“Ah, yes. A word not to be spoken. One of the Order’s most holy words.” The creature made a strangled rustling creak in its throat; Raffi realized it was laughing. “What is Earth, Raffi?”
“Earth is the paradise of the Makers.” He gave the response reluctantly. It sounded like a betrayal in this place. “After death, we will go there through a door of air.”
“Will we now?” The Margrave nodded, amused. “And have you seen images of this place?”
“Once. In the House of Trees.” He was caught for a second by the memory of those pictures, the blue sky, the trees, the millions of brilliant and varied creatures.
The Margrave was watching him closely. Its smile faded; it sat back, almost sadly. “It is hard to have to break such wonder as yours. Such innocence. But Kest told me about Earth. And I have images here . . .” It stopped, and then went on gently, “Images of famine, of deserts, of people living in such conditions that you would not—”
“Liar!” Raffi couldn’t bear this. “Why are you doing this to me!”
“It’s the truth. They destroyed their paradise. They were always seeking to make it again.”
“NO.”
“Yes, Raffi. Not all at once, but gradually. They could never stop, you see, modifying, interbreeding, experimenting, even on themselves.”
Raffi stood up, pacing quickly among the cluttered furniture. It hurt to breathe. “I know what you’re doing. Trying to make me hate them. To sympathize with you.”
“I’m telling you the truth.” The Margrave sounded mild, matter-of-fact. “Kest explained many things to me. And I spoke to Flain too, when he would deign to come and stare at me. And that bully Tamar.” From the corner of its eye it watched Raffi’s horror. Then it stood and picked up the new dark velvet jacket it had brought and propped it around Raffi’s shoulders. For a second, in his utter disbelief, he didn’t even notice, tugging the jacket tight.
“How can you speak about them like that!”
“They were men, Raffi.”
“I know, but . . .”
“They were men. Just like Galen. As full of faults.”
He stared at it, then noticed the coat and flung it down. But he could not stop shivering.
20
It is the small things that are of most account.
Poems of Anjar Kar
“WHERE ARE WE GOING?”
Ahead, the Margrave walked the dim corridor, the tiny blue lights at floor level casting bizarre shadows under its eyes and snout. “I promised I would show you my communications room. It’s not far.” It was carrying the second bundle of clothes, even richer than the first, under one arm. Raffi came behind, shivering and uneasy. It was the first time he had been out of the cluttered room; that place almost seemed a refuge now. His fear had ebbed; he realized that he could not hold on to such terror, not for day after day. It was already shrinking, becoming a small cold numbness at the heart of him. He would forget how afraid he should be. He would start to make mistakes.
The corridor was Maker-smooth, and straight. The Margrave came to a doorway, pressed a button. The door slid back, and the creature waved him inside.
He should be concentrating. Carys would already have started counting the doors, remembering the turns right and left. He needed to do that. Without sense-lines, he needed to think like the Watch.
The only things in the room were a gigantic screen, silver-gray, and a chair. The Margrave looked up at the screen. “I’ve made a few arrangements,” it said. Its eyes were bright, but it almost seemed uneasy, putting the pile of clothing down and running a thumbnail along the scales of its ridged face. “I’m sorry about this, Raffi, but you leave me little choice. Operate.”
The screen lit. To Raffi’s astonishment a man’s face filled it; a man he recognized as one of the overseers at Cato’s Cleft. The man seemed nervous.
“We can see them.” The Margrave’s whisper was dry. “But they cannot see us. I prefer it that way.” Raising its voice, it said, “Bring the prisoner.” The Watchman moved out of sight. For a second there was only the familiar bedlam of the work sledges; then another man was hauled down in front of the screen, filthy and bewildered. Raffi’s heart leaped. It was Silas. He looked terrible. His shoulders were a mass of bruises, his face disfigured by a long welt down one cheek. He looked around wildly.
“What have they done to him?” Raffi whispered.
The Margrave smiled its lipless smile. “Why don’t you ask him?”
Raffi licked his lips. Then he said, “Silas?”
The man’s eyes widened. He looked around incredulously. “Who’s that?”
