Catherine Fisher - The Lost Heiress

A distant, eerie howl had risen out of the floor, from far beneath. Silent, absolutely still, she waited, and at last it came again, indefinably closer, but muffled, as if layers of stone—rooms, dungeons, cellars—were between her and it. Not human. She crouched down with her ear to the stone slabs. Somewhere down there, unguessable levels below, something prowled. Tucking her hair back, she cradled the bow, her skin prickling with the menace of that wail. Whatever it was sounded hungry, and ferocious. After a while she stood up and walked on, the bow racked and loaded. Maybe Braylwin had been telling the truth after all.

Once more she thought she heard a similar thing, very faintly under the Corridor of Combs, but no one else there spoke about it, or even seemed to notice, hurrying past her with their arms full of papers.

Finally, she went back to her room late on the third afternoon, in despair, but Braylwin’s snoring and the overflowing bucket in her room were too much. Furious, she flung the water out of the window and spun around, glaring at Tamor’s bright eyes.

“What are you staring at?” she hissed. “Can’t you do something! Galen would say you could. Well, do it!”

Storming out, she leaned over a balcony in the Room of the Blue Rose and kicked the ornate balustrade. Crowds milled around her. No one spoke. In all this filthy anthill, no one cared about her—no one even knew her. Even Braylwin had given up having her followed. She wished, suddenly and fiercely, that Raffi were there, so she could talk to him, laugh with him. She’d forgotten the last time she’d laughed.

Then, just below her, she saw the clerk, Harnor. He crossed the room quickly, a file under one arm, and she called him, but he didn’t hear. Suddenly she wanted to talk to him, to talk to anybody. She darted down the steps in time to see him vanish through a doorway, and she ran after him, pushing through the crowd.

Harnor was in a hurry. He was walking quickly, and she couldn’t catch him until he’d crossed the Walk of the Graves and two courtyards.

By then she knew he didn’t want to be seen.

He was going somewhere, and he was uneasy. He looked around too often and, passing the guard-posts, he seemed scared and alert. Carys kept back, interested. She began to trail him, using all the cunning of her training.

He went down a long corridor and through the third door. Opening it gently, she saw this was some kind of store area—great cupboards and shelves overflowing with unsorted papers. There was no one in here. At the end of the room was a smaller door; through that she found steps, leading down into a damp passageway with a dead rat in the middle of it. Water dripped somewhere near.

Ahead, in the dimness, Harnor’s thin shape padded.

She was intrigued. What was down here? And why was he so nervous about it? Twice she had to wait, breathless, as he stopped and stared back. At the end of the stone passage was a turning, then another. He walked quickly; he knew the way well. And then, as she peered around the last corner, she stared into dimness, astonished. It was a dead end.

But Harnor had vanished.

Carefully Carys walked down after him.

The corridor ended abruptly; a stone wall with rainwater running down it in green seams. It was solid and firm, and so were the walls on each side; she ran her fingers along the greasy stones in amazement.

So where had he gone?

Suddenly she knew with a shiver of joy that this was important, this was what she had been searching for. Feverishly she pushed and prodded each stone, knelt and ran her hands around the joints and edges of the wall. And she felt a draft.

It was slight, but cold. Putting her fingers to it, she touched a wide crack lost in the blackness of one corner and found a small raised circle, smooth and warm. She knew it was Maker-work; there had been panels like this in the House of Trees. She took a deep breath, and pressed it.

Silently, with a smoothness that amazed her, a section of wall melted. A small doorway stood there, and beyond it a room was pale with light.

Carefully she lifted the crossbow and stepped inside.

10

Promotion must be earned. Be ruthless; there are many who will be passed over.

Rule of the Watch

SHE WAS STANDING IN A DIM HALL. Light filtered through one window high up in a wall; the rest seemed shuttered or blocked.

The hall was crammed full of objects, piled high, and someone was moving down in the shadows among them. She heard steps, creaks, the bang of something closing.

Creeping nearer carefully, she found she was moving between huge towers of dusty boxes, ledgers, astrolabes, collections of skulls, hanging maps that brushed her face with soft, cobwebby edges. Ahead was a patch of light, oddly unflickering. Silently Carys crouched behind a wooden crate and peered cautiously around.

Harnor was sitting at a tall desk, in a pool of light from a lamp—a Maker-lamp, which lit his gray head and hunched shoulders with amazing clarity. He was reading a great volume of thick pages that turned with small, stiff crackles. There was no other sound at all. The hurrying lines and crowds of the tower seemed an eternity away.

Carys looked around, noting everything. Galen might know what some of these things were—she had no idea. There were boxes, panels, piles of broken wiring, bizarre devices with screens and buttons and dials that she knew were relics, ancient things collected by the Emperors. There were priceless books, marble statues, charts of trees, and the complete skeleton of some small, unknown animal, as well as a globe showing Anara’s continents, even the Unfinished ones, strange pieces of paper pinned all over it.

Harnor turned another page.

In the silence Carys scratched her cheek thoughtfully. Then she stood up and walked forward into the light.

He was so engrossed that for a moment he didn’t even notice her. When he did, his whole body jerked with terror; he leaped up, knocking the stool away with a smack that was deafening in the silence.

“You!” His eyes flickered over her shoulder, wide with fear. He seemed too choked to say anything clearly. “How . . . did you . . . ?”

“I followed you.” She perched on the edge of a table, the crossbow loose in her hands. “You needn’t worry. There’s no one else with me.”

As soon as she’d said it, she realized she might have made a mistake. But he was terrified. He swallowed, rubbing his face feverishly, then took a step toward her. She raised the bow, but he’d stopped already, gripping the desk as if to hold himself up.

“For God’s sake,” he said hoarsely, “for pity’s sake, don’t tell them!”

“I’m not surprised you’re worried.”

“Don’t play with me!” It broke from him like a cry of agony. “I’ve got a wife, two children! What will happen to them! Think about them, please!”

“I’m not going to tell anyone.”

“But you’re a spy. You work for Braylwin and if he—”

“If he knew, you’d be in chains so fast you wouldn’t have time to blink, but I’m not him. I don’t work for him.” She grinned. “Haven’t you noticed how he has me watched?”

Confused, Harnor clutched his head. “Everyone is watched.”

“Except you, it seems. A small, timid man nobody notices.” She waved the bow, curious. “How long have you been coming here?”

He shrugged, then stammered, “I—I’m not sure . . . about twenty years.”

“Twenty years! Does anyone else know about it?”

“No.” For a moment his glance was proud, almost greedy. “This is mine. No one else’s. Except . . .” He put a hand to his head hopelessly. “Except you.”