Catherine Fisher: The Dark City

At first there were a lot of people about; as it got dark and the weather closed in, they went indoors. A fine, gray drizzle fell, but I was well sheltered. After the light flashed out, I lay along the branch and thought about it. First, it had to mean that Galen Harn was inside the fortress. Only he could have done that, or his scholar—though according to our information Raffael Morel has only been with him for four years, since Harn took him from his father’s farm.

And they must have used a relic. This was no wood and water mumbo jumbo, no sacred trees or spirit journeys. This was something brimming with power, blinding. Something of the Makers.

For a long time I waited, fidgeting with curiosity. What was going on in there? Harn and Alberic must be in some plot together, brewing something against the Watch. If only I could have gotten inside!

Ten minutes later, the light came again.

I was ready this time, and it may have been nearer the window, or simply stronger, because the ray was breathtaking—pure white, so that in one instant I saw all the roofs of the buildings below lit in a sudden stark glare; squalid walls and rain and a pig lying on its side in a sty. Then blackness.

It seemed to shock the people of the fortress just as much—they came running out of all the doors and clustered, staring up.

Nothing else, all night. I ate cold food and put the beasts in shelter, then lay on the branch and watched. Three moons shone on the thieves’ tower—even in the dappled moonlight the pale walls gleamed. Whoever the Makers were, they could build. An owl is hooting in the wood; the wet branches stir around me, dripping on this page.

Tomorrow, if nothing else happens, I’ll have to try and get inside. This might not be too difficult. My face isn’t known—after all, this is my first real mission, first time outside the Watchhouse. And according to what I’ve heard, Alberic’s tower is a nest of cutthroats, poachers, thieves, renegades. People come and go there all the time, with no real rules except Alberic’s orders. Maybe no one will notice one more vagabond.

Especially if she is a girl.

Karnosday, early

No need. They’re coming out. Two figures have just left the gate, and they look like Harn and the boy. They must be in some plot with Alberic—he’d never let them go otherwise. It’ll take me a while to get down the hill and after them. But this is luck, real luck.

Dead or alive, say the orders. And I won’t lose them now.

7

The Order will survive. They can never kill us all. Underground, well hidden, we have knowledge that can outlive the world.

Reputed last words of Mardoc Archkeeper, from the rack

“ ARE YOU SURE?” Galen stood on the grass under the oak and stared back at the misty country they had crossed.

“Not sure.” Raffi shrugged, uneasy. “Just a feeling. As if someone touched me and drew back. It may have been nothing.”

“Unlikely.” Galen hadn’t moved; shading his eyes from the rising sun, he stared east. “It could have been an animal.”

“Do you think Alberic is having us followed?”

Galen came and sat on the wet grass. “I doubt that.”

“But he knows we could go anywhere!”

“He has the box.”

“Yes, and that was a big mistake.”

Galen gave him an icy glare. “If I want your opinion, boy, I’ll ask. The box is nearly dead. And he’s greedy but wily. He’ll keep it for himself, a personal weapon to keep his rabble in order. He won’t risk wasting it.”

Raffi simmered, his back against the ridged oak bark. Galen was right. He was always right. Except about Tasceron.

“Well,” the Relic Master said grimly, “if you think someone’s following, you’d better look back.” He looked resentful. “Take your time.”

Raffi sat back, tried to relax, breathed in the cold damp. Under his palms he felt the crushed stalks of grass. Slowly, his third eye opened. He looked back along the paths of the last day and night, felt the stir of small animals along the hedgerows, the giant ant-castle where the track crossed the stream. He tasted the dreams of the sleepers in the village they had skirted, smelled the great silent strength of the trees, the leaf-rot, the strange nightwalkers among them. Along the waterlines he went, and the earth tracks, back, far back, as far as he could reach, and all he felt at the edge of the land was the sun, a red heat, a blaze that rose with a searing pain out of the steams of the valley.

His lips opened; no words came.

Galen grabbed his arm. “Stop it. You’re burning.”

Raffi dragged himself back, such a long way. Opening his eyes, he felt drained; he was sweating, dizzy.

“Don’t look into the sun!” Galen was angry. “How many times have I told you that! Was there anyone?”

“I don’t know,” Raffi said faintly.

Galen stood up and limped around. “If only I could see!” he cried, raging, banging down his stick.

“Don’t shout,” Raffi moaned.

Galen glared at him, then nudged the pack with his foot. “Drink something. It helps.”

Feeling a failure, Raffi got the water out and drank thirstily. It ran down his chin; he dragged the cool drops over his hot face. He was tired and wished they would stop; it was dangerous to travel in the day.

A few minutes later Galen came and stood over him. “Not your fault,” he said gruffly. “Not enough practice.”

“Not your fault either,” Raffi said quietly.

The keeper jabbed the turf with his stick. “Isn’t it?” He looked up, out ahead. “Come on. Let’s find somewhere to lay low.”

IT WAS STILL EARLY, and the fields were waist-deep in damp mist. Walking through them seemed more like wading; browsing flocks of tiny birds rose up in clouds before them. This was someone’s pasture, lush and green, the hedgerows thick with leaves and bines, the trees already losing their leaves. A herd of tawny cattle wandered in the fields beyond, staring, chewing, at the passing strangers.

Raffi chewed back at them. It was easy country to walk, low and firm underfoot. Lanes and small tracks crisscrossed it; gates were in good repair. It was a different world to the forest. But the people also made it dangerous.

Climbing down a hedge bank into a deep hollow lane, he saw that Galen had stopped. The Relic Master stood tall among the white flowers of the hedge, the pack on his back, listening. Then he turned. “Anything?”

“Someone ahead. Near.”

As Raffi said it, she came around the corner of the lane: a large woman, wrapped in rough shawls, avoiding the puddles. She carried a small sack in her arms; it seemed heavy as she put it down and straightened wearily. Then she saw them.

“Be careful,” Galen whispered.

“You don’t need to tell me that!”

There was no way of avoiding her. The lane was deep, the hedges high on each side, spiny and tangled. They walked on quickly, Galen’s staff sticking in the soft ground.

The woman waited, hands on hips. She probably had some weapon, Raffi thought. He put his head down and tried to look pitiable. As he was wet through and tired, that was easy.

“Fine day,” Galen said quietly as they came up to her.

The woman nodded; she looked at them both with a shrewd interest. “For traveling, it is. Have you come by the village?”

“A different way.” Galen rubbed his chin with the back of one hand, then he stopped, digging the stick in and leaning both hands on it. His long strings of black jet and green crystals swung in the pale light. “Can you tell me about the pathways hereabouts?”