A sound, to the left. Cautiously he twisted his head. The boots were back. They stood close by the left front wheel, one up on the rim, the other turned aside. With a hiss of breath, Raffi gripped so tight his hands ached.
The Watchman had dropped something. A coin.
It lay there in the mud. For a terrible second, Raffi stared at it; then the man had bent and was groping for it, his face close to Raffi’s, the long straggly hair falling over his eyes. His hand reached under the wheel and touched the coin.
Then he was gone, like a nightmare.
Icy with sweat, Raffi clung on as the wagon began to move, lurching and swaying. The shadow of the gate fell over him; briefly there were paved stones, the hollow echo of hooves in a covered place. Then more mud.
He breathed a prayer. He was in the city.
RAFFI CLUNG TIGHT till the wagon came to a corner and slowed; then he let go and slid down with a thump, unable to stop himself. The street was dim; the wagon rolled noisily over him, its great wheels creaking high on each side. He lay there till it had gone, then picked himself up painfully, his hands so rigid he could hardly open them. Standing upright made him gasp, his knees weak.
“Raffi!”
The hiss was from a doorway; briefly Carys’s face showed in a patch of light. “Over here!”
Limping across, he slid in beside her, down to a crouch.
“All right?”
“Half dead.” Rubbing his aching arms, he looked up. “Curse Galen to the pit, and all his ideas!”
“It seems to have worked.” She sounded amused; looking at her he saw she was filthy, her face smeared with grease. He must look as bad.
“Where now?”
“The building with the spire. It must be close.”
They were in a narrow street, evil-smelling, the houses leaning overhead. There was no light, not even from the moons. He wondered if their light ever reached down here, through the blackness of the blighted city. He could glimpse drifts and wraiths of smoke around him, as if the wind could never blow it away. The vapors rose from drains and sewers; anyone who lived here in the rotting city had long forgotten the warmth of the sun. Deep underground, Tasceron was burning. That was its punishment, and for them, its safety.
A rat scuttled down the street. Raffi caught hold of Carys and they ran close to the walls of the dim buildings, stumbling over rubble and holes. A peculiar low screech made them stop and look up in terror, and they saw above the house tops a great dark shape float across the gloomy gap.
“What was that!”
Carys shook her head. “I daren’t think.”
When they found it, the building was ruined. A great hole gaped in the wall; above them the spire crumbled into darkness.
“Looks like it’s going to fall down,” Raffi muttered.
“Maybe.” Carys glanced around. “Is he here?”
“I don’t know.” Raffi rubbed his face. He was so tired, and already the city confused him, the smoke fogging his sense-lines. Nothing felt clear. He climbed in through the hole after her.
It was pitch-black. They edged forward a step.
“Galen?” Raffi whispered. “Galen, are you here?”
The crack of the tinderbox answered him. In a far corner a flame grew; it showed a dark face turning toward them. Carys grinned and took a step in, but Raffi grabbed her, rigid. “It’s not him.”
The face was filthy. A great burn-mark seared one cheek and, as the man raised himself up, they saw that half of his hair was gone, and the burned scalp was painted with a hideous snake, its great fangs wide. He uncurled himself; stained blankets fell from him; he muttered something and to his right another sleeper groaned and sat up.
Suddenly Raffi saw they were all around him; huddled, uncurling shapes. “Out!” he said. “Get out! Now!”
She was already moving. As he fled he heard shouts; in corners faces rose up and stared at him, grotesque faces without eyes, scarred, skeletal with hunger. Leaping the wall, he flung spell-binds behind him, but it was hard to think; the horror of the uncurling creatures made him race into the darkness heedless, around a corner, down a street, until a shadow stepped out in front of him and grabbed him with both hands.
“Keep still. Keep still!”
“Galen . . .” He was shuddering, breathless.
“I know. They’re not following.” The keeper dragged him to a dim corner and crouched, while Raffi drew long shuddering breaths, sick with fear, listening to Carys explain. She wasn’t afraid, he thought bitterly. And yet he was the one with all the powers. All the defenses.
“Beggars,” Galen said grimly. “Or worse. We must get farther in. Right away from the gate. Then we can rest.” He looked down at Raffi. “Can you walk?”
Ashamed, Raffi pulled upright. Without a word, Galen turned away.
They traveled down three long streets, then a network of narrow alleys where the rats scrabbled, across wide squares, empty and silent, where only a broken fountain trickled. Deep into the city Galen led them, without direction, looking only for somewhere safe. On each side the doorways were black and sinister. Broken shutters creaked. For Raffi it was a nightmare of weariness and pain; the darkness was foul and in it moved voices and ghosts that strained at his senses, and beyond them was the memory of some great disaster, a horror that seeped and smoked from the very walls and ruins.
Finally, Galen stopped. He searched among the shadows and found a small room in the back of a building; once a house, with a courtyard of black weeds. They searched the place twice and found no one, but Galen wouldn’t be satisfied until he had blocked the doorway the best he could with splintered wood. Then, without a fire or bothering to eat, they lay down and slept.
Deep below his ear, deep in the earth, Raffi felt the city smolder and crackle.
17
Many lies have been told about the fall of Tasceron. The truth is that whatever weapon of chaos the Order tried to use against us blew up in their faces. As will all their follies.
Rule of the Watch
Journal of Carys Arrin Time unknown, Cyraxday(?) 18.16.546
It was a crazy plan. As soon as Galen came out with it, I knew we were bound to be caught, so I made sure I went first.
The Watchmen on the gate were thorough, and knew their job. I was out from under that wagon and dragged into the turret in seconds, and it took a great deal of argument to convince them who I was. I knew the passwords, of course, the name of a Watchlord, and I have my agent’s insignia on a chain under my clothes. Still, I had to bribe them in the end. And I didn’t tell them who Galen was, just that I was working undercover with two spies, who should be allowed to think no one knew about them.
It worked; we’re in, and Galen and Raffi don’t know. And yet the gate guards will have sold their knowledge on to someone higher, without doubt.
They’re both still asleep. The encounter with that nest of horrors scared Raffi—the shock of it, I suppose. The keeper works him too hard; he can’t be ready for all this yet. And on the ship it was Raffi who did the weather-warding.
That unnerved me. It’s quite clear the Watch have lied to us, and that makes me angry. The Order do have powers and they’re real. It makes me wonder how much else I don’t know. The Watch wants all relics—to destroy them, according to our teachers—and yet, I wonder. What if someone high up wants this power for themself?