“It’s me. Raffi. Silas, listen . . .”
“Raffi! Where are you? Are you dead?”
“No. I’m speaking to you through this relic. I can see you.”
Silas made a fumbling sign of Protection. The Margrave gave its creaky laugh and sat in the chair, observing. Raffi tried to ignore its jewel-cold eyes.
“I’m sorry, lad.” Silas was almost hoarse. “About telling them . . . should never have. Scared . . . too scared. Should have kept my mouth shut . . .”
“It doesn’t matter. What have they done to you?”
“Beaten. To tell them more, but all I know is what you said in your sleep. Mixed-up things—but Raffi, how can you be talking to me?”
“I can’t explain.” Raffi glanced at the Margrave. His heart was thudding. Silas raised his hand to scratch his filthy hair; his arms were manacled tight. “Raffi,” he whispered. “I’m finished. Surely this time I’m finished. Tomorrow . . .” He stopped, staring in horror at something out of the picture.
“Tomorrow, what?” Raffi stepped forward.
“I’m for the gallows.” The man was terrified; it came from the screen like an evil smell. “Can you do anything, Raffi? How was it you got free? Can you help me, you and your Order? For God’s sake, can you help me?” He seemed to choke into grief and terror.
Raffi faced the Margrave. He was beginning to understand. The pile of clothes lay by the Margrave’s chair. The creature looked down at them calmly. “A small price to pay for a man’s life,” it whispered.
“I detest you.” Raffi’s voice was icy.
The Margrave scratched its scales. “I feared,” it said sadly, “that this would set our friendship back a little.”
Hands shaking, Raffi undid his old jacket. He threw it down, and it was torn and infested, but he seemed to throw his old life down with it, and the lump in his throat and chest hurt him as he drew breath. The shirt next, and the trousers, as the Margrave watched gravely and Silas rubbed his face and whispered, “Raffi? Are you still there?”
“I’m still here,” he said grimly, hot with humiliation. The clothes were darkest velvet and silk, a Watch uniform, but more costly than any he’d ever seen, with the finest threads of silver embroidery. They felt stiff and strange as he shrugged into them, and warm too, their fastenings new, their smell sweet, the touch of them on his skin hateful.
“Can you help me?” Silas was desperate.
He kicked his old boots off and pulled the new ones on, silent, raw with the bitterness of betrayal. Then he stared at the Margrave. “Yes. I can help you.”
The creature was smiling. “So much better! Now you really look like my apprentice.”
“I’ve promised him . . .”
“And I will honor your promise. Whatever you have here, he will have. Warm clothes, good food, if you want them for him, you have to take them from me. If you rebel, he will be beaten. If you try to escape, he will be punished. Not you.” It settled back and pointed a clawed finger. “This is what power is. Raffi. You have it now. You must use it.”
Raffi was so angry, he could barely speak, but as he turned back the Margrave said quietly, “Operate screen,” and Silas’s eyes widened in his bruised face.
“Raffi! Dear God! I can see you!”
“It’ll be all right,” Raffi said heavily. “They’ll treat you well.”
But
Silas’s joy had already become suspicion. “Look at you! You look like a prince! What have you done! What have you sold them?”
“Myself.” Raffi’s face was bleak; the man on the screen backed away.
“You’ve joined them. My God, boy, I never thought . . .”
“It’s not like that . . .”
“You sicken me!” Silas’s face was harder than he’d ever seen it. “Keep your pity. I don’t take favors from the Watch.”
It was useless to say anything. Except, “Listen! What happened at Maar? To the Crow? Was there some sort of battle?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know.” Silas turned away in disgust.
“I don’t! Please!” His voice broke; Silas turned.
“What’s going on, Raffi? It wasn’t a battle, it was a war! Do you mean you haven’t—” The screen went black.
Raffi gave a howl of rage and swung around. The Margrave held up its hands in apology. “I’m sorry. But why be distressed? And you see the ingratitude of the traitor who feels betrayed.”
“He helped me.”
“And now you are helping him.”
