The Dark City

3

Though the Makers are gone, their relics remain. Let the keepers seek them out. For the power in them is holy.

Litany of the Makers

IT WAS A TRAP.

Raffi knew that, as soon as he saw Alberic. He had a sudden vivid sense of the empty room behind him, the stairs, the maze of corridors, the gate and spikes and ditches. It was a trap, and they were well inside it.

But Alberic only grinned. “So you’re Galen Harn. You took some finding.”

Galen said nothing. His face was stern.

“And a pupil!” The dwarf’s shrewd eyes glanced over Raffi. “Bursting with sorceries, no doubt.”

Someone sniggered behind him. Alberic leaned back into the cushions, the candlelight soft on the silk of his jerkin. “Sit down, please,” he said amiably.

A big, black-haired man lifted a gilt chair from the wall and thumped it down in front of Galen. As he straightened up, he smirked at them and they recognized the horseman from the forest. He still wore the breastplate; close up it looked thin, pitted with rust.

Galen ignored the chair. Someone edged a small stool toward Raffi, and he gave it a longing glance but stayed standing.

“We came here,” Galen said ominously, “because of your message. A relic . . .”

“Ah yes!” The small man put his tiny fingers together and grinned over them. “I’m afraid there might have been a slight misunderstanding there.” He gave the briefest of nods. The sense-lines snapped; Raffi found himself being shoved onto the stool by a girl in snaky armor, and glancing around he saw they had forced Galen to sit too, the black-bearded man and another standing over him.

For a moment the keeper’s eyes were black with fury. Then he seemed to control himself; he leaned back, thrusting his legs out.

“You seem determined to make us comfortable.”

“It’s not that. I don’t like looking up.”

They stared at each other. Finally the dwarf’s grin widened. He spread his hands. “It’s like this, keeper. I’m the power here. My body may be puny, but my brain’s sharp, sharper than any, and my lads and lasses here know Alberic’s plans and Alberic’s cunning bring the most gold. This is Sikka, Godric, whom you’ve already met, and Taran. My rogues, my children.”

He blew a kiss at them; the girl Sikka laughed, and Taran, a man in a dirty blue coat, gave a snort of derision. Carefully, Raffi moved his hand an inch toward his pocket.

“Gold.” Galen nodded. “So you’re thieves, then.”

There was a tense silence. Raffi went cold all over. Then Alberic shook his head. “For a wise man you have a blunt tongue, Galen. As it is, this time I’ll let you keep it.” He leaned over and poured himself a drink from a delicate glass container on a round table beside him, lit by tall candles. The goblet glittered; it was crystal, almost priceless. Raffi tightened his dry lips. Slowly Alberic drank, leaning back on the plump cushions.

“The relic,” Galen growled.

“There is no relic. At least—” The small man sat up, looking around in mock surprise. “I don’t think so. Is there?”

The girl laughed. “You’re a cruel man, Alberic,” she said, coming around and gripping the back of his carven chair. She stared at Galen in amusement. “Did you really believe that we’d have a terror of relics, like the old fools in the villages?”

Galen said nothing; it was Alberic who answered. “Oh no,” he said softly, watching the Relic Master. “Oh no, my pet, he’s a deeper one than that. Very deep. I think he knew what he was coming into all along. I think he knew very well . . . ”

For a moment the dwarf’s voice was so thoughtful that Raffi had the sudden sense he had guessed Galen’s bitter secret, and his anxiety sent the sense-lines rippling, so that he had to fight to hold on to them. Alberic watched silently, head on one side. Suddenly his voice was sharp. “Let me see some sorcery, keeper. I need to know you’re who you say you are, not some spy of the Watch.”

Galen’s hands tightened, the fingers clenching on the chair. Raffi saw them uneasily.

“I don’t do sorcery—as you call it—on the orders of anyone.” His face was proud and his dark stern eyes held Alberic’s. “I’m a Relic Master of the Order of keepers, and the power I have is holy. Not for fireside tricks.”

Alberic nodded. “But the Order is finished,” he said sweetly. “Broken, outlawed. Dead.”

“The power remains.” Galen leaned back in his chair, legs stretched out. He had the look of a man playing chess, playing for his life, on an invisible board.

“To open and close,” Alberic murmured, “build and destroy, see forward and back.”

Raffi looked surprised; Galen didn’t. The dwarf grinned at them. “One of your Order was once . . . in the way, on one of our raids. Unfortunately some of my rogues were a little enthusiastic. The only thing he had worth stealing was the Litany of the Makers, written in code on parchment. I worked it out and read it. An amusement for the long winter nights . . .”

Galen said nothing, his eyes cold with anger.

“The boy, then!” Alberic waved at Raffi. “Let the boy do something. You don’t object to that?”

Galen shrugged. “If he wants to. He knows little. A few effects of light that might amuse you.” He turned a cold look on Raffi. “Do your best for our audience.”

Reluctantly Raffi stood up, catching the hidden message. They all stared at him, and he felt nervous and furious with Galen. But then, he’d had no choice.

He stepped out and pushed the stool away with his foot. Then he raised both hands, spoke the words in his mind, and let his third eye open, the eye of the Makers.

In the air he made the seven moons, each hanging from nothing, the small red Pyra, pitted Cyrax, the icy globe of Atterix, all the sisters of the old Book. They glowed in the dark room, and beyond them he glimpsed Alberic, watching intently, his face bright with the dappled lights.

“Very pretty,” the dwarf murmured. “Most pleasing.”

