The Hidden Coronet

1

In rumor and strange sayings the truth

will hide.

Snow will fall, the heart freeze over.

We will come when no one expects us.

Apocalypse of Tamar

TWO MEN SAT ON A BENCH ON THE ICE.

Between them a brazier glowed with hot coals, its metal feet sinking into a pool of meltwater.

They sat silent, in the heart of the Frost Fair; in its racket of bleating sheep, barking dogs, innumerable traders calling their wares and, above all, the ominous hammering. Meats sizzled on spits, babies screamed, jugglers threw jingling bells, fiddlers played for coins, and in cushioned booths Sekoi of all colors told spellbinding stories, their voices unnaturally sharp and ringing in the bitter cold.

Finally the older man stirred. “Are you sure?” he muttered.

“I heard it in Tarkos. Then again last week in Lariminier Market. It’s certain.” The cobbler, still in his leather apron, stared bleakly out at the black Watchtower in the center of the frozen lake, as if afraid its sentinels could hear him from there.

“He’s been seen?”

“So they say.” The cobbler’s dirty heel scratched at a fish skeleton frozen in the ice; its wide eye stared up at him. “There’s been a lot of talk. Prophecies and odd rumors. What I heard was, that on Flainsnight last year there was an enormous explosion. The House of Trees split wide and out of it, on black wings, a vision rose up into the sky, huge over Tasceron.” He glanced around, making the sign of honor furtively with his hand. “It was him. The Crow.”

The old man spat. “Incredible! What did it look like?”

“Huge. Black. A bird and not a bird. You know, like it said in the old Book.”

“I might. And it spoke?”

“So the woman who told me said.”

A scar-bull clattered by pulled by two men, its hooves slipping on the glassy lake. When they had gone the old man shrugged. “Could be just rumor.”

The cobbler glanced around, worried. Behind them a peddler was hawking ribbons and pins and fancy lace, a crowd was watching two men come to blows over the price of geese, and a boy was turning cartwheels among the stalls, a few coppers in his cap on the ice. The cobbler drew up closer and dropped his voice. “No. Why do you think the Watch have doubled their patrols? They’ve heard; they have spies everywhere.”

“So what did it say, this vision?”

“It said, ‘Listen Anara, your Makers are coming back to you; through the darkness and emptiness I call them. Flain and Tamar and Soren, even Kest will come. They will dispel the darkness. They will scatter the power of the Watch.’”

The words, barely whispered, seemed dangerous, charged with power, as if they sparked in the freezing air. In the silence that followed, the racket of the fair seemed louder; both men were glad of it. The peddler had spilled his tray and was kneeling on the ice, picking up pins awkwardly with numb fingers. The wind scuttered a few closer to the brazier, like silver slivers.

The old man held gloved hands to the heat. “Well, if it’s true . . .”

“It is.”

“. . . Then it will change the world. I pray I live to see it.” He looked ruefully over the tents and stalls to the Watchtower, glinting with frost. “But unless the Makers come tomorrow, it’ll be too late for those poor souls.”

From here the hammering was louder. The half-constructed gallows were black, a rickety structure of high timbers built directly onto the ice, one man up there now on a ladder, hauling up the deadly swinging nooses of rope. Above him the sky was iron-gray, full of unfallen sleet. Smoke from the fair’s fires rose into it, a hundred straight columns.

“Another black frost tonight,” the cobbler muttered.

The old man didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “I hear one of the prisoners is a keeper.”

The cobbler almost sat upright. Then he relapsed onto the rough bench, biting his thumbnail. “Dear God,” he whispered. “To hang?”

“To hang. Tomorrow, like all the rest.”

Over the lake the hammering ended abruptly. The nooses swung, empty, frost already glinting on them.

The peddler picked up the last needle. He straightened with a groan, then limped over. “Goods, gentlemen?” he whined. “Samples of ribbon. Beads. Bright scarves. Something for the wife?”

The cobbler shook his head sourly; the old man smiled. “Dead, my friend. Long dead.”

“Ah, well.” The peddler was gray-haired; he eased the crutch wearily under his arm. “Not even a brooch to put on your coat?”

“Nothing. Not today.”

Indifferently, as if he was used to it, the peddler shrugged. “It’s a raw day to walk down a long road,” he said quietly.

They looked at him, bemused.

“Fellow’s drunk,” the cobbler muttered.

THE PEDDLER HOBBLED AWAY between tents and around a pen of bleating sheep, their small hooves scratching the frozen lake, down to the stall of a pastry-seller, where he bought a hot pie and ate half of it, crouched by the heat of an open oven. Grease scorched his fingers through the torn gloves. He bent forward, his long gray hair swinging out of his hood, but as he pulled himself slightly upright on the crutch a close watcher might have glimpsed, just for an instant, that he was a tall man, and not as old or as crippled as he seemed.

Someone squeezed in beside him. “Is that for me?”

The peddler handed over the remains of the pie without comment; the boy who had been cartwheeling wolfed it down ravenously, barely stopping for breath.

The peddler’s eyes watched the crowd intently.

“Well?”

“Nothing. I tried the password on a woman and she told me to get lost or she’d call the Watch.” Raffi licked every flake of pastry from his fingers, still uneasy at the memory. “You?”

“Not our contact, no. But I overheard an interesting conversation.”

“What about?”

