Catherine Fisher: The Lost Heiress

“Another black frost tonight,” the cobbler said.

The old man didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “I hear one of the prisoners is a keeper.”

The cobbler almost sat upright. Then he relapsed onto the rough bench, biting his thumbnail. “Dear God,” he whispered. “To hang?”

“To hang. Tomorrow, like all the rest.”

Over the lake the hammering ended abruptly. The nooses swung, empty, frost already glinting on them.

The peddler picked up the last needle. He straightened with a groan, then limped over. “Goods, gentlemen?” he whined. “Samples of ribbon. Beads. Bright scarves. Something for the wife?”

The cobbler shook his head sourly; the old man smiled. “Dead, my friend. Long dead.”

“Ah, well.” The peddler was gray-haired; he eased the crutch wearily under his arm. “Not even a brooch to put on your coat?”

“Nothing. Not today.”

Indifferently, as if he was used to it, the peddler shrugged. “It’s a raw day to walk down a long road,” he said quietly.

They looked at him, bemused.

“Fellow’s drunk,” the cobbler muttered.

THE PEDDLER HOBBLED AWAY between tents and around a pen of bleating sheep, their small hooves scratching the frozen lake, down to the stall of a pastry-seller, where he bought a hot pie and ate half of it, crouched by the heat of an open oven. Grease scorched his fingers through the torn gloves. He bent forward, his long gray hair swinging out of his hood, but as he pulled himself slightly upright on the crutch a close watcher might have glimpsed, just for an instant, that he was a tall man, and not as old or as crippled as he seemed.

Someone squeezed in beside him. “Is that for me?”

The peddler handed over the remains of the pie without comment; the boy who had been cartwheeling wolfed it down ravenously, barely stopping for breath.

The peddler’s eyes watched the crowd intently.

“Well?”

“Nothing. I tried the password on a woman and she told me to get lost or she’d call the Watch.” Raffi licked every flake of pastry from his fingers, still uneasy at the memory. “You?”

“Not our contact, no. But I overheard an interesting conversation.”

“What about?”

“A certain black bird.”

Raffi stared up, alarmed. “Again?” He rubbed his greasy hands nervously on his jerkin, then almost as a reflex unfurled a sense-line and sent it out, but the noisy crowd made him giddy with all their sensations and arguments and chatter; and under them was only the impenetrable glass-blue barrier of the ice, the vast lake frozen to its depths, the tiny creatures down there sluggish, only half alive.

“Rumors are spreading,” Galen said grimly. “Perhaps we have Alberic to thank. His people could never keep secrets.” He glanced around. “Though such stories may be useful. They’ll make people think. Stir their faith.”

Raffi rubbed his cold arms, frowning as the oven door was slammed shut. Then he smiled. “What would they say if they knew the Crow was right here?”

Galen’s rebuke struck him behind his eyes—a mindflare—so that he winced. The keeper stepped closer, his gaunt face hard. “Will you keep your mouth shut! Don’t talk to me unless you have to. And stay close!”

He turned, pushing through the crowd. Eyes wet, furious, Raffi glared after him.

They were both so tense they could barely talk anymore. They had been at the fair since yesterday. Every hour they spent here was a sickening danger; there were Watchmen everywhere, and Raffi had been searched once already at a checkpoint. That still made his skin crawl. But Galen wouldn’t go until the contact came. And they had no idea who it would be.

All afternoon he tried to keep warm. The cold was numbing. The stalls and awnings were brittle with ice; long, jagged spikes of it that dripped for a few hours at midday and then hardened again in the terrible nights, so that the whole fair was encased in a glassy splendor, like the Castle of Halen must once have been.

Despite himself, Raffi thought of Sarres. The hall would be warm there; the Sekoi would be telling some story, with the little girl, Felnia, curled up on its lap and Tallis, the Guardian of the place, stoking the fire with logs. And Carys. What would she be doing? He wanted to be back there so much that it hurt.

Earlier, someone had thrown a few coppers to him; now to ease his depression he spent it on a small slab of sticky toffee. Twisting off a corner he sucked it with delight, trying not to chew, to make the incredible sweetness last. It had been years since he’d tasted anything like it. Five years. Since he’d left home. He saw Galen watching him darkly across a pen of sheep, but he didn’t care. Someone jogged his elbow, almost shoving him into the pen.

“Sorry,” the woman said.

“It’s all right.” Raffi pocketed the toffee before he dropped it.

She smiled at him. “Cold makes me clumsy. And it’s a raw day to walk down a long road.”