The Hidden Coronet (2 page)

Someone squeezed in beside him. “Is that for me?”

The peddler handed over the remains of the pie without comment; the boy who had been cartwheeling wolfed it down ravenously, barely stopping for breath.

The peddler’s eyes watched the crowd intently.

“Well?”

“Nothing. I tried the password on a woman and she told me to get lost or she’d call the Watch.” Raffi licked every flake of pastry from his fingers, still uneasy at the memory. “You?”

“Not our contact, no. But I overheard an interesting conversation.”

“What about?”

“A certain black bird.”

Raffi stared up, alarmed. “Again?” He rubbed his greasy hands nervously on his jerkin, then almost as a reflex unfurled a sense-line and sent it out, but the noisy crowd made him giddy with all their sensations and arguments and chatter; and under them was only the impenetrable glass-blue barrier of the ice, the vast lake frozen to its depths, the tiny creatures down there sluggish, only half alive.

“Rumors are spreading,” Galen said grimly. “Perhaps we have Alberic to thank. His people could never keep secrets.” He glanced around. “Though such stories may be useful. They’ll make people think. Stir their faith.”

Raffi rubbed his cold arms, frowning as the oven door was slammed shut. Then he smiled. “What would they say if they knew the Crow was right here?”

Galen’s rebuke struck him behind his eyes—a mindflare—so that he winced. The keeper stepped closer, his gaunt face hard. “Will you keep your mouth shut! Don’t talk to me unless you have to. And stay close!”

He turned, pushing through the crowd. Eyes wet, furious, Raffi glared after him.

They were both so tense they could barely talk anymore. They had been at the fair since yesterday. Every hour they spent here was a sickening danger; there were Watchmen everywhere, and Raffi had been searched once already at a checkpoint. That still made his skin crawl. But Galen wouldn’t go until the contact came. And they had no idea who it would be.

All afternoon he tried to keep warm. The cold was numbing. The stalls and awnings were brittle with ice; long, jagged spikes of it that dripped for a few hours at midday and then hardened again in the terrible nights, so that the whole fair was encased in a glassy splendor, like the Castle of Halen must once have been.

Despite himself, Raffi thought of Sarres. The hall would be warm there; the Sekoi would be telling some story, with the little girl, Felnia, curled up on its lap and Tallis, the Guardian of the place, stoking the fire with logs. And Carys. What would she be doing? He wanted to be back there so much that it hurt.

Earlier, someone had thrown a few coppers to him; now to ease his depression he spent it on a small slab of sticky toffee. Twisting off a corner he sucked it with delight, trying not to chew, to make the incredible sweetness last. It had been years since he’d tasted anything like it. Five years. Since he’d left home. He saw Galen watching him darkly across a pen of sheep, but he didn’t care. Someone jogged his elbow, almost shoving him into the pen.

“Sorry,” the woman said.

“It’s all right.” Raffi pocketed the toffee before he dropped it.

She smiled at him. “Cold makes me clumsy. And it’s a raw day to walk down a long road.”

He froze, swallowing the whole lump without tasting it. He glanced at her sidelong; a big farm woman, fair hair scraped back, a bold, red face. For a moment he had no idea what to do; then he sent a sense-line snaking over to Galen, saw the peddler’s head turn instantly, his hasty limping through the crowd.

Raffi took a breath. “Not if there’s a warm welcome at the end of it,” he managed.

Relief flickered in the woman’s eyes, brief but unmistakable. “Is he here?” she muttered.

Raffi caught her arm. “Beads?” he said in a normal voice. “Here’s your man.”

He dragged her over to Galen. Their eyes met; she picked up objects from the tray at random, examining them.

“Thank God,” she whispered. “I thought I’d never find you! We have to get home now, while the place is empty.”

Galen glanced around; Raffi knew he was wary of a trap.

“How far?”

“Three miles. Over the hill. I have a cart outside the west checkpoint.”

“Then we go separately. Different exits. Meet outside.”

The woman nodded. She looked resolute.

