“Pity. All the dangers lie down there.”
“That’s nothing to me,” Galen growled.
The Sekoi raised an eyebrow at Raffi. “If you say so.”
A door in the dome led them to a stair, and they followed it down. After only minutes the light faded away; by the time they’d passed the third cracked window, darkness was back around them, and the Sekoi had to light its lantern and hold it up. Rats scattered all down the stairs.
Raffi felt his heart sink back into gloom. The sense-lines dimmed. From somewhere down below, the stench of something rotting made him retch. At the bottom of the stairs the Sekoi put the lantern out and hid it. Following through twists and turns of walls, they found themselves in a ruined courtyard. Picking its way through broken pillars and the leaning column of a sundial, the Sekoi paused under an archway. Beyond it the alley was black.
“Where now?” Galen muttered.
The creature eyed him. Then it said, “A few streets away is a story-house. A place where my people gather. We may find someone there who can help. Remember, keep silent.”
They moved close together. After the sunlight above, Raffi felt he had gone blind. But gradually walls reemerged from the gloom, dim outlines. They walked silently down a long street past what had once been shops; now they were drafty holes where rubbish gusted. The street felt cobbled, narrow between the high walls of grim buildings; a shutter banging in the silence; a fountain clotted with dead leaves.
Halfway down the Sekoi turned right, into a blacker crack; a strange archway spanned the entrance and under it Raffi caught a few words carved beautifully in stone: “Street of the Arch,” still clear after centuries.
Galen had stopped; he made a rapt sign with his hand. “Look there, Raffi.”
Above the street name was a niche with the remains of a statue. Fragments now, but Raffi knew in an instant what it had been: Soren, her arms full of flowers. A carved lily was still perfect in the stone.
“Hurry,” the Sekoi hissed from the dark.
Moving after it, Raffi tried to imagine the city as it had been once, filled with sunlight, full of shining statues of the Makers, its fountains rippling pure water, its streets thronged with pilgrims. For a moment he believed it, but it made the Darkness seem worse.
He almost walked past the others; Carys caught him. They were gathered in a narrow doorway. The Sekoi knocked twice, varying the pattern. Then it knocked again, four times.
They waited, nervous, in the inky street. Glancing back, Carys knew if a patrol was watching them it would be impossible to see. She fought off the sudden panicky thought and turned back.
Without a sound, a small grille in the door had opened. The Sekoi muttered a few sounds into it. Seconds later, the door was unlocked.
They never saw the doorkeeper. The Sekoi hustled them in down a lightless passage; the door locked behind them as they crossed a courtyard to an inner door. The Sekoi turned, blocking the way. “It’s best if you say nothing. They won’t speak to you anyway. Sit and watch. Try not to listen.”
With that strange remark they went in. The room was small, and lit with green candles that gave a wonderful light. To Raffi’s joy, it was full of Sekoi; about a dozen of the creatures, lounging on cushions around a fire. They all turned and looked as the strangers came in; then, as one, they looked away again.
“Sit down,” the Sekoi whispered. There were empty cushions in a corner; Carys perched on one, knees up. The storyteller, a female Sekoi sitting by the fire, did not pause; it went on speaking in their language of strange purring consonants, one hand moving as it talked, throwing deft shadows.
Fascinated, Raffi watched. He had never seen so many of them; he noticed the different colors and patterns of their fur, the small tribemarks. There were no young ones, though. No children. Each had an absorbed look, as if they dreamed or were in some trance as they listened, and they took not the slightest notice of the travelers.
Finally, the story came to an end. There was no applause, just silence, and then the creatures talked excitedly to one another.
“Why are they ignoring us?” Carys asked, annoyed.
The Sekoi smiled. “My people are honest. If the Watch question them they can say they’ve talked to no keeper, no Starmen.”
It uncurled itself and crossed the room and, taking the storyteller by the arm, began to whisper.
Galen fidgeted. “Are we safe here? How does it feel?”
“There’s nothing. I can’t read Sekoi.”
“I could.” The keeper’s hawk-face darkened. “But then, they’re usually safe. They despise most Starmen, especially the Watch. But not the Order.”
“Why call us Starmen?” Carys asked.
“Because the Makers came from the sky. The Sekoi say they watched them come. They have stories about it.” He laughed harshly. “They have stories about everything.”
Behind the quiet talk another teller had begun; an oldlooking Sekoi mumbling almost to itself. As he sat there, Raffi felt the pattern of words; at first they meant nothing to him, but as Galen and Carys talked, their voices faded out and the room rippled, as if it were an image in water. He closed his eyes and opened them, but the rippling went on; he turned to speak to Galen about it but the keeper had gone; all around him was a dark hillside under the stars, brilliantly frosty, and the seven moons beyond, making the Ring.
Standing there, Raffi shivered in the cold, feeling his fur thicken, seeing the night in new colors, colors that had no words but Sekoi words, and he said them to himself, quietly delighted.
In the sky, a light moved. It was a star that grew; it came closer to him, and the hum and glitter of it shook the frosted tops of the trees, and he saw how vast the stars were. It came down and landed. The whole world shook with its weight.
The star opened and the man walked out. Flain was tall and his hair was long and bright. But the sight of him made the fur on Raffi’s neck shiver; he rubbed at it and someone’s hand caught his and said, “Raffi! Raffi!”
Galen was crouched over him. Behind, the Sekoi was smiling. “I told you not to listen,” it purred.
Galen glared at it. “Is he all right?”
“Perfectly. Aren’t you?”
Raffi nodded, confused. He looked over, but the storyteller mumbled on, and now the words were impossible to understand.
“Listen,” the Sekoi said. “I’ve been advised that you should try the Street of the Wool-Carders. Apparently there may be a contact there. We should look for the name Anteus.”
Galen nodded. “Where is that?”
“Not too far. But near a Watchtower. I could show you.”
Galen looked at it curiously. “Why are you helping us?”
The Sekoi narrowed its yellow eyes. “Because the Watch think we’re worthless animals.” It grinned. “And in memory of our mutual friend, Alberic.”
“Have you still got his gold?” Raffi asked.
The Sekoi drew itself up, affronted. “My gold. He should pay his storytellers.”
Carys laughed. She wished she knew where the Sekoi hoard was. That would be useful information. But the Crow was better.
Back out in the black city, they headed for the Street of the Wool-Carders. All the streets seemed the same, but, crossing one huge empty square, Raffi sensed the space all around him, and eyes at his back. Spinning around, he saw only darkness.
When he told Carys, she took the crossbow off her shoulder and loaded it. “I’ve been afraid of that.”
“If only I could sense something clear!”
“I thought keepers were good at that.”
“Not here.”
The street, when they found it, was very short and bounded by a low wall with some sort of neglected garden on the other side; dead branches snapped under their feet. They walked up and down it twice, but there were no houses, no doors.