The Hidden Coronet

14

Once, they say, Agramon came down and took a walk through the world, dressed in rags. She came to a town and asked for a room at a tavern. “This is all I have,” she said, showing a purse with one coin. Beneath her coat the glimmer of her dress was silver. The greedy innkeeper winked at his wife.

“Is that so?” he muttered.

Agramon’s Purse

THE WEATHER GOT STEADILY WORSE.

For three days it rained without stopping, a bitter sleet that made all the tracks quagmires; and on the fourth Raffi crawled out of exhausted sleep in a broken sheepfold to find the world white, every tiny blade of grass crusted with spines of frost. All that day, trudging over open fields, he felt the stricken shock of the soil, frozen in trampled ridges, all the tiny sprouting seeds seared and dead.

Everything was wrong. There was nothing left to eat. Solon was suffering from his Watch-injuries but walked steadily, uncomplaining. Each of them was soaked to the skin and could not get dry. The sense-lines had to struggle deep to find life; in every bare hedge and frozen stream all the energies had withdrawn, the creatures huddled and hidden, the embryos unborn. There was no spring—it had been shattered. And at night the skies were black, the stars frosty, the moons oddly brilliant in their colors and crescents.

Galen was worried. Late that evening, after the Litany, he looked across the meager fire to Solon, and Raffi knew what he would ask.

“Is this weather Kest’s work?”

“I fear it, my son.” Solon leaned back against the tree, rubbing anxiously at the dirt on his hands. “When Kest tampered with the Makers’ creation, he began something that has never stopped. Only the efforts of the Order held the world in balance, but with our hold broken, the Unfinished Lands will soon overwhelm us. In twenty years or less. Perhaps this evil spring is the beginning.”

“Didn’t the console say something about the weather?” Raffi spoke quietly; Marco was a little way off, looking out over the fields beyond the copse.

Galen glanced up. “Yes. ‘The weather-net holds’ were the words. And then ‘We’ll leave the Coronet active as a stabilizer.’ ”

He sat in shadow, but as he said the Maker-words, even casually, a rustle of power stirred around him, something so vivid and yet gone so quickly Raffi could only pray Solon had not noticed it.

If he had, the Archkeeper controlled his surprise. After a moment he pushed a branch farther into the flames and said, “Perhaps the weather-net isn’t holding anymore.”

“You mean the Makers could control the weather?” It was a new idea for Raffi.

“They made the world, boy,” Galen growled in disgust. “All of it. If the Coronet is . . .”

Something snagged in Raffi’s head. He hissed with the pain of it. “Sense-lines!”

Instantly, they were listening. Men. A whole group. Riding fast.

“Marco!” Solon warned.

Galen was stamping the fire out. The bald man rustled hurriedly back between the bushes. “What?”

“Watch! Get down!”

All at once the night was an enemy, prickling with danger. Flat under the hazels, praying there were no vesps, Raffi felt the old terror surge up in him. He could hear them coming, galloping hard along the farm track, and under his forehead the thunder of hooves made the ground vibrate and shudder.

It took all his willpower to raise his head a fraction and look out.

A full patrol, maybe more. They were well-armed, the moonlight catching swords and bows, a few helmets swinging from saddles. In the dark it was hard to see much more, but they were riding at speed; even as he watched, they had crunched across the stream and were gone, racing in a long column up the farther fields.

Galen rolled over. He dragged leaves from his hair.

“Something’s going on,” he said. “The Sekoi know. The Watch know.”

“And you don’t?” Marco mocked.

Galen gave him a dark stare. “I know where we can find out.”

THE NEXT AFTERNOON they lay under the hedgerow and looked up.

The town of Arreto was built high on the hilltop. One road wound up to it that they could see; there were probably others. It had a strong-looking wall, with bastions. Inside that, Raffi could see roofs and parapets, and the Watchtower near the broken dome of what once must have been a shrine of the Order. From the dull sky the wind whipped sleet against his face. His breath smoked with the bitter cold.

“This is a terrible risk,” Solon muttered.

That was no use, Raffi thought. Galen thrived on risks. He sometimes wondered what the keeper would have done in a safe Order, an Order that was rich and unthreatened, its disciplines rigid and unbroken. Set off for some remote edge of the Finished Lands, probably, or been martyred trying to convert the Sekoi.

“If you want,” Galen said, turning his head, “you and Marco can go around. Raffi and I will go through the town and meet you beyond, where the road turns north to the observatory.”

Solon looked rueful. “My son, don’t tempt me.”

“What about you, dealer?”

Marco laughed. “I know you’d like to get rid of me, Galen. But my stomach says no.”

Raffi scowled. Why did he have to mention food? It was lack of food that had brought them to this; they had eaten all their supplies and there had been little in the frozen fields to forage. Marco had shot a wood pigeon, but that had been two nights ago and he had eaten it alone; neither Solon nor Galen would touch it. Raffi had even tried begging at a few farms, but the raw spring was obviously bringing famine; he had been seen off at all of them, and even now the thought of one great ox of a man roaring abuse in the doorway made him sweat.

This was populated country, full of Watch, crisscrossed with roads, busy with trade. Dangerous. And yet they had to pass it. Beyond the town the observatory lay on the slopes of Mount Burna, only two days’ walk. But first they needed food. And information.