“What’s your name?” Galen asked quietly.

“Caxton, Majella Caxton. You will come?”

“Have faith, woman. We won’t fail you.”

Dumping the lace, she strode away. Galen watched her, then said, “Go ahead of me. No contact, whatever happens.”

THERE WAS A LINE AT THE CHECKPOINT. All the entrances to the fair were thronged, because the Watch took a third of all profits, or more if they disliked your face, and everyone had to be checked in and out.

Raffi folded back his sleeve. This was the worst part. Despite the cold, he was sweating.

“Next!”

He crossed to the table and showed the number painted on his wrist. The Watchman perched there flicked through his list. Glancing back, Raffi saw Galen among a group of men carrying wool-bales.

“Canver. Michael?”

He nodded.

“Performer. Ha, I know what that means. Pickpocket. Beggar.”

“No!” Terrified, Raffi looked up. “I tumble, juggle.”

“With what?”

“Apples.”

“So where are they?”

He shrugged. “I ate them.”

“You must think I was born yesterday.” The Watchman was young, with a cruel, thin mouth. “Turn out your pockets,” he said.

Raffi hadn’t expected this. After all, he had no profits. But if they even suspected he was a thief he would lose a hand, and the thought of that made him turn cold.

He dumped two small coins and the toffee.

“Is that it?” The Watchman grinned. “Come here.”

The search was quick, but thorough. It left him hot with fear and embarrassment, and it found nothing. The Watchman’s snort was derisory. “Hardly worth your coming, was it?” He scooped up the toffee and shoved it into his own pocket. “Now get lost.”

Trembling with anger and relief, Raffi turned.

He had only taken two steps when the man said, “Wait.”

Raffi stopped. His heart thudded like a hammerbird. Slowly he turned; the Watchman smiled coldly, arrogant on the slippery ice. He had a different list in his hand. Glancing down at it again he muttered, “Come back here.”

2

Fear is our greatest weapon. Always the agent should look for it. If it is not there, he should create it.

Rule of the Watch

E
VERYTHING SEEMED TO GO QUIET.

Raffi barely breathed; his whole body was a rigidity of terror, so that for an instant there was nothing else in the world.

Then, as if from a long distance, he heard Galen at the other table, grumbling to the harassed Watchman there about the cold, and even the sound of his voice brought Raffi a sliver of courage.

He walked back. “What?” he muttered, his voice shaky.

The Watchman thrust the paper in his hands. “Look at that,” he said in a bored voice. “Have you seen any of them?”

Raffi turned it around.

It was a list of outlaws. Each one was pictured—a brief sketch—and underneath their names, a sum of money for their capture, a list of crimes. He looked at it quickly, then gave it back.

“I can’t read,” he lied.

“You can see, can’t you! Do you know any of them?”

“No.”

The man leered, his breath smelling of sour beer. “Well, keep your eyes open, bright boy. It’ll pay you more than juggling apples.”

Hurrying away, Raffi bit his lip.

Carys’s name had been on the list.

The drawing of her had been incredibly accurate; her sharp look, the short, straight brown hair. Underneath it had said:

CARYS ARRIN. FORMER WATCHSPY. INS. 547 SILVER. MARN MOUNTAIN.

WANTED ALIVE FOR ABDUCTION, TREASON, COUNTERESPIONAGE.

A PRIORITY TARGET.

30,000 MARKS.

It was a fortune! But then, it would be. She’d betrayed the Watch, kidnapped one of their children, walked out on Braylwin. They’d hunt her down till they found her.

He stumbled, barely noticing, thanking God and the Makers that she was safe back on Sarres. She’d wanted to come with them, but Galen had refused absolutely, ignoring her anger. She was like Galen. Though they both loved Sarres, they grew restless there.

“Boy!”

The big woman was waiting on the cart, her sacking sleeves rolled past her elbows. Brawny arms controlled the fidgeting marset in the harness.

Raffi climbed up beside her.

“Where’s your master?”

“Behind,” he said wearily.

