The Margrave

18

Many ask “What are these spores?” They are doubt and despair. They eat into mind and flesh. None can withstand. them. And the Emperor stood on a high balcony and saw their work, and in great bitterness called Imalan to him and said, “Ask Flain to stop this. I will do as he asks. But tell him, this is through fear, and not mercy.”

Deeds of Imalan

HE WAS WORN OUT, but they wouldn’t let him E WAS WORN OUT, but they wouldn’t let him sleep. At intervals a buzzer would sound, ringing through the cell. The first time he had heard it, he’d jumped up in total terror, but now he lay in the dark hopelessly, waiting for it.

The room was completely empty, pitch-black. He had groped his way around it three times and couldn’t find the door, or any other flaw in its perfect walls. He had tried sense-lines, but the material was impervious. The very things of the Makers seemed like enemies here. With no light, there was no time. He could have been here hours or days. Terror was eating him; he couldn’t stop shivering. He had said the whole Litany, worked through the Book, even tried the endless Prophecies of Askelon. And every time he drifted off to blessed sleep, the cold authority of the buzzer stunned him back into the nightmare. When the door finally slid open, it was almost a relief.

Lights flickered on, dazzling him. He sat up, heart thudding. Two Watchmen marched in; one dumped a chair and shoved him into it, the other carried a wide table, made of dark materials. An empty chair was placed behind it. Then they left.

Blinded by the light, Raffi had to put a hand over his eyes. He watched the dark, open doorway in agony, knowing the waiting was deliberate. Finally a tall man came in. He had cropped, yellow hair and he carried nothing in his hands but a small metal box, which he placed carefully in the very center of the table. Then he sat down behind it.

Raffi felt so tired, he could barely focus; the last time he had slept had been between shifts on the Wall. His lips were cracked; he licked them nervously, wanting to scratch the lice in his hair.

The interrogator leaned back. “I am here to ask you questions. You may call me sir. What is your name?”

He didn’t know what to say. Presumably they knew. “Raffael Morel.”

The man nodded mildly. “Good. You’re sensible. You are the scholar of Galen Harn, called the Crow.”

“Ex-scholar.” He said it quietly.

The man raised a cool eyebrow. “How unfortunate. But it makes no difference. You will have heard that Harn has an army now. It seems the Order’s desire for peace is as false as their other beliefs.”

Raffi looked down.

The interrogator said, “I want to know the motives of this man Alberic. I want to know their plan of attack. I want to know every detail of the source of the Crow’s power, how extensive it is and how he intends to use it. I want to know the whereabouts of the relic called the Coronet, and finally, I want your . . . assistance in leading a patrol to the island called Sarres.”

It was what he’d expected. He’d rehearsed the answer for hours, but it seemed weak, a terrified whisper even to him. “I won’t give you any information, even if you kill me.”

The man nodded pleasantly. Between them on the table the box jerked, just a fraction. Raffi stared at it.

“Ah, yes. If only it were that simple.” The man leaned back. “We won’t kill you, keeper, as you well know. At least, not at first. We’ve developed expert techniques in torture and they have never failed on anyone. Terrible devices that you could barely imagine, that twist the body, inflicting unbelievable pain.”

The box shifted again. Raffi’s eyes slid back to it. Sweat trickled down his back.

“We won’t need all that with you.” The interrogator linked his fingers. He sounded almost bored. “You’re young, and you’re weak. You will be easy. You’ll be screaming, very soon now, to tell me what you know. That is the truth.”

“No.” Raffi’s voice was a whisper.

“No, sir.” The interrogator waited.

Raffi was silent.

The man considered him, then said, “If you answer, everything will be different. Time is short, keeper.”

Raffi shook his head, speechless.

Unsmiling, the man leaned forward. He took the lid off the box.

“HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO storm a building with no windows, no door, no gates, and that you can only see if you squint at it sideways!” Alberic waved a small, perfectly gloved hand in disgust.

They had all been silenced by the sight of the Watchhouse of Maar; the Sekoi chilled to its heart, the war band rebellious, Godric silent, even Galen saying nothing. Only the dwarf seemed unaffected. His sarcasm was a relief to them. “Of course,” he said acidly, “you’ll tell me it has its good points. Give me the joy of hearing them, boys and girls.”

“No ditch, Chief.” Sikka crouched, leaning on her upright sword.

“No openings for defenders,” Godric said.

“No defenders?” Taran muttered.