They waited till night to scale the walls. Galen had selected his spot carefully, where a crag jutted above a stream; it was fairly easy to climb up, though Solon slipped once. Close up, the wall was rough and ramshackle; in places it had collapsed and slithered away, the mortar dry and crumbling between the stones. Watchpatrols passed across the top at regular intervals; when one was out of sight Galen climbed up, crawled through a gap, and vanished.

Seconds later his hooked face peered out of the shadows.

“Come on.”

Raffi came last, bruising his knee and scraping his wrist and finally dropping down onto a wide, dim terrace. Without a word they ran across it, the light of four moons suddenly silvering them, and pattered down a small stone staircase. They found themselves in a narrow alley. On each side were tall, dark buildings, the sky a strip far above where flittermice screeched. The alley was silent, cobbled, leading downhill. Trying to walk casually, they followed it.

Raffi felt lightheaded with tension and starvation. After so long out in the wilds, towns were alien places, crowded, full of secrets.

The alley led onto a street, past shops. One had food sizzling outside; at another a potter was packing up, carrying in huge urns and vases.

Raffi smelled the cooking, painfully.

At the end of the street they came to a square. Trade was ending for the day but there were still plenty of people around, a few carts being loaded, someone selling cut-price flagons of wine. Marco bought one with his last coppers and they crouched under a colonnade and drank thirstily.

“What now?” Solon muttered.

“We could steal some food,” Marco said. Catching Solon’s eye, he grinned. “You people! All right. Somewhere to sleep.”

“An inn?”

Galen frowned. “Too risky. Besides, we can’t pay.”

“Yes we can.” Raffi pulled something out of his pocket guiltily. “We’ve got this.”

He laid it on the step and they all stared at it.

A gold coin.

Galen picked it up in disbelief. “By Flain, boy, if you’ve . . .”

“I didn’t steal it. It must have fallen out of the money belt. It was inside my shirt.”

The keeper flung it down. “It’s not ours.”

“The Sekoi wouldn’t mind,” Raffi said sulkily, knowing very well that it would mind most bitterly.

“You’re a sharp one!” Marco reached out for the money, but Solon was already turning it in his scarred fingers. The Archkeeper smiled.

“It has come to us,” he said. “Certainly that was the Makers’ doing. If we sleep out in some alley, Galen, we risk being moved on, or taken up as vagabonds. And one night in a bed would ease my weary bones, I have to say.”

Galen looked at him darkly. “If you’re willing to take the risk.”

Solon flipped the coin. “I’ve taken worse, my son.”

AFTER A CAREFUL SEARCH they chose an inn called The Myrtle Branch, in a dim back street far from the Watchtower. It looked clean, and through the smoke fug from its windows they saw the downstairs room was quiet, with only half a dozen customers. Serving them was a young woman, looking tired and harassed.

“I’ll do the talking,” Marco announced.

Galen looked at him. “You will not.”

“Still thinking I’ll sell you to the Watch?”

“I,” Solon said firmly, “will talk to her, and the boy will come with me. You two sit by the door and try not to look so disreputable.”

He went in quickly, before they could argue, Raffi tripping over the step in his haste.

Solon was wise, he thought. Galen would have scared her, and Marco she would have distrusted, but Solon was polite and kindly and travel-worn, and soon she was fussing over him as if he were her grandfather, fetching a hot drink and helping him off with his pack. He winked at Raffi and eased himself down by the fire with a sigh, stretching his legs out, clots of mud falling from his boots.

“We’re visiting relatives. You’re my grandson, and those two are your uncles. We’re all the way from Marnza Bay. Know it?”

Raffi shook his head.

“Never mind. With luck no one else will either.”

Galen and Marco came over and sat down. “All right?” Galen asked, looking around. No one seemed to be taking much notice of them.

“Safe as houses.” Solon held out his hands to the flames, looking happy. “She’s even cooking for us.”

Halfway through the meal, two Watchmen stalked in. Raffi nearly choked with terror, but after one glance Solon poured him a cup of ale, calmly. “We are in the Makers’ hands, Raffi. Let their will be done.”

Gulping it down, Raffi thought that in his own way the Archkeeper was as reckless as Galen. He picked at his food, glancing in the mirror as the two men questioned the ale-wife. She pointed over toward them.

Raffi’s heart thudded.

He couldn’t swallow. The palms of his hands were slippery with sweat.

“If they arrest us, go quietly,” Galen murmured. “Outside we can do something.”

But the Watchmen nodded, took another look around, and went out. Raffi breathed out in silent relief, but Galen’s eyes narrowed.

“We seem to be lucky,” Marco whispered, lifting his cup.

The keeper looked at him. “Too lucky,” he said.

They were given an attic room for the night.

A bed was wonderful, even if it was only stuffed with straw. Raffi threw himself on the nearest and rolled over, one arm over his eyes, as Solon went to close the hangings on the windows.

“Tomorrow,” Galen said, dropping the relic bag down in one corner, “we spend the rest of the money on food and leave as soon as we’ve asked about Watch movements.”

“I’m not sure, my son, that that will be possible.”

Something dry in Solon’s voice made Raffi sit up. He went over to the window and stood beside the old man, looking out.

What he saw made him groan.

The roofs of the town were already white.

It was snowing. Hard.