But he hardly seemed impressed. Uneasy, Raffi set the globes spinning. They moved in long ellipses, made the complex orbits of the moons, each leaving a glinting thread of light that interwove into a net of colors, purples and reds and blues. And each had its own note of music that hummed, building into harmonies that rose and gathered in the dim hall, an underthrob of sound like the voices of strange beings. He was sweating now, and there was a pain behind his eyes, but he kept the moons spinning till the wordless song rose to a crescendo of exquisite beauty, and then he let it fade, slowly, into silence. The moons became ghosts of light. Then they were gone.

“Charming,” Alberic said drily.

Sweating, his head thumping, Raffi glanced at Galen. He hadn’t moved but sat still, arms folded. “Is that enough for you?”

“Certainly. No Watchman could do that. With such a pupil you must be who you say you are.”

“You never doubted that.”

Alberic grinned. “No.”

“So what do you want? We’re not worth robbing.”

There was silence. Wearily Raffi sat down; no one took any notice of him. He slid his hand into his pocket and gripped the blue box. The tension in the room was taut as a rope; he could feel it tighten his nerves.

For the first time Alberic didn’t seem amused. He drank from his glass and flashed a glance at the girl, Sikka. She nodded, her long plaited hair swinging.

The small man put his glass down. “Revenge. I want revenge.”

“On us?”

Alberic smiled dangerously. “Don’t pretend to be stupid.” For a moment he fingered his golden collar, then he looked up and said fiercely, “You called us thieves. Indeed we are. What does a thief hate most, wise one?”

“To be robbed.” Galen’s voice was somber, his hawk-face a mask of shadows.

“Indeed.” Alberic looked at him, impressed. “Let me tell you about it. Two months ago, a wandering Sekoi came to this place. He was one of the ones who tell stories: a lazy, mocking creature. Brindled gray and brown. A zigzag under one eye.”

Raffi edged closer. Any mention of the Sekoi fascinated him. He had only seen a few of them, years ago when he’d been too small and had run away, thinking they would eat him. The Sekoi were the others, the different race. They were taller than men, and thin, their sharp faces furred like cats, their long fingers streaked in tribal markings. People said it was the Sekoi who had made the cromlechs, eons ago, before the Makers came. They had stories about that time, or so Galen said. The Order had had texts of a few, laboriously copied in the great library in the tower of Karelian. All dust now.

“He fooled us,” Alberic said waspishly. “Hung around, played with the children. We threw him out but he came back. He prattled, dreamed, sang foreign songs. We thought he was harmless.”

“The Sekoi make an art of that,” Galen muttered. He was looking at the jug of wine. Alberic noticed, and grinned.

“As you say. All the time he was learning about us, where the strongrooms were, who held the keys, what the raids brought in.” He shook his head. “There was plenty of that, believe me. Gold, silver, clothes, wool, wine. This place is well stuffed.”

“I can believe it.” Galen leaned back, pushing the long hair from his face. “And so he robbed you.”

The dwarf glared. “He gave a performance. Down in the courtyard. None of us had seen a Sekoi work.” He leaned forward. “No disrespect to you, boy, but he was astounding. He told a story, and the things he spoke of appeared, and I was inside the story, we all were; it happened all around us. It was some tale of castles and battles and gods who rode from the sky on silver horses, and believe me, keeper, I lived every minute of it! I felt the rain, the sparks from the swords, had to run out of the way in case I was crushed.” He leaned back, remembering. “It was no illusion. It was real. Some of my people were injured in that dream. Two never came out of it.”

“And when it ended?”

Alberic’s eyes were hooded with wrath. “The fires out, the courtyard dark, the guards asleep. And the strongroom door wide open.”

“What did he take?” Raffi asked eagerly.

“Gold. What do they ever want? A box of gold marks. A fortune!”

“You want it back.”

“I want him!” Alberic leaped up suddenly, shoving Godric aside and prowling, a tiny, hunched figure, among the candles. “I want that filthy dream-peddler! What I’ll do to him!” He spun, his eyes bright. “And then with him! Imagine the work he could do for me, the use he’d be to me. I want him brought back, relic-man. And I want you to get him.”

Galen sat still, his black hair and clothes making him a figure of darkness. Raffi knew he was tense, uncertain.

“Why me?”

“You have ways. I’m known, so are my people. None of us can travel that far. The Watch . . .”

Galen laughed bitterly. “The Watch! They want me more than you. No, you can find the creature yourself, thief-lord. He may well be sharper than you are.” Then, abruptly, he looked up. “Why did you think I would go?”

“Because of our hostage.”

“What hostage?”

Alberic grinned at him. “The boy.”

Raffi felt the sense-lines leap; danger surged in the room like a tide. “Galen!” he gasped, jumping up.

The stool smacked behind him. The blue box was in his hand. Weapons glinted; Godric’s sword unsheathed with a sharp snick; Sikka caught hold of him so that he yelled and jerked the box up, his thumb stabbing the small round control.

The box throbbed. A blast of light scorched out from it, searing the floor at Alberic’s feet so that the dwarf leaped back with a yell, the planks blackened and smoking. Shock forced Raffi back; the box jerked out of his hand and he grabbed for it but Alberic already had him, a knife jabbed in his ribs, one skinny hand gripping his hair so that he yelped in pain.

Through watering eyes he saw their astonished faces, the crisped ends of the straw stinking and curling. In front of him, Galen was holding the box level, his eyes bleak.

“Now that,” Alberic said slowly, “is a relic worth having.” He turned the knife in Raffi’s side. “Even if you get out, the boy won’t.”

“Let him go.”

“I might. If you give me that box.” The dwarf stared at it greedily.

“Never.” Galen was steady, without expression.

Alberic shrugged. “Your choice, keeper. Keep the box; lose the boy.”