She looked at him shrewdly. “You got through, didn’t you? Must be a tough life though.”

He rubbed his hair with his hands, silent, annoyed she could see he was scared, annoyed with himself.

They watched the gate. When Galen came through it he hobbled away up the road ahead of them, ignoring them. The woman whipped up the reins and the marset stumbled off, Raffi grabbing tight. They soon passed the keeper. On the ice the cart ran smooth, but when the wheels hit the rough track the lurching began, a giddy swaying up the treeless slopes, down splintering ruts. The road was bleak, all its vegetation seared to blackness by the relentless frosts, except that halfway up, a small, bent patch of bramble thicket clung on. The woman stopped the cart there, and they waited for Galen.

He walked easier now, the limp reduced to normal, and when he came up he dumped the peddler’s tray and the pack with relief among the wool-bales, brushing ashpaste out of his hair in disgust.

Then he looked up at her.

“You must be in sore need of a keeper, Majella Caxton.”

“I am, master. Believe me.” She said it calmly, her shrewd gray eyes on his. “Or I’d never have run the risk. Yours or mine.”

For a moment he studied her. Then, as if a question had been answered, he nodded and climbed into the back, stretching his legs out among the wool-bales. “Is it a relic?”

“God knows.” She started the marset moving. “It terrifies the beasts, fills me with dark horrors I wouldn’t try to describe. We’re haunted by something, master. We can’t even live in the house anymore. And if you don’t get rid of it, it will surely kill someone.”

Galen didn’t answer, though Raffi knew he was intrigued. But the woman was busy now with the driving; ice made the rough track treacherous. Twice the marset slipped, its hooves clattering, and she had to urge it on. “Come on, my darling,” she crooned. “Up you go.”

Turning, Raffi saw the Frost Fair already far below them, a squalor of stalls and pens and smoke darkening the pure lake, and beyond it at the northern shore the quenta forest, dark and ominous, its strange tangled trees forming impenetrable thickets.

He also saw the gallows.

Galen was looking at them too. The keeper’s black eyes were angry and thoughtful; as Raffi watched he fished among the trinkets of the peddler’s tray and brought out the awen-beads, jet and green, slipping them on over his head. He held out Raffi’s and Raffi took them, the two blue and purple strands of the scholar, wishing Galen would say something about the gallows. When he was silent he was planning, and Raffi feared that.

Slowly, the cart rocked to the top of the hill.

The way down was less steep; the woman took a breath and said, “Now. You want to hear all about it.”

“It would help.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him as he leaned among the soft bales.

“Well, we moved here two months ago. We’re Watchtenants. We had a farm up north, but then out of the blue they moved us. No explanations. When I saw this place I was amazed. It’s old, you’ll see that. Far too good for me and a dozen farm men. Lots of the rooms are empty.”

“What’s it called?” Galen interrupted.

“Halenden.” She flicked the reins. “For a fortnight it was all right. Then the trouble started.”

“Noises?”

She shrugged, uneasy. “Hideous sounds. First time it brought us all hurtling out of our beds. I thought some beggar-band was burning the place around our ears. Howling, echoing deep down. Max—the foreman—swears it’s some Kest-ghost, trapped under the place. He’s a loudmouth, and I’d sack him, but I need him. Most of the others have left.”

The cart jolted; Raffi clung on, feeling sick.

“What else?” Galen murmured.

“Things move. Around the place. They’re never where you left them. Doors won’t open; then they open on their own. Plates smash. Voices talk in rooms where no one is. But last week, that was the worst.”

She stopped the cart suddenly and turned to face him, her broad face red with the cold. “I’m not a woman who scares easily, master.”

“I can see that,” he said.

“Then you’ll know that I’m scared now.” The wind gusted sleet in her eyes; she rubbed it away. “Last week, on Agramonsday, I was alone in the house. The men were in the fields. I was sure I heard something moving down below. There’s a cellar, a deep cellar. It sounded like . . .” She shook her head, impatient with herself. “Flain knows what. I’m not good with words. A dragging sound. Cold. Heavy.”