“He hates me. You saw. And what about the others! If you’ve taken Galen prisoner, if he’s down here somewhere too . . .”
“He’s dead, Raffi. Believe me, I wish it otherwise. I would have liked to talk to Galen.” It went to the door, opened it, and looked back. “I could have told him so much about the Makers.” Without waiting for him, it went out. Heartsick, Raffi followed. From the door he turned and saw his old clothes lying crumpled on the floor. Like a body the life had ebbed out of.
HE WAS FORGETTING THE LITANY. It had to be nerves, or fear, or weariness, but he was mistaking some of the words, and it didn’t help not knowing the right times for prayer, not ever knowing if it was night or day. Or maybe it was the darkness, the terrible darkness seeping into him like a mist, blotting out the edges of his memory. Maybe it was closing in, hour by hour and he didn’t know, until it would overwhelm him . . . The Litany, and some parts of the Book. He should have learned them better. Galen would never have forgotten.
There were other books here. The Margrave had stocked the room with amusements for him: statues, books, games, globes, a microscope, and even a cage of jermice that played and rolled and cuddled and slept in a furry pile until the Margrave went too close and they squeaked and hid. At first Raffi had ignored all of it, sullen and despairing; then he had realized the mice would die if he didn’t look after them. It was the same as Silas. The Margrave made sure he had no choice. The books were about Earth. He would not even touch them.
The creature was so clever, it terrified him. It would talk for hours about the Makers, about the early days, the way they had worked on the planet, forming it, creating its life. Sitting in the cozy glow of the brazier, its eyes caught the tawny light, and despite himself Raffi was fascinated, lulled by its crackling husky voice and long, jointed fingers.
The musky smell no longer bothered him; maybe he had stopped noticing it. He tried to keep his sense of the creature as horrific, reminded himself that it was a monster, that it had created the Watch, that it was evil, but he knew, helplessly, hour by lost hour his hatred of it was being diluted as it smiled and talked and told him how delighted it was he was there. And how could he pray to hold on to hatred? Was that right? Was hatred—even of evil—ever right?
He tried fasting, but the Margrave knew. It came and stood at his door and said, “Remember Silas, Raffi. He’s a little hungry today,” and he used that, made himself angry and bitter and somehow felt better. That was the night he tried the sense-lines.
He lay on the bed and carefully opened his third eye. It hurt him, and he knew the aftereffects of the Journey lingered like a soreness in his mind. Gently, he let the sense-line move, into the dark. He touched things. Living things.
They were animals, or lower forms of life. None of them had the intelligence and memory of the trees. None of them could answer him; their minds moved blindly, rubbing and nuzzling against his. He tried to identify species, but they were all wrong, distorted, and there was pain, and things so alien, they made him shudder. And beyond them, once he had pushed through, was nothing but darkness, miles of darkness pressing down, suffocating him.
He jerked back and opened his eyes, gasping for air. He had never liked enclosed spaces; now for a second he had to fight off the desire to run to the door and bang wildly against it and yell.
Slowly he relaxed, unclenching his fingers, breathing deeply. When his heart had stopped hammering he decided on his plan. The sense-lines were his only way out. He would have to climb with them, use them as a rope. Each night, whenever he was alone, he would climb higher, feeling through rock and stone, forcing his mind up. It might take months, but he would do it. Once he reached the level of the deepest roots, it would be easy.
Carys would have approved. Would approve.
“I JUST THINK YOU SHOULD see a little more of our kingdom.” The Margrave stood by the open door and smiled. “Something tells me you’re feeling a little trapped in here.” Today it was wearing purple, a deep long robe of it, and under the quilted hems, a dark suit. Raffi followed, silent.
The uniform made him feel like a stranger, grave and tall; his hair was so clean now that it shone, and he was eating far too well. The food was a constant temptation; he tried to be moderate, but the flavors and sweetnesses were so new, and he seemed to crave them, his hand always reaching out for more.
He had never eaten so much. Now he walked alongside the creature. “You didn’t make this place.”
“They did. Kest added a great deal later. This was the heart of their operations.”
