He went in quickly, before they could argue, Raffi tripping over the step in his haste.
Solon was wise, he thought. Galen would have scared her, and Marco she would have distrusted, but Solon was polite and kindly and travel-worn, and soon she was fussing over him as if he were her grandfather, fetching a hot drink and helping him off with his pack. He winked at Raffi and eased himself down by the fire with a sigh, stretching his legs out, clots of mud falling from his boots.
“We’re visiting relatives. You’re my grandson, and those two are your uncles. We’re all the way from Marnza Bay. Know it?”
Raffi shook his head.
“Never mind. With luck no one else will either.”
Galen and Marco came over and sat down. “All right?” Galen asked, looking around. No one seemed to be taking much notice of them.
“Safe as houses.” Solon held out his hands to the flames, looking happy. “She’s even cooking for us.”
Halfway through the meal, two Watchmen stalked in. Raffi nearly choked with terror, but after one glance Solon poured him a cup of ale, calmly. “We are in the Makers’ hands, Raffi. Let their will be done.”
Gulping it down, Raffi thought that in his own way the Archkeeper was as reckless as Galen. He picked at his food, glancing in the mirror as the two men questioned the ale-wife. She pointed over toward them.
Raffi’s heart thudded.
He couldn’t swallow. The palms of his hands were slippery with sweat.
“If they arrest us, go quietly,” Galen murmured. “Outside we can do something.”
But the Watchmen nodded, took another look around, and went out. Raffi breathed out in silent relief, but Galen’s eyes narrowed.
“We seem to be lucky,” Marco whispered, lifting his cup.
The keeper looked at him. “Too lucky,” he said.
They were given an attic room for the night.
A bed was wonderful, even if it was only stuffed with straw. Raffi threw himself on the nearest and rolled over, one arm over his eyes, as Solon went to close the hangings on the windows.
“Tomorrow,” Galen said, dropping the relic bag down in one corner, “we spend the rest of the money on food and leave as soon as we’ve asked about Watch movements.”
“I’m not sure, my son, that that will be possible.”
Something dry in Solon’s voice made Raffi sit up. He went over to the window and stood beside the old man, looking out.
What he saw made him groan.
The roofs of the town were already white.
It was snowing. Hard.
15
Like a bear to honey,
Moths to the flame,
We seek our destruction.
We have not learned how to be happy,
How to stop our headlong rush to death.
Poems of Anjar Kar
SOLON WAS WASHING.
He had stripped to the waist and Raffi could see the scars on his back and hands; horrible, twisted marks. He soaped himself in the hot water he had begged from the ale-wife, meticulously rubbing every inch of his skin. Maybe it was all that time in the cells, Raffi thought, that had made him so obsessive.
“He could go straight to them!” Galen raged.
“He won’t.” Solon groped for the towel. “He’s an outlaw.”
“Not if he sells us for his freedom.”
“My son.” The Archkeeper crossed the creaking boards and caught Galen’s arm. “You are sometimes like a tortured soul. Be still. I know Marco better than you do. He’s a rogue and a heretic, but he and I suffered in the same chains. He won’t betray me.”
Galen folded his arms. “I pray to God you’re right.”
“Which is exactly what we should be doing.” Solon pulled his shirt on over his head. Then he glanced back. “You have little fear of the Watch. But you have a deep hatred for what you think Marco is. Beware of it, Galen.”
Silent, Galen nodded.
They said the morning Litany, Raffi making the responses in a sleepy voice, wary of listeners at the door. Overnight the snow had fallen heavily; now it lay deep over the little town, clogging the narrow streets.
As they finished, Marco wandered in, chewing a large piece of bread.
“Breakfast is ready.”
Solon and Galen glanced at each other.
“So that’s where you’ve been.” Solon climbed to his feet.
“Where else? Chatting up the ale-wife. Her name is Emmy. She’s got three small sons and her husband is away.” He winked at Raffi. “She’s pretty too.”
Solon sighed. “Stop teasing the boy and lead the way. Sometimes I think I should have left you to the rope.”
“Not me, Your Eminence.” He glanced at Galen. “Just think how dull your life would have been.”
After breakfast they decided to work in pairs; Solon divided the money and they went out into the snow. All down the narrow streets shovels were scraping, voices rang sharp as bells in the frosty air. The wind raced, sending cloud shadows over the white plain below. Galen glanced up. “The wind’s rising.”
“The weather is certainly strange,” Solon mused. “We’d best keep enough money for another night’s lodging. We’ll meet you back at the inn.”
Watching Solon and Marco turn the corner Raffi said, “Will they be all right?”
Galen’s look was hard. “Solon thinks so.”
Trudging after the keeper between the heaps of cleared snow, Raffi tried a few sense-lines, but the world seemed icy and blurred, and all he felt was a cat in the house they were passing, rhythmically licking its tail, over and over.
He bumped into Galen.
“Stay alert,” the keeper snapped. He peered around a corner. “Any trouble, just walk away.”
The market was busy. People were desperate to buy food in case the weather worsened; there was an air of panic and fear. Supplies were scarce and things were expensive; Galen had to haggle over prices. A few times he got into conversation with the stall-owners, and all most of them could talk about was the weather.
“Huge floods out on the Morna river,” one man said, almost eagerly. “I’ve heard five villages are flooded, and a lot have died. On the roads east whole families are traveling: carts, oxen, the lot. They’ve had tidal waves on the coast and in Imornos sixteen people were killed when freak lightning struck a Watchtower and it collapsed on them. It’s like the end of the world.”
A few people nodded. One woman made the Makers’ sign with her hand furtively; seeing Raffi had noticed, she walked quickly away.
A small woman selling dried fruit said, “Talking of the Watch, I’ve heard they’re after someone big. Hush-hush.”
Galen frowned. “Keepers?”
“Who knows.” She poured raisins into a small sack. “My brother supplies the Watchtower—he says they’ve had reports the Sekoi are migrating. They’re no fools.”
They could find out nothing more. By midday the wind was gusting, flapping the faded awnings and chinking flag-ropes in their metal rings. Galen drew Raffi into a doorway. “Before we go back, we’ll check the shrine.”
Raffi closed his eyes in despair. “Galen . . .”
“I know. But we have to make certain no relics are left there. It’s our duty.” He pushed past, swinging the bag over his shoulder. Raffi stared after him. He imagined Carys standing nearby and said to her, “He’s mad.” She grinned. “Go on, Raffi. You made the choice.”
THIS SHRINE WAS AT THE END OF an alley that had been completely blocked with snow. A narrow trail had been dug for half of it, but then the snow lay thick and untrodden. Wading into it, Raffi felt the packed crystals crumple under his boots. In places it was waist-high, and he was soon soaked and bitterly cold, the strange gusty wind plucking at his coat. He clenched his fists, trying to keep the holes in his gloves together.