Catherine Fisher: The Lost Heiress

Rocallion shrugged. “The Watch have got the keys.”

“I’ve got the keys. There’s a guard in the courtyard; I’ll talk to them while you get by. Down the lane is a byre, by the gate—it’s been searched already. We’ll meet there. Agreed?”

She’s used to giving orders, Raffi thought.

Galen nodded. It was hard to see his expression in the dimness. Glancing back, she said suddenly, “Make sure you wait for me, Galen, because I’ve got something to tell you. Something important.”

As he stepped forward into the lamplight from the corridor, they caught his wolfish smile. “I know that.”

“You would!” For a moment she grinned. Then she was out the door. Galen pushed Raffi after her, then came himself, with Rocallion silently at the back.

The corridor was empty, lit with one lamp. Far off in the house someone laughed. They clustered at the end while Rocallion took his keys from Carys and fumbled for the right one; as soon as the door opened they slipped through.

It closed behind them with a click.

“Be careful,” Rocallion’s voice echoed. “There are steps in front of you leading down.”

Raffi found them, edging cautiously. He knew they were in the cellar—it was bitterly cold and smelled of beer casks. Twice at the bottom he walked into barrels. Finally Rocallion pushed through from the back. “Let me go first.”

There was no light and Galen made none; it would have been fatal if the door above had opened.

When Raffi caught up with Rocallion, the back door was already unlocked. Infinitely carefully, the franklin opened it and looked out. Under his arm Raffi saw the dim courtyard, dark gables, a single star overhead.

A murmur of talk came from somewhere nearby. Carys pushed her way silently to the front. “Take care,” she breathed. Then she squeezed past them and went out into the night.

They waited. Raffi felt the cold drift of the leaf-fall on his face, heard the hiss of it against the roofs of the manor-house. The night was unusually still, as if held in frost, though far off in the woods an owl called, and nearer something squeaked, like a jekkle-mouse.

The voices had gone. Instead only Carys was talking, loud and furious. He could hear the anger in her voice, and was amazed again at the way she could lie, and pretend, and act.

“Go now,” Galen whispered. They slid carefully out into the blue shadows, edging along the wall.

The leaf-drift had fallen all day. Here in the lee of the wall it was a bare sprinkling, so that their feet cut dark prints; Galen scuffed them out hurriedly. They sprinted between buildings, under the low eaves of a barn. As they flitted through a gate, Raffi glimpsed the red glare of a fire, heard Carys’s sharp orders. She wanted a sharper watch kept. And she wanted those dice! Now! Raffi grinned, his fingers slipping over the cold of the gate bar.

In the lane they could run, but the ruts were full of frosted puddles that tilted and splintered, wheezing as they broke. The ground was rock hard and even the firethorns had leaf-dust all over them; the storm had brought a sudden sharp frost, the first this year. Raffi shivered, his breath smoking in the sudden glint of two moons that drifted from the clouds.

Galen pulled him into the hedge-shadow. “This byre. How far?”

Rocallion caught his breath. “Just ahead.”

They could see the low edge of its roof, among branches. This end of the lane was banked with leaves; a great wall, well-trampled, as if cows had forced a way through. The pungent smell of fireberries was rank.

Rocallion put his hands on the door-bar, but Galen stopped him. “Wait.”

In silence the keeper stood, one hand on the wall. They both knew he was sending sense-lines inside.

“I thought you trusted her?” Rocallion whispered.

“We do. And we don’t.”

Then the keeper nodded, and they lifted the bar and hurried in. The byre was empty, deep with old straw. A rat rustled away. Breathless, they crouched in the cold; Raffi buried himself in straw.

“Maybe I should go back,” Rocallion murmured.

As he said it the door creaked; Carys slipped in and stood there. She folded her arms and grinned at them. “I’m glad you stayed.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it,” Galen said gravely. “But won’t they miss you?”

She came over and sat by them, taking the crossbow off and tossing it down. “Them! They’ll be glad to see the back of me.” She hugged her knees. “So what have you both been doing? How did you get out of the city?”

“The Sekoi have ways,” Galen said carelessly. “After that the three of us came north and paid a little visit to a thief-lord named Alberic.”

She laughed. “We know about that. He’s after you.”

“Is he?” Raffi was alarmed.

“Some of our spies have reported that he’s sent men out, asking questions. You should be careful.”

“I intend to be,” Galen said drily. “Did you hear how Raffi climbed up the wall of his tower?”

She giggled. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Neither did I,” Raffi muttered, remembering the terror of the swinging rope, his raw hands.

Carys was silent a moment. Then she looked up, her eyes bright. “I’ve got some information you’ll find . . . interesting. It’s highly secret.” Her glance flickered to Rocallion.

He caught it, and stood up. “Your packs are hidden in an old well out near here. I’ll get them for you.”

When he had gone she got up and checked the door, then came back and crouched. Excitement was streaming from her; Raffi could almost see it, and he struggled up in the straw, his skin tingling.

“Listen,” she said. “Last month, up in the hills, an old woman was being questioned.”

“Questioned?” Galen looked at her grimly.

“I can’t help their methods. In any case, she suddenly came out with some amazing information, probably to save herself. She told them she once worked in the Emperor’s palace. When the Emperor was killed at the fall of Tasceron, the young man next to him, whose body was too badly burned to be sure about, was assumed to have been his son. According to the old woman, this wasn’t so. The son, the Prince, escaped. He lived for many years in hiding in a village named Carno. He married, and seven years ago he had a child. The old woman lived with them. Her name was Marta. No one else knew who they were. But then a Watchpatrol came for slave laborers for the mines at Far Reach. They took the parents, and the old woman, though she was no good to them. No one seems to know what happened to the child.”

“And the Prince?” Galen said.

“Dead. We checked.”

They were silent. Then Raffi breathed out slowly. “So the Emperor had a grandchild.”

Galen pondered, his eyes glinting. “This is excellent news, Carys, if it’s true . . . Boy or girl?”

“That was one thing she wouldn’t say.”

“A new Emperor!” Galen stood up and limped around in excitement. “It’s a miracle! And it fits. When the Makers come back everything will be restored.”

“You’re still sure they’re coming?” Carys asked quietly.

“You were there. You heard them.”

She shook her head, rueful. “I heard something. A voice. But look, Galen, if you want this Interrex of yours—”

“What did you say?” The keeper whirled around, staring at her, his eyes black. In the shadows his face was suddenly hooked and sharp. The Crow’s face.

“I said Interrex. It’s Braylwin’s joke. It’s from your Book.”

He glanced at Raffi. “Once again.”

Carys frowned. “What do you mean, again?”

“It was the Word. On Flainsnight. The word the Makers sent.”

For a moment she looked at Galen so still and strangely that he felt something flame up in her, some doubt or anger. Then she said bleakly, “Well, anyway, if you want this Interrex you’d better find him fast. Or her. Because we’re already looking.”