“A certain black bird.”

Raffi stared up, alarmed. “Again?” He rubbed his greasy hands nervously on his jerkin, then almost as a reflex unfurled a sense-line and sent it out, but the noisy crowd made him giddy with all their sensations and arguments and chatter; and under them was only the impenetrable glass-blue barrier of the ice, the vast lake frozen to its depths, the tiny creatures down there sluggish, only half alive.

“Rumors are spreading,” Galen said grimly. “Perhaps we have Alberic to thank. His people could never keep secrets.” He glanced around. “Though such stories may be useful. They’ll make people think. Stir their faith.”

Raffi rubbed his cold arms, frowning as the oven door was slammed shut. Then he smiled. “What would they say if they knew the Crow was right here?”

Galen’s rebuke struck him behind his eyes—a mindflare—so that he winced. The keeper stepped closer, his gaunt face hard. “Will you keep your mouth shut! Don’t talk to me unless you have to. And stay close!”

He turned, pushing through the crowd. Eyes wet, furious, Raffi glared after him.

They were both so tense they could barely talk anymore. They had been at the fair since yesterday. Every hour they spent here was a sickening danger; there were Watchmen everywhere, and Raffi had been searched once already at a checkpoint. That still made his skin crawl. But Galen wouldn’t go until the contact came. And they had no idea who it would be.

All afternoon he tried to keep warm. The cold was numbing. The stalls and awnings were brittle with ice; long, jagged spikes of it that dripped for a few hours at midday and then hardened again in the terrible nights, so that the whole fair was encased in a glassy splendor, like the Castle of Halen must once have been.

Despite himself, Raffi thought of Sarres. The hall would be warm there; the Sekoi would be telling some story, with the little girl, Felnia, curled up on its lap and Tallis, the Guardian of the place, stoking the fire with logs. And Carys. What would she be doing? He wanted to be back there so much that it hurt.

Earlier, someone had thrown a few coppers to him; now to ease his depression he spent it on a small slab of sticky toffee. Twisting off a corner he sucked it with delight, trying not to chew, to make the incredible sweetness last. It had been years since he’d tasted anything like it. Five years. Since he’d left home. He saw Galen watching him darkly across a pen of sheep, but he didn’t care. Someone jogged his elbow, almost shoving him into the pen.

“Sorry,” the woman said.

“It’s all right.” Raffi pocketed the toffee before he dropped it.

She smiled at him. “Cold makes me clumsy. And it’s a raw day to walk down a long road.”

He froze, swallowing the whole lump without tasting it. He glanced at her sidelong; a big farm woman, fair hair scraped back, a bold, red face. For a moment he had no idea what to do; then he sent a sense-line snaking over to Galen, saw the peddler’s head turn instantly, his hasty limping through the crowd.

Raffi took a breath. “Not if there’s a warm welcome at the end of it,” he managed.

Relief flickered in the woman’s eyes, brief but unmistakable. “Is he here?” she muttered.

Raffi caught her arm. “Beads?” he said in a normal voice. “Here’s your man.”

He dragged her over to Galen. Their eyes met; she picked up objects from the tray at random, examining them.

“Thank God,” she whispered. “I thought I’d never find you! We have to get home now, while the place is empty.”

Galen glanced around; Raffi knew he was wary of a trap.

“How far?”

“Three miles. Over the hill. I have a cart outside the west checkpoint.”

“Then we go separately. Different exits. Meet outside.”

The woman nodded. She looked resolute.

“What’s your name?” Galen asked quietly.

“Caxton, Majella Caxton. You will come?”

“Have faith, woman. We won’t fail you.”

Dumping the lace, she strode away. Galen watched her, then said, “Go ahead of me. No contact, whatever happens.”

THERE WAS A LINE AT THE CHECKPOINT. All the entrances to the fair were thronged, because the Watch took a third of all profits, or more if they disliked your face, and everyone had to be checked in and out.

Raffi folded back his sleeve. This was the worst part. Despite the cold, he was sweating.

“Next!”

He crossed to the table and showed the number painted on his wrist. The Watchman perched there flicked through his list. Glancing back, Raffi saw Galen among a group of men carrying wool-bales.

“Canver. Michael?”

He nodded.

“Performer. Ha, I know what that means. Pickpocket. Beggar.”

“No!” Terrified, Raffi looked up. “I tumble, juggle.”

“With what?”

“Apples.”

“So where are they?”

He shrugged. “I ate them.”

“You must think I was born yesterday.” The Watchman was young, with a cruel, thin mouth. “Turn out your pockets,” he said.

Raffi hadn’t expected this. After all, he had no profits. But if they even suspected he was a thief he would lose a hand, and the thought of that made him turn cold.

He dumped two small coins and the toffee.

“Is that it?” The Watchman grinned. “Come here.”

The search was quick, but thorough. It left him hot with fear and embarrassment, and it found nothing. The Watchman’s snort was derisory. “Hardly worth your coming, was it?” He scooped up the toffee and shoved it into his own pocket. “Now get lost.”

Trembling with anger and relief, Raffi turned.

He had only taken two steps when the man said, “Wait.”

Raffi stopped. His heart thudded like a hammerbird. Slowly he turned; the Watchman smiled coldly, arrogant on the slippery ice. He had a different list in his hand. Glancing down at it again he muttered, “Come back here.”