“Not Tasceron?”
“Oh, Tasceron was built later,” the Margrave said airily. “This was the hub of the planet making. What you call the awen-field. Look.”
It stopped at a huge door and opened it. Raffi saw a chamber so immense that the ends of it were shrouded in darkness. Small blue lights winked at him. The vast, dim shapes of huge machines, taller than Watchtowers, hummed quietly.
The Margrave waved a hand. “These control the geophysical nature of Anara. They are accessed by various . . . relics. All lost, I’m afraid, except for the precious Coronet, which is why I was so anxious to get hold of it. When the moon Agramon was moved, these machines were recharged, just for a moment. You should have heard the roar, Raffi. Now they are running down again.” It laughed throatily. “Such an irony, that if Solon had gained the Coronet, I would have had control of the Unfinished Lands. What an opportunity lost. You and your friends might have saved the world. But you might also have condemned it to death.”
Raffi shook his head, aghast. “You wanted it to save the Finished Lands?”
“Why else?”
“To use as a weapon. We thought—”
“I know what you thought.” It closed the door and moved on, its voice bitter. “I have lived down here for centuries because of what the Order teaches. And the terrible, unforgiving Sekoi.”
“But . . . could those machines and the Coronet really save the Unfinished Lands? And what about this wall?”
The Margrave laughed. “The Wall! It amused me to see them scrambling over it like ants. Who can wall out chaos, Raffi? It will creep in, spore and bacterium. No, these machines only will save us, but their power is fluctuating. But we two will live, whatever happens up there.”
Raffi stopped. He couldn’t bear this. “We have to use them! To save—”
“Who? The Watch? You hate the Watch.”
“Everyone! Galen! Carys!”
“Ah, still holding on. What if I don’t know how to use them?”
“We have to find out! All those people!” He had hold of its sleeve. It smiled at him and he stepped back instantly.
The Margrave watched, an outline in the dimness. “My scholar has a great deal to learn,” it hissed. “I am not Galen. I am not concerned with the dregs of a planet. My task, Raffi, is far more interesting.”
It opened a new door and walked in. As Raffi came after it his mind reeled with the sudden stench. “Look,” the Margrave said fondly. “The laboratories of Kest. Of my father, Kest.”
21
The supreme, tactical triumph of the Watch came at Mathravale, where the final remnant of the sorcerous Order was rooted out, and vast numbers of keepers cut down. Shrines were burned, supporters relocated. On this day the Order died. Brave men and women were caught in the crossfire. The Watch has cared for their descendants, as they would have wished.
Textbook; Glorious History of the Watch
“HOW IS HE?”
The surgeon turned in surprise. “As well as you’d expect, with those burns. It could go either way.”
Carys nodded unhappily. She pushed the relic-buttons and the door slid open, Maker-silent. Like all the rooms in the Tower of Maar, this one was dim. Alberic’s extravagant bed had been set up in the center; it was surrounded with ranks of candles on stands, and Milo was sitting on a small stool, silent and pale.
The Sekoi turned. “Come in, Carys. He’s awake.”
“Of course I’m blasted well awake. And cut the hushed tones, Graycat. I’m not dead yet.” Alberic’s face looked small on the huge pillows. “Oh. It’s you.”
Carys came over and sat. “Still as mouthy.”
“Too right.” His voice was a rasp of pain. “I knew as soon as you turned up we’d hit trouble. You were always trouble. Milo!”
“Yes, Uncle?” The boy scrambled up quickly.
“Wine. A big cup.”
“But . . . the surgeon says . . .”
“Hang the surgeon from his own sutures. Chop the toe rag into shark meat. Get it.”
Milo looked at Carys, and went out.
“You shouldn’t do this,” the Sekoi said. It looked around at Godric and Sikka. “You must tell him.”
“The chief does what he wants,” Godric said acidly. He came over and helped the dwarf to sit up, plumping the pillow behind him.
“And if I fall off the perch, Godric”—Alberic coughed, his face white as paper—“for Flain’s sake, take over. That kid has the brains of an addled gnat.”