Catherine Fisher - The Lost Heiress

Carys smiled. Deliberately she laid the bow on the floor and folded her arms. “Listen to me, Harnor. I’m not investigating you. Finding this place was an accident. Sit down.”

He sat numbly, as if he had suddenly become old, his hands clutched together, his thin face drawn. She could see the sweat on him. Leaning forward, she said quietly, “Will you trust me?”

“What does it matter! You’ve found it all now.”

“I certainly have.” She glanced up at the towers of boxes. “What is all this? Are they all relics? Are there other rooms?”

“Lots.” For a moment he stared down bleakly. Then he began to speak, and there was a faint edge of defiance in his voice, almost lost, but she caught it.

“I wanted to be a spy once. Out there, hunting outlaws, free, on my own. But they sent me here to keep accounts; year after year, petty records, endless reports, and I was weighed down by it, it buried me, closed over my head.” He stared hopelessly. “You can’t imagine that. You’re too young. Oh, at first I was hopeful, I put in applications, I bribed people. I waited my life away, but it was all useless. I was too ordinary. Just a number, a small, despairing pen-pusher no one cared about. I lost hope. This place does that to you.”

She nodded, swinging her foot. “I’d noticed.”

“Well, think of spending decades here. All the years of your life.”

They were silent. Then he looked up. “But somewhere, deep down, I wouldn’t give in. I thought, if I’m trapped here, I’ll make this place my adventure. I’ll learn it, as no one else ever has. If there are secrets, I’ll find them.” He glanced at her, and she saw his eyes were very bright. “I explored, Carys. I learned every corridor, every gallery. I spent years searching, all my spare time, planning, charting in my head, writing nothing down so they’d never know. And then, one day, I came into the corridor and found the hidden door.”

He wasn’t scared now. He was trembling, exultant. “There are whole suites of rooms here no one knows about. All the things in them, the Emperors’ things, the Maker-things, are mine. I’ve spent years with them, these statues. Look . . . look at this, how beautiful it is!”

He jumped up suddenly and, picking up a cube, thrust it into her hands. As she turned it she gasped, because trapped inside what seemed like glass was a whole landscape, a place of green fields and strange trees, and the sky there was blue, a deep, perfect blue. It wasn’t a flat picture. Somehow it was real.

“That’s the home of the Makers, Carys, and there’s more here, much more. It would take years to show you all of it; beautiful books, statues you almost think are watching you. I love these things. I’ve grown to love them.” He stopped abruptly and looked straight at her. “I know it’s wrong. But I do.”

She frowned, thinking how he had suddenly become alive, and then his eyes fell and he was Harnor again, aghast at seeing her there. To give herself time, she got up. “Take me around,” she said.

For the next half hour each of them forgot all danger. Even Carys was dazzled by the treasures the rooms contained. Harnor had piled them all here, cleaned the frescoes and wall paintings so that they glowed: bright, colorful scenes of the world’s Making that would have silenced Galen. There were wonderful fragments of sculpture, jewels, crystals, strange artifacts, bizarre machines, a whole collection of brilliant and intricate tapestries. Fingering a small device that clicked a flame on and off, she looked up and saw him watching her.

“Did you mean it?” he whispered. “About not telling him?”

“I meant it.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to help me.” She put the flamemaker in her pocket and sat herself in a huge, winged chair, feeling like some empress. “You see, I’m a bit like you, Harnor. Not quite what I seem. You say you know the tower. I want you to get me to the Overpalace. To the Great Library.”

He stared at her in horror. “But—”

“Do your passages go that far?”

Bewildered, he ran his hand down an exquisite silver figure. “No . . . at least, well, yes they do. There are ways, but—”

“No buts. That’s where we’re going.”

“But why?”

“Because I want to find things out,” she said shortly. “About who I am.”

To her surprise he laughed, a bitter laugh. “Oh, do you? Well, you won’t find anything.” Seeing her stare, he looked away. “You wouldn’t be the first. Even I tried that. Many years ago. The library is dangerous to get into, but I went there. Once was enough. There are no records, Carys. Each child’s first name is entered and that’s it. No one cares where they came from. It’s not important.”

She got up, furious, and stalked over to a box and stood looking down, seeing nothing. What would I have done anyway? she asked herself coldly. Gone and found the village? My parents? They wouldn’t have even recognized me.

“We’re still going,” she growled.

He glanced frantically around. “You’re crazy!”

“Listen, Harnor!” She turned on him, blazing with wrath. “You’re not the only one who breaks the rules. I know a keeper, well, two of them . . .”

He stared at her, aghast. “A keeper!”

“That’s right. And he’s made me think. Who is it that runs the Watch? What do they want with relics? Why stamp out the Order so savagely?”

He shrugged. “Everyone knows the Order was evil.”

“But the relics! Think about it! They were once full of power, a power we know nothing about. The keepers do. I’ve seen that. What I want to know is why the Watch teaches us it doesn’t exist!”

He shook his head in fear. “I don’t want to think about this.”

“Get me to the library, and you won’t have to.” She came over quickly. “I’ll go then. You’ll never see me again. And you’ll still have all your treasures.”

For a moment, seeing his despair, she felt like Braylwin and hated herself. But when he looked up, his face was set.

“All right. But only once.” He looked bleakly at the silver fish under his hand. “Be here tonight. And come armed.”

11

For a year they held me underground,

bound with chains.

They tried to enter my workrooms, but the Pit was sealed.

My secrets lay deep. And they were well guarded.

Sorrows of Kest

THE RAIN WAS HORIZONTAL, crashing in sheets. Lightning flickered, white and silent. As Carys waited for the sleep-drug to take effect, she watched it from the window, hearing all the gutters and waterspouts of the tower gurgle their song. Far below, one dim torch burned in the corner of a courtyard.

The third time she checked, the man was asleep, propped on his bench outside Braylwin’s door. She stepped over him, then went back and knocked the cup over with one foot, spilling the dregs. Just in case.

All the way she was careful—doubling back, going by narrow routes, quiet back alleys. No sign of anyone following. When she was sure, she went down into the stone corridors.

It took her a while to find the right dead end, and when she slipped inside, Harnor was waiting. He looked white and agitated.

“Where have you been!”

“Making sure I wasn’t followed.” She settled the crossbow. “Come on. I need to be back before morning.”

He fidgeted, anxious. “Listen. There are things up there. Creatures. They roam the tunnels.”

“You said you’d been there before.”

“Years ago . . .”