do with you, your Order, your crazy tales or your talking trees.” He stopped, slapping himself on the forehead. “Flainsteeth! Listen to me! Who’s in charge here anyway!” He spun and clicked his fingers at the bodyguards, who stood menacingly. “What’s to stop me selling you all to the Watch! What a price the Crow would make.”

Galen looked around, totally unconcerned. The Sekoi came up behind him and surveyed the breakfast table. “We’re your friends, Alberic, remember. Don’t you eat any fruit?”

“Friends!” The dwarf stared up in disbelief. “God, you people have got a nerve.”

“Why the Castle of Halen?” Galen asked quietly.

It was Godric who answered. “Had to move out from the old place. A plague of flies came out of the Unfinished Lands. Bloodflies. Or something like. As big as your hand with a sting to match. They got into the food, the clothes, demolished crops, even had a go at livestock. Everyone fled; there was no one left to rob. So the chief said he fancied a castle, and we found this one.” He poured out more wine, and some for the Sekoi. “Took a bit of planning. Infiltrated the place for weeks.”

Galen looked up. “What about your prisoners?”

“Prisoners?” Alberic spat. “The Watch riff-raff? Who cares?”

“I care.” The Relic Master stood. Suddenly he looked angry and dangerous. “There are about sixty men herded in a filthy cellar below here. They need surgeons and food and by God, Alberic, you’ll provide them.”

Alberic stared. Then he jumped onto the chair and up onto the table, kicking plates out of the way. He brought his face close to Galen’s. “You owe the Watch no favors. Let them rot. And don’t threaten me, Relic Master.”

“I haven’t. Yet.” Galen ignored Sikka’s sword quietly unsheathing. “I’m asking you to do it for your own sake.” His voice was hard with sarcasm. “People will be only too glad to surrender to you if they think they’ll be treated well. Word will get around. When you release them . . .”

“
Release them!
You addle-headed . . .”

“Uncle!” Milo was fidgeting nervously in the doorway.

Without taking a breath or his eyes from Galen, Alberic roared, “What?”

“It’s all ready. For the hangings.”

Galen’s face darkened. “What hangings?”

Alberic moved back and smiled sweetly at him. “A few deserters from my war band. Discipline has to be kept up, keeper. You’d know nothing about it. If you want, you can come and watch.” He shoved plates aside and leaped down, marching out to the balcony, his whole entourage hurrying after him.

Galen stood up. The Sekoi muttered, “Be careful. We could all end up with a knife in the back.”

On the balcony, horn players were blowing an elaborate fanfare. A box had been carefully hidden behind the low parapet; Alberic leaped up onto it lightly. Then he looked down. It was a mistake. The keep was enormous, the courtyard far below crowded with his ragtag army and all the Watch’s released workers. They cheered when they saw him, an eruption of noise.

Alberic went white. He turned hastily and tottered off the box; his face was ashen. “You blundering fool!” he snarled at Milo. “It’s too high!”

“But, Uncle. You said—”

“I don’t like heights!” For a second he looked so sick, Raffi almost felt sorry for him. Then Galen had pushed forward. “Stop him,” the dwarf croaked.

It was too late. Galen was already addressing the crowd. “Friends! Some of you may remember me.” There was a murmur below. “I’m very grateful to our chief for allowing me to be the one to break the good news. As part of his deeply felt and powerful conversion to the beliefs and truths of the Makers, Alberic has ordered that every hanging is to be called off, and every deserter is to be given mercy. And his life.” A puzzled silence answered him. Then disappointed, muted applause.

“For Flain’s sake, get him down!” Alberic raged. “Can’t you see what he’s doing!” None of his people moved. Turning in utter fury, he found out why. No one had seen the Sekoi pick up the crossbow. Now it was pointed straight between his eyes.

“Let’s hear what the keeper has to say, shall we?” the creature whispered pleasantly.

“Every one of you,” Galen yelled, “will be given a fair share of the plunder.” The crowd whooped. They liked that. Alberic swore ferociously. “Also,” Galen went on recklessly, “the chief intends to treat the Watch prisoners with the utmost courtesy and set them free! No one will say Alberic is mean-spirited.” A roar of laughter.

“Get on the box.” The Sekoi jerked the bow. “Wave. And smile.”

“Drop dead,” Alberic snarled.

The creature’s finger tightened on the taut trigger. “I’m a teeny bit tense,” it whispered. With a glare of hatred, Alberic obeyed. But he didn’t look down.

“Every man, woman, and child brought here by the Watch is to go free.” Galen’s voice rang out, echoing in archways and battlements. “And they must take this message with them, to everyone they meet. Spread it wide, my friends! The Crow has returned to Anara! The Crow is here, and he has gathered his army, and Alberic is with him! No more running and hiding in the dark! From this day, together, we will begin the destruction of the Watch!”

He spread his arms wide. Awen-power crackled and spat at his fingertips; it made Alberic jump back in sudden alarm. Long blue tendrils of Maker energies soared into the air above the courtyard, coiling and intertwining in the form of an immense black bird, darkening the upturned faces, swelling until it hung like an ominous cloud over the whole Castle of Halen, wingtip to wingtip. Then it faded, slowly, without a sound. There was a vast silence. Until the crowd roared, a great outcry of delight and amazement and joy.

Alberic’s face was white. He stalked back into the room, and above the uproar outside, he turned and rounded on Galen. “You’ve finished me!” he hissed. “Once the Watch hear of this, they’ll hunt us down like rats! They’ll never stop!”