Catherine Fisher - The Lost Heiress

Carys was rarely needed, but he kept her hanging around; only in the afternoons could she vanish without suspicion. “Take a tootle around,” he said once, filing his broad nails. “This place is a labyrinth, Carys, you’ll never find anything you need in it. Your friend Galen will love it, when we bring him in.” And he winked at her, so that she wanted to spit.

One thing she realized soon was that the rain here was eternal. The weather must have changed since the Emperor’s time, because now the tower loomed constantly in its cloud of drizzle; all the long afternoons rain trickled in runnels and gutters and spouts, spattering through gargoyles of hideous beasts and goblins that spat far down on the heads of hurrying clerks. Always the roofs ran with water; it dripped and plopped and splashed through culverts and drains, or sheeted down, a relentless liquid gurgle that never stopped, until she started to imagine that this was the song the tower sang, through all the throats and mouths and pipes of its endless body.

At first she wandered without direction, just trying to find her way back to the nearest courtyard, but she soon realized that was hopeless; once it took her three hours to find Braylwin’s rooms again.

As she climbed the stairs wearily, Harnor was coming out.

“How do you find your way around this warren?” she snapped.

He looked at her in surprise. “The maps. How else?”

“Maps? Where?”

For a moment he glanced at her. Then he pushed the thick folder of paper under one arm. “I’ll show you.”

He led her down three stairways and along a gallery that had once been painted with brilliant birds. Now only the ghosts of them lingered, and great damp patches of lichen were furring them over. At the end he stopped and opened a small door. “There’s one in here.”

She went in after him warily, but through the door was nothing but a balcony, and looking down from it, she saw she was above a great echoing hall, full of desks and the murmur of voices. Coins were being counted down there, millions of them. She grinned, thinking of the Sekoi.

“This is the map. There are many, and they’re scattered around the Underpalace. Would you like some paper? You could make a copy. It takes a while to find your way around otherwise.”

As Harnor riffled through the file for a clean sheet, Carys watched him curiously. He looked pale, as if he never went outside. He found a piece and gave it to her.

“Thanks. How long have you been here, Watchman?”

“All my life.” He smiled sourly. “Forty years and more. Once I hoped I’d be a field agent, but not anymore. Too old.”

She nodded, looking up at the map: an immense sprawl of rooms and courtyards painted on the wall, each with its name in silver. “This isn’t Watchwork.”

“It’s from the Emperor’s time. There are many remnants of those days scattered around. Most have been destroyed, but the place is so huge . . .”

“Have you ever explored it all?” she asked quietly.

He looked up, a strange, almost frightened look. “Of course not. No one has. There are places that are not allowed.”

Carys had turned and begun to draw; now her pencil stopped. “What places?”

He looked uneasy. “The Great Library . . . and others. I’m not sure, really.”

She looked at him. He was small, his hair graying early, his beard clipped. He looked away. “Is that all?”

She nodded, thoughtful. “Thank you. Yes, that’s all.”

Watching him hurry out, she knew he was afraid of her. That was normal. Everyone in the Watch spied on everyone else; it was their strength. But there had been something else; she had felt it, that sliver of danger. She’d always been good at that. “Top of the class again,” old Jellie had wheezed, back in the cold hall of the Watchhouse on Marn Mountain, and all the others in the class would stare, spiteful and envious and friendly, all the ones who had lived with her there, all the children the Watch had stolen . . .

She bit her lip and went grimly back to the map.

It took her an hour or so to make a copy, and even then it was rough and hasty. The names of the rooms enchanted her: the Gallery of Laughter—what was that like? And the Corridor of the Broken Vases—what had happened there? Even when she’d finished she knew this was only the Underpalace. There was far more than this: secret rooms and whole wings that needed extra passes even to get to. And above that the Overpalace, totally unknown. But it was a start.

Back in her room that night, chewing dainty filled rolls left from Braylwin’s latest party, she lay on the bed and pored over the map, ignoring the relentless rain plopping into the filling bucket. Then she leaned back and gazed up at the ceiling. Where to begin? First she needed to find out about herself. And then—she frowned, because this was treachery, and if they knew it she’d be in deep trouble—then she had to find out if Galen was right. He said the Watch was evil.

And what did they do with all the relics they found? Destroyed them as abominations, she had always been taught; but since then, not only from Galen, she’d heard other things. That the relics were stored here, great rooms of them. That they held real power. She scowled, knowing she’d seen that for herself. And another rumor, never spoken out loud, only hinted at. That the Watch had a Ruler; that somewhere, above all the sergeants and castellans and committees and commanders and Watchlords there was someone else, someone secret, who knew everything. She shook her head. She’d never told this to Galen or Raffi, and even now she doubted it was true. But she had to find out.

Rolling over, she put a finger on the map, on a small corridor that ran north. That was the way. Higher up, there would be fewer people. She had a high clearance, she could certainly get that far. The corridor led to a place called the Hall of Moons. Under that, in Watchletters, was the word Births . Tomorrow she’d try there.

It was as she sat up and reached for another roll that she saw the eye. It stared at her out of the wall, unblinking, and for a second an ice-cold fear stabbed her, and she half grabbed the bow, and then breathed out, and laughed at herself.

The eye watched her, clear and sharp.

Carys got up and crossed to it. Taking a small knife from her pocket, she reached up and hacked at the plaster; it was damp and fell in lumps.

Slowly the figure appeared, gorgeously painted in golds and reds; a great bearded man, carrying a black night-cub that struggled in his arms. She knew who he was. Tamar, the Maker who had made the animals. The one who had been the enemy of Kest.

She lay back on the bed and gazed at him. Two months ago, in Tasceron, Galen had spoken to these Makers. She had heard them answer him.

Or thought she had.

Long into the wet night, she stared at the figure on her wall.

9

In the form of an eagle he flew over

Maar, and saw how a great pit had been dug, its maw smoking, full of strange cries.

Then Tamar felt fear, and he knew this was in defiance of the Makers.

Book of the Seven Moons

“ GOING SOMEWHERE?”

Braylwin smiled at her sweetly over Harnor’s shoulder.

She paused at the door. “For a walk.”

“Ah, but where? Tell Uncle.”

She scowled, but turned. “I thought I’d do some intelligence gathering. About . . .” She glanced at the clerk’s back. “About that person Galen is looking for.”

“Ah!” She saw his face change. “Good idea. Why not.”