The Dark City

9

The Watch is unsleeping. Never relent in the search; never turn back.

Rule of the Watch

Journal of Carys Arrin

Larsnight

7.16.546

I’ve lost them.

And this is so infuriating I can hardly get the words down, but what stopped me was a spell.

There’s no other word for it. Every time I tried to cross that bridge I found myself back where I started! It seems to be some sort of power field to confuse the mind—I can’t believe that it actually changes matter in any way or that the bridge can have only one end. In all my training, the Watchleaders insisted that the powers of the Order were an illusion—I can see fat old Jeltok now, banging his cane on the table. Well, it’s an illusion that’s worked on me.

Galen Harn had crossed. I found traces of a campfire on the bank and scraps of food—fungus of some sort. Maybe they brew a concoction of this and drink it to counteract the spell. Too risky to try without knowing more.

In the end I had to give up. Even leading the horse into the swamp would have been useless—the whole area was thick with seedbeds and alder; soft, probably deep. I almost screamed with frustration, and kicked the black rotting chains of the thing with hatred.

What makes it worse is that they’re traveling by night. Harn is cunning. He’s been hunted all his life; he knows how to blend with the leaves and the land, though I don’t believe that nonsense that the keepers can turn into trees and stones.

It was well after dark when I turned back from the bridge and though I’d slept a little, I was tired. Yesterday I sold the pack-beast and most of the goods in a village beyond the fields—speed is more important now. But I kept the horse, and that’s one advantage. They’re on foot.

I rode the horse back up the stony gully and turned east, quickly crossing the fields in the dark. My plan was to follow the river upstream until I could cross it. The wind was chill and the stubbly ground uneven; worst of all it rose constantly, and the river ran below in a steep cleft with ash and elder springing out of the sides. There was no way down—I just had to keep going, farther away from the bridge all the time.

Furious, I strapped my jerkin tight and kicked the horse on; we galloped now, leaping small walls and hedges, four moons watching us through cloud. Down lanes bordered with stone walls, past a dark farmhouse, skirting tangled copses; the search for a track seemed endless. It was almost light before I found it. A narrow, beaten trail. It looked as if animals had trodden it; it led into a dark stand of juniper and fireberry bushes, and smelled of night-cat.

The horse didn’t like it. Neither did I, I suppose, but time was pressing and I was angry and a bit reckless. So I rode down. I can see old Jellie shaking his head now.

It was dark among the trees, the branches low and tangled. I had to dismount, slashing them aside, leading the horse. Uneasy, fly-bitten, and scratched, we scrambled down, tread muffled on a springy mattress of needles, the winter’s shriveled berries. The track dropped steeply and the horse kept whickering, the smell of its fear sharp on the air. I swore at it, then swung my crossbow out and racked it hastily. In the undergrowth a twig had cracked.

I stopped, raising the bow. The copse was dim. Ahead, somewhere below, I could see a pale daylight, but here the trunks crowded, silent.

I heard it before it leaped and squirmed around; the yowl was in my face, past me, then the lithe black shape had fastened onto the horse; it reared, screaming with terror. I aimed too fast; the bolt shot wide, crunched in an ashbole. Then the horse was gone, in a heedless bloodstained panic, the night-cat streaking after it like a shadow.

Furious, I scrambled down the track, all hope gone. I’d seen what a night-cat could do—there’d be no chance of riding back to the bridge. And I was scared, believe me. But I needed the food and money in the saddlebags. Everything was on that wretched horse. Then as I came out of the trees, I fell smack over something lying in the path, and stared at it, on hands and knees.

The night-cat lay sprawled, mid-jump. One paw was flung up, the snarling mouth wide in the agony of its death. It was still hot. Fleas jumped off it. I reached out cautiously and touched it. The great head slumped; blood clotted the black fur, just congealing. A crossbow bolt stuck out of its neck.

I rolled under the nearest bush, racked the bow hastily, and reloaded it. I’d missed the cat. This was someone else’s work. And they’d be back for it. Steadying my breath, controlling, I waited for them under the leaves. Always see what you’re up against, Jellie used to wheeze. I’d never believed he’d been a field agent, not then, but his captures were listed in all the Watchtowers, so he must have been thinner once.

