Catherine Fisher: The Dark City

The man shrugged easily. “That’s up to Alberic.”

“Don’t you fear it?”

“I stay away from it, keeper. The whole castle is old.”

“Where does this door lead?”

“Nowhere. There’s a square shaft behind it, empty. Goes right down.” He leered. “Alberic uses it as a burial pit. Knee-deep in skeletons.”

He wasn’t joking. Raffi glanced at Galen, but the keeper’s face was dark and grim. Putting his hand in his pocket, he let the touch of the blue box comfort him.

They came to some stairs leading up, wide but dingy. Raffi’s eyes smarted from the smoke; he stumbled on greasy bones and other rubbish in the thick straw. Gnats whined around him; fleas too, he didn’t doubt.

The stairs rose up. Ahead in the dark, Galen climbed them steadily, his black stick tapping. Something was cooking somewhere, a rich, meaty smell that tormented Raffi like a pain. He wondered if they’d get any of it. He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten meat.

Finally they came to the top, a long, dim room, full of smoke. The floor was made of wooden planks, sanded smooth; it spread before them, an empty expanse.

Their guide stood still. “Go on,” he said curtly.

Through the smoke they saw a group of four people waiting for them, sitting and standing around a fire at the far end of the room. Galen glanced across. “Well?”

“It doesn’t feel right.”

The keeper shrugged. “Too late.” He stalked forward; Raffi followed him down the hall, his heart hammering with nerves.

Talk hushed. The men and woman waiting stood up, all but one, the man in the center. As Raffi came closer, he saw to his astonishment that the man was tiny, his feet resting on a box, his body far too small for the great cushioned chair in which he sat. His face was narrow and clever, his hair stubbly; he wore a gold collar and a green quilted jacket slashed with red.

Galen stood still, and looked down at him. “I was told to ask for Alberic,” he said gravely.

The dwarf nodded, his eyes sharp. “You’ve found him,” he replied.

3

Though the Makers are gone, their relics remain. Let the keepers seek them out. For the power in them is holy.

Litany of the Makers

IT WAS A TRAP.

Raffi knew that, as soon as he saw Alberic. He had a sudden vivid sense of the empty room behind him, the stairs, the maze of corridors, the gate and spikes and ditches. It was a trap, and they were well inside it.

But Alberic only grinned. “So you’re Galen Harn. You took some finding.”

Galen said nothing. His face was stern.

“And a pupil!” The dwarf’s shrewd eyes glanced over Raffi. “Bursting with sorceries, no doubt.”

Someone sniggered behind him. Alberic leaned back into the cushions, the candlelight soft on the silk of his jerkin. “Sit down, please,” he said amiably.

A big, black-haired man lifted a gilt chair from the wall and thumped it down in front of Galen. As he straightened up, he smirked at them and they recognized the horseman from the forest. He still wore the breastplate; close up it looked thin, pitted with rust.

Galen ignored the chair. Someone edged a small stool toward Raffi, and he gave it a longing glance but stayed standing.

“We came here,” Galen said ominously, “because of your message. A relic . . .”

“Ah yes!” The small man put his tiny fingers together and grinned over them. “I’m afraid there might have been a slight misunderstanding there.” He gave the briefest of nods. The sense-lines snapped; Raffi found himself being shoved onto the stool by a girl in snaky armor, and glancing around he saw they had forced Galen to sit too, the black-bearded man and another standing over him.

For a moment the keeper’s eyes were black with fury. Then he seemed to control himself; he leaned back, thrusting his legs out.

“You seem determined to make us comfortable.”

“It’s not that. I don’t like looking up.”

They stared at each other. Finally the dwarf’s grin widened. He spread his hands. “It’s like this, keeper. I’m the power here. My body may be puny, but my brain’s sharp, sharper than any, and my lads and lasses here know Alberic’s plans and Alberic’s cunning bring the most gold. This is Sikka, Godric, whom you’ve already met, and Taran. My rogues, my children.”

He blew a kiss at them; the girl Sikka laughed, and Taran, a man in a dirty blue coat, gave a snort of derision. Carefully, Raffi moved his hand an inch toward his pocket.

“Gold.” Galen nodded. “So you’re thieves, then.”

There was a tense silence. Raffi went cold all over. Then Alberic shook his head. “For a wise man you have a blunt tongue, Galen. As it is, this time I’ll let you keep it.” He leaned over and poured himself a drink from a delicate glass container on a round table beside him, lit by tall candles. The goblet glittered; it was crystal, almost priceless. Raffi tightened his dry lips. Slowly Alberic drank, leaning back on the plump cushions.

“The relic,” Galen growled.

“There is no relic. At least—” The small man sat up, looking around in mock surprise. “I don’t think so. Is there?”

The girl laughed. “You’re a cruel man, Alberic,” she said, coming around and gripping the back of his carven chair. She stared at Galen in amusement. “Did you really believe that we’d have a terror of relics, like the old fools in the villages?”

Galen said nothing; it was Alberic who answered. “Oh no,” he said softly, watching the Relic Master. “Oh no, my pet, he’s a deeper one than that. Very deep. I think he knew what he was coming into all along. I think he knew very well . . . ”

For a moment the dwarf’s voice was so thoughtful that Raffi had the sudden sense he had guessed Galen’s bitter secret, and his anxiety sent the sense-lines rippling, so that he had to fight to hold on to them. Alberic watched silently, head on one side. Suddenly his voice was sharp. “Let me see some sorcery, keeper. I need to know you’re who you say you are, not some spy of the Watch.”

Galen’s hands tightened, the fingers clenching on the chair. Raffi saw them uneasily.

“I don’t do sorcery—as you call it—on the orders of anyone.” His face was proud and his dark stern eyes held Alberic’s. “I’m a Relic Master of the Order of keepers, and the power I have is holy. Not for fireside tricks.”

Alberic nodded. “But the Order is finished,” he said sweetly. “Broken, outlawed. Dead.”

“The power remains.” Galen leaned back in his chair, legs stretched out. He had the look of a man playing chess, playing for his life, on an invisible board.

“To open and close,” Alberic murmured, “build and destroy, see forward and back.”

Raffi looked surprised; Galen didn’t. The dwarf grinned at them. “One of your Order was once . . . in the way, on one of our raids. Unfortunately some of my rogues were a little enthusiastic. The only thing he had worth stealing was the Litany of the Makers, written in code on parchment. I worked it out and read it. An amusement for the long winter nights . . .”

Galen said nothing, his eyes cold with anger.

“The boy, then!” Alberic waved at Raffi. “Let the boy do something. You don’t object to that?”

Galen shrugged. “If he wants to. He knows little. A few effects of light that might amuse you.” He turned a cold look on Raffi. “Do your best for our audience.”

Reluctantly Raffi stood up, catching the hidden message. They all stared at him, and he felt nervous and furious with Galen. But then, he’d had no choice.