The Lost Heiress

20

To open and close,

build and destroy,

move forward and back,

to bless and to curse . . .

Litany of the Makers

“THEY’VE DONE WHAT!”

“Entered the Watchhouse.” Alberic spread his tiny hands to the fire, looking up slyly at the stricken face. “It’s nice to know I inspire such terror. Sit down, Relic Master, before you crumble.”

Numb, Galen crouched. “Are you sure?”

“Sikka’s group traced them. Saw them go in—quite cleverly done, they said.” He crooked one finger, and a small table was brought and propped unsteadily on the cave floor. A crystal goblet was placed on it, into which Godric carefully poured an expensive golden cordial. Tied in a damp corner, Braylwin gazed at it enviously. He had already complained so much they had gagged him.

Galen was staring into the flames. Alberic drank daintily, wiped his mouth with his hand, and leaned forward. “I want to know why. What’s in there that’s so important? If your boy’s caught he’ll be skinned alive. I’ve tracked you this far and all the time I’ve wondered what you were after.”

Galen stirred, rubbing his chin wearily. His eyes were black, his long hair glossy as a crow’s wing. When he looked up, there was a tension in his face. “Do you remember what I once said to you?”

Quizzically Alberic spread his hands. “Which time?”

“Last time. At the marsh. I told you you’ve got nothing in your life worth having, despite all your wealth.”

The dwarf grinned, sipping the liquid. “Oh. That old yarn.”

“No faith. Nothing to fire your soul. You’re tired of thieving, war-lord. I can feel it.”

“Indeed.” The tiny man pursed his lips. “Keeper, are you trying to convert me?”

“I’m trying to save you. Or let you save yourself.”

Alberic winked up at Godric. “He’s appealing to my better nature.”

“You’ve haven’t got one, chief.”

“He has,” Galen said.

Alberic turned. “Isn’t it nice to know, boys and girls, that our souls are causing such concern! Flain himself couldn’t be more worried.”

Giggles echoed around the cave. Galen ignored them, his stare unmoving. “Under your laughter you’re listening, little man.”

“And what must I do, hmm?” Alberic mocked. “Learn the Book of the Seven Moons by heart? Live on bread and water? Give all my money away to the poor?”

A roar of laughter broke out around him. Into it Galen said quietly, “None of these. I want you to attack the Watchhouse.”

The Sekoi hissed. Alberic stopped drinking and stared in utter astonishment. The cave was silent.

Finally the dwarf managed to speak. “What?” he whispered.

“You heard. Raffi and Carys will need to get out. I want you to give them the chance. Give the Watch something to think about. A short attack, then withdraw. None of your people need be hurt.”

Alberic leaned forward, staring at Galen as if he thought the keeper was insane. He seemed too amazed even to laugh. “And what exactly will you give me for this act of total recklessness?”

Galen shrugged. “The blue box.”

“The blue box is mine already.” The dwarf pointed to the pack lying dimly in a corner. “As is the Cat-liar’s belt of gold. Have you got anything else that would interest me?”

“One thing.”

Alberic’s eyes were greedy. “What?”

“Your soul.”

The silence was profound. Only the crackle of the fire broke it. And then Alberic bent over, wheezing, and when he straightened they saw he was laughing helplessly, crying with laughter, and all his war-band roared with him, the tears rolling down their cheeks, hooting and screaming themselves into an exhaustion of hilarity.

Braylwin giggled too, a dry mockery. The Sekoi closed its yellow eyes and snarled. But Galen never moved, never flinched, watching the dwarf as if he could see right into him as he gasped and clutched his chest and kicked his legs helplessly against the stool.

Finally, wiping his eyes, Alberic struggled to speak. “Oh God, you’re so good for me, Galen,” he gasped. “I’m almost tempted to keep you alive. My own tame preacher.”

He scratched his cheek and all at once the laughter in his crafty face had gone, and he looked at the keeper hard. “Tell me what’s in that Watchhouse,” he said. “Tell me. If it’s worth getting out, I might think about it.”

Slowly Galen stood up. He turned and looked at Braylwin. The huge Watchman smirked and widened his eyes over the dirty gag. They both knew he dared not tell Alberic about the Interrex, knew what a prize she would be. Galen frowned, his eyes black. Then he swung to the Sekoi. “I suppose we’ll have to tell him.”

“I suppose so,” the creature said doubtfully. Its fur was lifting with tension; its yellow eyes stared at him. “He’ll want a share.”

“Of course he will. Will there be enough?”

It shrugged unhappily. “It means less for the Great Hoard.”

Galen’s eyes shifted. Alberic hadn’t moved, but he was already more alert, the sense-lines sparking around him.

“So now,” he said softly, “you’re going to pretend this Watchhouse is stuffed with gold?”

Neither of them spoke. Around the cave, talk hushed; most of the war-band not guarding the approaches were crammed inside, keeping warm. Suddenly they were interested.

Reluctantly the Sekoi stood up, its head bent under the low roof. “I suppose I’ll have to explain.”

“Oh no!” Alberic waved a hand sharply. “No stories! Not that again. Godric!”

The bearded man was there already; he raised his crossbow lazily and pointed at the creature with a grin. “I’m watching you, Graycat.”

The Sekoi made a spiteful, spitting noise.