“Ah, but are there?” Alberic glared at Galen. “What’s in there, keeper? What’s the plan?”

“I brought you here for that,” Galen said darkly. “Strategy is your business.”

“You brought me!” Alberic scoffed. “That’s a joke.”

“They say”—Galen flashed a look at the Sekoi—“there’s no fortress on the planet you can’t take.”

The creature scratched its short fur. “So my people have heard. Such a reputation . . .”

“Cut the flannel.” The dwarf stood, hands on hips, in the cold dawn light. “I don’t fall for that. Still, I admit, I enjoy a challenge.” He folded his arms and stared at the ominous outline of the cube, his crafty mind working. “It’s Maker-work. Will it collapse or explode when we attack? Will it sprout crazy weapons? What sort of beings will pour out of it? I need information, Galen.”

Galen came and stood beside him and looked down. “It is Maker-work, but these are the Watch. They may not know how to use it. I’ll find the door, and I’ll open the door. After that, it will be up to you. But I don’t want slaughter, thief-lord, if we can avoid it.”

The dwarf looked sour. “You want a miracle.”

“Yes.” Galen fingered the crystals at his neck. “I do.”

“Uncle!” The voice came from the back of the hedge, through the field where the war band had gathered; horses moved aside, snuffling in the long grass. “Uncle!”

“Flainsteeth!” Alberic growled. “If that addle-brained kid comes near me now . . .”

Milo pushed past Godric and ran up, breathless. Thistledown was all over his clothes; he brushed it off hastily and a cloud settled on the dwarf’s goldwork tunic. “Uncle, I’m sorry! Let me . . .”

“Look at me! I’ll kill him!” Alberic roared, but Galen caught the boy’s arm quickly and pulled him close.

“What is it? What’s disturbing you?”

Milo seemed paralyzed by the keeper’s black gaze. “She’s here,” he whispered. “She’s riding up the lane.”

“Who?”

“The girl who gave me the letter. Carys.”

THE SENSE-LINE SLID into her mind so gently, she barely felt it, but maybe the horse did, because it stopped and backed, and that gave her the idea. “Wait. My horse is lame.” Before they could turn and see it was a lie, she had jumped off and lifted the beast’s front hoof and was poking at it. Her heart thudded; she glanced into the scrubby woodland to her left. It seemed empty in the early mist.

Scala unslung her crossbow. “Well, this seems as good a place as any.”

Quist looked uneasy. The castellan raised the bow and pointed it at Carys.

Carys froze. “What are you doing!”

“Covering our backs. We know all about you, Carys, and the little trail you’ve been leaving.”

She glanced at Quist. He dismounted and came over. Carys dropped the horse’s hoof. Galen, she thought. Where are you?

“Arms out.”

She did it, glaring at him. He took her bow and then looked at the buttons on her coat, tugging the second one off and unscrewing it rapidly. “This is it.”

Scala said. “You see, Carys, we decided from the beginning to let you bring your friend Galen and his boy along. It’s the boy we want, after all. Now we’ve got the relic, we’ll arrange a little welcome for him, away from his army. I’m sure it won’t be difficult.”

Carys turned on Quist. He was the one who had to be kept busy, so she threw herself at him, punching, and he reeled back, grabbing at her. “You traitor!” she yelled. “All the time you’ve known things, about me, about the land, about what she did back there. And you don’t like the killing, do you? You don’t like what the Watch does to people.”

He had her wrists, tight.

“There’s only one way you could know,” she gasped. “Sense-lines. You’ve got sense-lines! You were a keeper!”

“No!” He pushed her off. “I was never . . .”

“Don’t be coy, lover.” Scala’s horse sidestepped. “Tell her the truth.” When he wouldn’t speak, she said, “He nearly was. Didn’t make the final test. But he’s good enough for me.”

Carys was furious, and it wasn’t all pretense. “You used what they taught you against them!”

“It’s just what you do against the Watch.”

“The Watch is evil! I know it. And you know it too!”

She grabbed at him and swung him toward her. “Think about Mathravale. Go on, face it! Think about what she is!”

Something rustled in the trees. Scala jerked around, but neither of them was looking at her now. “I do think about her.” Quist’s voice was a whisper. “That’s why I stay. To keep her from—”

“You can’t change her.”

“I can. She despises the Watch too.”

Scala swung back, amused. “Only when it suits me.”