Two minutes later a blackbird screeched and flew off. I heard voices coming up the path from the river. Putting my eye to the sight of the bow I watched them come, two men, shouldering through bracken, my sweating, nervous horse dragging behind.

I could have killed them both. Or maybe one; the other would have gone before I could reload, and then it would have been cat and mouse, and I had no idea who else might be around. Safer to wait.

They stood over the cat, laughing, more than pleased with themselves. The bigger one gazed up the track. “The rider might still be alive.”

“Maybe.”

“Should we look?”

The smaller one laughed and shook his head. “Not me. Cat’s had him. Or he broke his neck coming off. This horse is worth at least fifty marks, never mind the stuff in the bags.”

“What if he turns up?”

They looked at each other. Then they laughed again.

I had to take my finger off the trigger, force myself to be calm. I get angry too easily, and an agent needs control. They didn’t know I was Watch. I could have gotten up and told them—they might have backed off. Or might not. Bitterly I lay where I was, deep in leaves, woodbugs crawling over me. And all the time Galen Harn was slipping away.

They were in no hurry. They skinned the cat on the spot, taking the soft thick pelt, the teeth, the paws, some of the innards. Soon the air stank of blood; flies buzzed in clouds over the carcass. Finally, well into the morning, they gathered up their packs, loaded them onto the horse, and set off, down toward the river. They talked loud and easy, but their bows were ready.

Stiff and filthy, I watched them go, then got up and followed, silent, from bush to tree. I may not be one of the magical Order, but even as kids in the Watchhouses, we played this game. No one caught me then. Or now.

It took over an hour to reach the farm. I smelled it first, the tang of cattle over the marshy ground; then I saw the low rise of the roof, close to the water. The river was narrower here, still sluggish but shallow; I could see cows knee-deep in it on a bank of shingle. I could have crossed. But I wanted the horse.

The men tied it up and went inside.

Flat behind low scrub, I looked the place over. Not a village, as I’d feared, but a house, isolated. Maybe fewer than ten people. Abruptly the door opened; the two men were back, women with them, an old man, children. They fed the horse an apple, walked around it, slapped its legs admiringly. A small girl in a tattered dress was lifted onto its back.

There were dogs, of course. Two. I was downwind, which was just as well, but they terrified me. Dogs you can never trust. Then I saw the saddlebags were open. Bit by bit, my food supplies went into the house. I saw them holding up my clothes, surprised, and managed a sour laugh. I was small, even for a girl. What were they thinking now?

Finally, when I’d almost wriggled away and given up, they all went in. I slid forward quickly, through the marshy tussocks. Frustration broke out—suddenly I was reckless and fierce. I’d lost so much time; if I was to act it had to be now, before they came back!

With the thought I was up, running, head bent low, into the muddy yard. The horse whinnied; I slashed the rope and was on its back kicking my heels in hard; we were halfway through the gate when the shouts erupted. I didn’t look back but drove the beast hard, mud splashing high, cows scattering. Barking and yells and the whistle of a shot smacked from somewhere, but we were slithering down the red bank into the water; I shouted and kicked anxiously.

The river was sluggish; boulders choked the peat-brown water, the shingle underneath soft and treacherous. The horse sank in it; a splash and a bark behind warned me, and turning I saw a dog close, its white teeth snapping at the horse’s tail.

That probably helped. The horse kicked. Then its hooves grounded in firm soil; I felt it and whooped with delight as we raced over the grass and into the tree cover beyond, a steady joyous run with the wet mane flicking drops into my face like diamonds. Defiant, I sat up. Another bolt splintered bark a meter to my left, but by then I was too reckless to care, and in seconds the trees were around us, and I had to slow the horse.

It took me an hour to calm down.

When I did, I was tired and hungry, and suddenly cold. The wood had petered out; I found myself climbing the slopes of a high bare landscape of chalk, the turf cropped low, and the huge sun in a furnace of gathering cloud. Rain began, drizzling lightly. There was nothing to eat, and no shelter.

Coming carefully over the skyline, I sat still, watching the clouds gather. The empty country stretched out below; dark, smooth green slopes. Pulling the bags off, I let the horse rest, pulled out this book, and wrote. I’m lucky to still have it.

Harn must be far from here by now. He must be out in the middle of these downlands, somewhere. I sit silent, writing, and the horse crops the grass. The tearing of the stalks is loud in the drizzle.