“Right. Talk.” Alberic leaned back. “But any hint of a spell and that bolt flies.”

Uneasy, the creature looked sidelong at Galen. Then it spread its seven-fingered hands. “You have no reason to trust us, thief-lord, I know that. I think the keeper is wrong to tell you this, because how do we know that you won’t kill us when you learn it, and take the gold anyway?”

Alberic’s shrewd face creased into smiles. He swirled the wine in his cup. “Go on.”

Galen went and leaned beside Braylwin, half in shadow. The Sekoi’s eyes followed him. “The keeper leaves me in a dangerous place.”

“Never trust a reckless man,” the dwarf said, drinking.

“I’m beginning to believe you’re right.” It stroked its tribemark warily. “Well, I will tell this plainly. You will have heard, of course, of the Great Hoard . . .”

Alberic was listening now.

“No one but the Sekoi know its purpose. But it is vast, and all our lives we add to it. Last year a tribe near here had all their gold loaded on wagons—ten of them, piled high—and they sent it . . . where we send it. They had to pass through this forest. Normally, we can evade the Watch. However, this time it seems there was some problem.”

“Problem?” Alberic said sweetly.

“They were ambushed. All were killed. The Watch took the gold and have kept it inside the house. Among it were some relics, made of precious metals, which are what the keeper wants.”

“The boy went into a Watchhouse for a few relics?”

The Sekoi looked uncomfortable. It bent forward and said quietly, “These people are fanatics, my lord.”

“So I’ve heard.” Alberic folded his hands. “All this is so interesting! Isn’t it interesting, Godric?”

“Thrilling,” the big man said, his bow never flinching.

“Ten wagons of gold! Worth doing a lot for. Worth attacking for. More than a small attack, though, wouldn’t you say?” He glanced slyly at Galen, who watched darkly. “More like a small war, that would be. People get killed in such attacks. Children. I never liked children.”

Galen glanced at the Sekoi, who shrugged. Alberic wheezed a sudden laugh. “Oh, don’t get too worried, keeper. You don’t think I believe this farrago of nonsense, do you?” He leaned back, stretching out his boots and gazing at them critically. “Not for one second. Cramps your style a bit, creature, doesn’t it, my lad’s crossbow?”

The Sekoi smiled sourly.

Suddenly Galen stalked forward. Pushing the creature aside, he stood in front of Alberic, tall and grim. “Will you attack?” he asked harshly.

“No.”

Galen nodded. Ignoring the bow, he tugged the awen-beads off and spread them on the sandy floor; seven rings, overlapping.

“What are you doing?” Alberic said suspiciously.

Galen didn’t answer. Instead he stood behind the circles and raised his hands. At once, the cave seemed darker. Talk stopped. The fire cowered down before him.

“Stop it!” Alberic snapped. “Sit down.”

Galen began to speak. His words were quiet, intense; Maker-words that no one else knew. Around him, in the dark, sudden blue sense-lines uncoiled and crackled. His face was dangerous, edged with anger.

Alberic stood up. “Kill him,” he said.

The bow in Godric’s hands burst instantly into flame. He threw it down with a yell.

No one moved.

Galen looked up and pointed at the dwarf. “Hear me,” he said, the darkness rustling around him, his voice shaking with effort. “In the name of the Makers, I curse you, thief-lord. I curse you up and down, from side to side, from front to back. I curse you from fingertip to fingertip, head to toe. I curse you today and yesterday and tomorrow. I curse all you eat, all you drink, all you speak, all you dream.”

White-faced, the dwarf stared up at him. The cave was black, crackling with power. The fire went out, and still Galen snarled the words remorselessly, his finger pointed, sparks leaping about it.

“May your possessions be dust to you. May your body tremble and rot. May your hair turn white and fall . . .”

“No.” Alberic stepped back, holding up his hands. “No! Wait!”

“. . . May all your friends betray you. May water, fire, earth, and air become your foes. May the horrors of Kest worm into you.”

“Galen!” The dwarf seemed to crumple abruptly, his hands trembling. “Stop it! Not that I believe . . . You can’t do this . . .”

Light crackled from the keeper’s hand. It roared into the spaces of the cave; blue stinging snaps of light around the tiny man, crawling over his limbs, around his neck, so that he yelled and squirmed and beat them off.

“From this instant you will begin to sicken. Pain will fill you. Your food will choke you. Six weeks of suffering I lay on you, and when you die your soul will scream for eternity in the Pit.”

“Enough!” It was a shriek; it broke from Alberic’s twisted mouth like a pain, and he held his hands over his head as if the malice of the words battered him. “Enough. No more!”

There was silence.

The cave was black and smoky, as if something smoldered.

Galen waited. Slowly he lowered his hand.

Trembling, Alberic clawed his way back to the stool and leaned on it in utter silence, everyone’s eyes on him. He tried to drink a sip of wine, but the cup shook too violently in his hand.

When he looked up, his face glistened with sweat.

“I don’t believe,” he breathed, “that even you would wish that on me, keeper.”

Galen didn’t answer.

“But . . . having considered your story . . .” He swallowed painfully. “Having thought about it . . .”

“Will you attack?” Galen asked, grim.

Alberic looked at him, furious, white-faced, his hands still shaking.

“Yes,” he spat.