Catherine Fisher: The Lost Heiress

Then Galen spoke abruptly. “I see the Word!”

He lifted his eyes. They were black, as if blinded. Rocallion was standing; everyone was. A boy called out; there were noises from outside, horse hooves, running, a banging on the door. With a guilty shock Raffi dragged his mind back to the sense-lines; they were snagged open, torn wide.

“The Watch!” he hissed, but the keeper was rigid, the box in his hands pulsing with light.

“Would you hear the Word?”

“Speak it!” someone murmured, remembering the answer.

“I speak it.” Galen breathed sharply, as if a knife had stabbed him. “The Word . . .” He sought for it, hands gripped tight, until suddenly his eyes cleared in shock. “The word is . . . Interrex .”

The whole room stared at him in astonishment.

Then the casket vanished soundlessly.

Raffi moved. “Rocallion, the Watch are here!” Shoving through the crowd he grabbed Galen’s arm. “They’re here! At the door!”

“What!” The franklin stared at him in horror. “But I’ve got men out.”

“They’re through that! Listen!”

Voices were loud in the courtyard. A horse neighed, hooves clattered over the cobbles.

“Flainsteeth!” Rocallion leaped across the room and grabbed Galen. “With me, keepers, now! Hurry!”

He dragged them through a door in the wall. Behind them Raffi could hear the table hastily pulled out, candles lit, the hurried children being pushed into seats. A Flainsnight supper was not illegal. Not yet.

They raced down a tiny stair, Raffi stumbling in the sudden dark. “Your friends . . .” Galen gasped.

“Don’t worry. They won’t talk. Just a party.”

“Unless the Watch know we’re here,” the keeper growled.

At the bottom was a corridor. Rocallion looked up and down it, then opened a door opposite, hustled them through, and bolted it behind him.

“Stillroom,” he hissed.

It was musky with herb smells, bunches of them hung from the ceiling. A bench was littered with glass vials and bowls. Someone was calling, far off in the house, but, ignoring it, Rocallion crouched and pulled a hidden catch near the hearth. Instantly a small panel slid open in the wall.

Galen crawled in, Raffi scrambling after him.

Rocallion’s white face filled the gap. “No one else knows about this. I’ll get you out when I can. You’ll be safe.”

The keeper nodded. “Good luck,” he said.

But the panel was slammed tight.

2

Tamar dragged the thing before theCouncil; a six-legged lizard, moaning inpain, studded with spines.

“What abomination is this?” Flain demanded.

“This, lord, is what Kest has done in secret.”

And all eyes turned to me, in my corner.

Sorrows of Kest

THEY WERE CROUCHED in some black, dampsmelling place. Raffi stretched out his hand and touched a cold wall.

“So.” Galen’s voice came grimly out of the dark. “They timed that well.”

“Will they find us?”

“It depends on how suspicious they are. Can you see them?”

Raffi tried, opening the third eye, his mind’s eye. “Six?”

“More like ten.” Galen sounded distant, as if his mind was listening to the uproar in the house. “Hard to tell. There’s a lot of confusion.” He must have eased his leg then, because he hissed with the ache of it; Raffi felt a faint echo of pain.

“Make a light, boy. Let’s see where we are.”

It took Raffi an effort; concentrating made him dizzy. But finally he managed a weak globe of light in the air before him, wobbling.

“Hold it still!” Galen snapped, looking around.

They were in a tiny cell, hardly tall enough for Galen to stand. The walls were damp brick—plastered once, but most of that lay in lumps on the floor. There were no windows. A crack in one corner let in an icy draft. In another corner was a basket, with a pile of blankets on top.

The globe faded. Raffi sweated with the effort of keeping it.

“Leave it.” Galen had the basket open, rummaging inside. A tinderbox sparked; Raffi saw the faint glow of kindling being blown red.

“Save your energy. We may be days in here.”

If we’re lucky, Raffi thought. He let the globe go out. Then he asked, “Any food?”

“Some. Rocallion seems to have been prepared.”

“Unless he knew they were coming.”

Galen looked up sharply, his face dark. “You think so?”

Raffi shrugged. “No.”

“In that case, keep quiet, and don’t slur a good man. Take the blankets. They’re damp, but thick.”

Raffi tugged one around himself and shivered. Galen handed him bread, an apple, some strips of dried meat. “Flainsnight feast,” he said.

Raffi stared at it in disgust. Then he ate. He was used to being hungry. Any food was something.

“We have enough for about two days.” Galen crunched an apple absently.

“Will it be that long?”

The keeper shrugged. “If the leaf-fall is too thick the Watch will stay in the house.”

“He could bring us food.”

“He’ll be followed. Everywhere.” Stretching his legs out, Galen considered. “If no one else knows about this hiding place, we’re dependent on him. At least his housemen can’t betray us. If he has—” He stopped instantly. His hand shot to his neck.

“Oh God!” he said.

“What?” Raffi knelt up. “What is it?”

Galen had flung the apple down, was searching his pockets, inside his jerkin, desperately. “The beads! The awen-beads!”

They started at each other in blank horror.

“Did you pick them up?”

“No, I . . .”

“God! Raffi!” Galen slammed one hand furiously against the wall.

“There are other things too,” Raffi realized miserably. “Your stick. Our bags.”

“Those are well hidden. The beads were there—in that room!”

Guilty, sick with fear, Raffi sat rigid, seeing the strings of jet and green crystals in their interlocking circles. He should have grabbed them! He should have remembered them!

“I’m sorry,” he breathed.

Galen turned on him sourly. “I suppose I should beat you black and blue.”

“No room,” he joked feebly.

“Nor any need. The Watch will do it for me.”

In the silence each of them imagined a gloved hand snatching up the beads, a yell. Any Watchman would recognize them at once.

“Maybe one of the tenants found them.”

“Listen!” Galen caught him.

Footsteps ran down the stairs above, loud, heavy boots. Galen snuffed the candle instantly. The stillroom door banged open. Someone came in and paced around.

They know, Raffi thought. His hands clenched, he huddled in the dark.

They were searching. Cups crashed over. Something made of glass fell and shattered. A foot kicked impatiently along the paneling.

It’ll sound hollow, he thought, clutching his arms as if he could make himself smaller. Galen was a still shadow against the wall.

It did sound hollow, but the searcher seemed not to notice. Someone called him; he yelled back, “Down here,” in a voice so close it made Raffi sweat. Then he was pounding up the stairs again, the door banging behind him.

Silence. A long silence.

Finally, tight with terror, Raffi made himself uncurl. He drew a deep ragged breath.

“Sit still,” Galen said. “They’ll be back.”

They were. All evening, late into the night, the house was alive with bangs and shouts, thudding doors and footsteps. Every time Raffi finally dozed into uneasy sleep under the moth-eaten blanket, some crash or voice jerked him awake; cold with sweat, his hands clenched. He was sick and giddy with fear. Galen never spoke, perhaps didn’t even hear. He stayed where he was, knees drawn up, quite still in the dark. Raffi knew he was deep in prayer, lost in a rigid meditation, and how the keeper had the discipline for it astonished him. Once or twice he tried himself, gabbling the Litany and the Appeal to Flain, but the words dried up, or he found himself repeating one phrase foolishly over and over, all his attention fixed on the clatter around the house.