Catherine Fisher: The Dark City

He stepped out and pushed the stool away with his foot. Then he raised both hands, spoke the words in his mind, and let his third eye open, the eye of the Makers.

In the air he made the seven moons, each hanging from nothing, the small red Pyra, pitted Cyrax, the icy globe of Atterix, all the sisters of the old Book. They glowed in the dark room, and beyond them he glimpsed Alberic, watching intently, his face bright with the dappled lights.

“Very pretty,” the dwarf murmured. “Most pleasing.”

But he hardly seemed impressed. Uneasy, Raffi set the globes spinning. They moved in long ellipses, made the complex orbits of the moons, each leaving a glinting thread of light that interwove into a net of colors, purples and reds and blues. And each had its own note of music that hummed, building into harmonies that rose and gathered in the dim hall, an underthrob of sound like the voices of strange beings. He was sweating now, and there was a pain behind his eyes, but he kept the moons spinning till the wordless song rose to a crescendo of exquisite beauty, and then he let it fade, slowly, into silence. The moons became ghosts of light. Then they were gone.

“Charming,” Alberic said drily.

Sweating, his head thumping, Raffi glanced at Galen. He hadn’t moved but sat still, arms folded. “Is that enough for you?”

“Certainly. No Watchman could do that. With such a pupil you must be who you say you are.”

“You never doubted that.”

Alberic grinned. “No.”

“So what do you want? We’re not worth robbing.”

There was silence. Wearily Raffi sat down; no one took any notice of him. He slid his hand into his pocket and gripped the blue box. The tension in the room was taut as a rope; he could feel it tighten his nerves.

For the first time Alberic didn’t seem amused. He drank from his glass and flashed a glance at the girl, Sikka. She nodded, her long plaited hair swinging.

The small man put his glass down. “Revenge. I want revenge.”

“On us?”

Alberic smiled dangerously. “Don’t pretend to be stupid.” For a moment he fingered his golden collar, then he looked up and said fiercely, “You called us thieves. Indeed we are. What does a thief hate most, wise one?”

“To be robbed.” Galen’s voice was somber, his hawk-face a mask of shadows.

“Indeed.” Alberic looked at him, impressed. “Let me tell you about it. Two months ago, a wandering Sekoi came to this place. He was one of the ones who tell stories: a lazy, mocking creature. Brindled gray and brown. A zigzag under one eye.”

Raffi edged closer. Any mention of the Sekoi fascinated him. He had only seen a few of them, years ago when he’d been too small and had run away, thinking they would eat him. The Sekoi were the others, the different race. They were taller than men, and thin, their sharp faces furred like cats, their long fingers streaked in tribal markings. People said it was the Sekoi who had made the cromlechs, eons ago, before the Makers came. They had stories about that time, or so Galen said. The Order had had texts of a few, laboriously copied in the great library in the tower of Karelian. All dust now.

“He fooled us,” Alberic said waspishly. “Hung around, played with the children. We threw him out but he came back. He prattled, dreamed, sang foreign songs. We thought he was harmless.”

“The Sekoi make an art of that,” Galen muttered. He was looking at the jug of wine. Alberic noticed, and grinned.

“As you say. All the time he was learning about us, where the strongrooms were, who held the keys, what the raids brought in.” He shook his head. “There was plenty of that, believe me. Gold, silver, clothes, wool, wine. This place is well stuffed.”

“I can believe it.” Galen leaned back, pushing the long hair from his face. “And so he robbed you.”

The dwarf glared. “He gave a performance. Down in the courtyard. None of us had seen a Sekoi work.” He leaned forward. “No disrespect to you, boy, but he was astounding. He told a story, and the things he spoke of appeared, and I was inside the story, we all were; it happened all around us. It was some tale of castles and battles and gods who rode from the sky on silver horses, and believe me, keeper, I lived every minute of it! I felt the rain, the sparks from the swords, had to run out of the way in case I was crushed.” He leaned back, remembering. “It was no illusion. It was real. Some of my people were injured in that dream. Two never came out of it.”

“And when it ended?”

Alberic’s eyes were hooded with wrath. “The fires out, the courtyard dark, the guards asleep. And the strongroom door wide open.”

“What did he take?” Raffi asked eagerly.

“Gold. What do they ever want? A box of gold marks. A fortune!”

“You want it back.”

“I want him!” Alberic leaped up suddenly, shoving Godric aside and prowling, a tiny, hunched figure, among the candles. “I want that filthy dream-peddler! What I’ll do to him!” He spun, his eyes bright. “And then with him! Imagine the work he could do for me, the use he’d be to me. I want him brought back, relic-man. And I want you to get him.”

Galen sat still, his black hair and clothes making him a figure of darkness. Raffi knew he was tense, uncertain.

“Why me?”

“You have ways. I’m known, so are my people. None of us can travel that far. The Watch . . .”

Galen laughed bitterly. “The Watch! They want me more than you. No, you can find the creature yourself, thief-lord. He may well be sharper than you are.” Then, abruptly, he looked up. “Why did you think I would go?”

“Because of our hostage.”

“What hostage?”

Alberic grinned at him. “The boy.”

Raffi felt the sense-lines leap; danger surged in the room like a tide. “Galen!” he gasped, jumping up.

The stool smacked behind him. The blue box was in his hand. Weapons glinted; Godric’s sword unsheathed with a sharp snick; Sikka caught hold of him so that he yelled and jerked the box up, his thumb stabbing the small round control.

The box throbbed. A blast of light scorched out from it, searing the floor at Alberic’s feet so that the dwarf leaped back with a yell, the planks blackened and smoking. Shock forced Raffi back; the box jerked out of his hand and he grabbed for it but Alberic already had him, a knife jabbed in his ribs, one skinny hand gripping his hair so that he yelped in pain.

Through watering eyes he saw their astonished faces, the crisped ends of the straw stinking and curling. In front of him, Galen was holding the box level, his eyes bleak.

“Now that,” Alberic said slowly, “is a relic worth having.” He turned the knife in Raffi’s side. “Even if you get out, the boy won’t.”

“Let him go.”

“I might. If you give me that box.” The dwarf stared at it greedily.

“Never.” Galen was steady, without expression.

Alberic shrugged. “Your choice, keeper. Keep the box; lose the boy.”

4

It is vital to remember that the powers the Order claim to have are a complete illusion.

Rule of the Watch

Journal of Carys Arrin Atelgarsday 3.16.546

Two days ago, at last, I found the cromlech.

As I wrote in my last report, the people of the forest hate to talk to strangers; finding anything out is difficult. I’m still traveling as a pack-merchant, so bribes have been easy to give, but it’s cost me a great deal in fabrics, buttons, agricultural tools. (NB—Claim the money for this when I get back.) The forest is an eerie place, and most of our charts of it are wrong. The old superstitions of the Order hang around here; also a number of fugitives and vagabonds. Other areas are empty. Once I traveled for three days down airless green paths, slashing my way through, and saw no one. Jekkles have attacked me twice—once scaring the pack-beast almost berserk. Fire seems to keep them off. There are also blue spiders that bite; as I write this my hand is swollen and black, but I killed the thing fast enough to save my life.