“She does.” Quist was pacing now, deep in his own anxiety. “When we get the reward, we’ll leave, go somewhere far off. Away from the Watch.”

“It’s a dream! She won’t change. I should know: I used to be just like her.”

Quist stopped. “But you’re not now,” he said.

The words silenced her. And instantly, before she could move or prevent it, his eyes widened and he gasped, “They’re here!”

An arrow slashed from the trees; it missed Scala by a hairsbreadth. With a squeal, she fired back. The horses reared and whinnied. Then at least fifty men stepped out and aimed bows at them. After a grim second Scala climbed down from her horse. “If you knew about this and didn’t tell me, lover,” she snarled, “I’ll never forgive you.”

“Carys.” Galen was behind her. The relief of seeing him after all this time was so great, she almost ran to him; then she controlled it, smiled, and walked over.

“This wasn’t in the plan. Not that I’m complaining.”

“Plans change.”

It was then that she saw how grim he looked, how haunted. She glanced behind him; the Sekoi raised an elegant hand. “Where’s Raffi?” she asked quickly.

THE TWO WATCHMEN WERE BACK. They came in and held him down in the chair, one on each side. He barely noticed, staring at the box, so cold with fear that it hurt him to breathe. It was full of a swarming mass of worms. Tiny, blind things they were, obscenely pale. They spilled and wriggled like bubbling milk, a loathsome heap of unending hunger. “We keep them in metal,” the interrogator said quietly. “They eat through everything else.”

Raffi was shaking, he knew it. Ashamed, he knew too that this was what he had feared for years, in nightmares, hiding under hedges, ever since he had understood what happened to keepers.

“You know what they do, of course.” The interrogator had taken out a pair of finest chain-mail gloves; now he slipped them on, without haste. “We use just one, at first, on your chest, or your back. In seconds it will have burrowed its way deep into your flesh. It will eat its way through you with remarkable speed, an agony of searing pain. And then we will add another. And another. They tell me it is all but unbearable.” He stood. “I’ve seen what they leave of a man, keeper, and it isn’t pleasant.”

The Watchmen grabbed Raffi. He squirmed and fought desperately. The interrogator put his hands on the table and leaned over. His voice changed suddenly, became quick and low. “For your own sake, Raffi, you must tell us. What are the Crow’s plans? Where does his power come from?”

“I don’t know,” he gasped.

“What’s the point of needless pain? You’ll tell us anyway, you know that. You know your own weaknesses. I could help you.”

“No.”

Struggling, he prayed for a mind-flare. Nothing came.

“Galen wouldn’t want you to suffer. He’d tell you to . . .”

“NO.” He shook his head, screaming it out. “No! NO!”

The man straightened. The coldness slid back over his face like a lid. “I see,” he said distantly. He took a pair of fine tweezers from his pocket and reached into the box with them, delicately lifting one tiny worm and bringing it around the table.

Raffi fought and screamed. “No!” he yelled. “Flain! Flain!”

AN EXPLOSION ROCKED THE ROOM; the lights flickered. The interrogator was so surprised, he almost dropped the tweezers. He stood over Raffi, listening. Another crash, immensely loud. At once he swiveled. “What’s going on! Find out!” A Watchman ran out hurriedly. The interrogator’s eyes looked down at Raffi in fury. “It’s a pity they’re too late,” he whispered.

Raffi moved with the strength of raw panic. He flung the guard forward so that both men crashed into the table. The box tipped; the Watchman let out a scream of terror. Raffi dived around the mess, out of the door, and ran.

Noise boomed and rang around him, the whole building echoing and throbbing. Left, right, heedless, sobbing and praying, he raced into the dark, down corridors and endless stairways, always down because there was no other way to go. The darkness was thick and airless. Voices rang; once he was sure he heard Carys calling for him and he yelled and screamed her name, banging in the dark against the smooth Maker walls.

And then faintly down at the turn of another black, suffocating corridor, someone said, “Raffi.”

“Galen!” He ran, so weak all at once he could hardly keep upright, and the figure waited for him, tall in the darkness. As he came up, he was gabbling in foolish relief. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. About everything. This is all my fault. Where’s Carys? Where is everyone?”

The shadow did not answer or move. Raffi stopped. Miles back, in the pounding darkness, someone was screaming. He licked his lips. “You’re not Galen,” he whispered.

A faint mustiness stirred in the darkness. “No.” The voice was dry and crackling. “I’m not Galen,” it said.