The Hidden Coronet (12 page)

The river raged. Glints and whirls of it slid through Raffi’s skull. A flash of phosphorescence, green as glass.

Marco struggled on. He was nearly at the rocks now, but the current dragged mercilessly at him, so that he jerked sideways. The Sekoi wound the rope around its thin wrists, heaving back; Galen grabbed on too.

Marco called something, words lost in the water-roar. His hand came up and pointed, dripping.

“What?” Carys shouted.

Another flicker. Raffi felt it shoot toward him, green and evil, saw its speed, its savagery, the gleaming intricate scales of its back.

“Galen!” he breathed.

But the keeper already had the rope tight. “Pull him back!” he yelled at the Sekoi. “Get him back!
Now
!”

Marco fell. Around him the water churned; he slipped and all at once was gone, his head bobbing up yards downstream, the rope unraveling with whiplash speed. Raffi grabbed it; the heat of the slithering coils burned through his gloves.

“My God!” Solon gasped. “What is that?”

As they hauled desperately at the rope, something was sliding up through the torrent beyond the rocks; a long crooked snout, a spiny crest, three eyes just above the surface, dark and narrow. Marco took one look and turned, kicking furiously for the shore. The current tore at him. Galen heaved on the rope.

“Carys!” he thundered.

“Got it.” She had the bow aimed; almost at once she fired, and the bolt sliced the water just past Marco’s head. He gave a howl of terror. The river roared and chasmed. And out of it rose a creature that made the hairs on Raffi’s arms and neck prickle with pure dread; a nightmare of Kest’s, its body scaled and ridged, mossed with tangled weeds that clung to it, encrusted with growths and hideous scrambling crabs. Carys’s bolt had struck it in the throat; it was gagging and choking, slime and blood hanging in spumes from wide jaws, behind it the whole river thrashing and raging in fury.

The rope was halfway in, wet and icy. Carys jammed another bolt in, swearing savagely.

The creature crashed down.

For a second the world was water, soaking them all. Marco’s face was a screech somewhere, seared with fear. “Pull him!” Galen drove his feet in, the rope taut. They were all heaving now, Raffi’s muscles cracking and aching with the weight.

The river opened huge jaws. Water foamed; there was blood in it. Marco was yelling, and the second bolt thumped into the scaled loops around him with a scream that might have been anyone’s; then in the river’s convulsions he was suddenly crumpled there, on the shingle, gasping, with Solon standing over him.

The Archkeeper kneeled and grabbed Marco’s arm. “Are you alive?”

The bald man managed a nod, and Solon stared up. “Back, creature of evil!” he shouted.

It hung above them, bending over them both like a wave. And then it slithered and streamed back and dissolved; the river gave up one great bubble, and ran smooth.

13

Surveillance reports must be studied.

Information must be collated and acted on. Failure to do so is a punishable offense.

Rule of the Watch

F
OR A LONG TIME THEY SAT SILENT under the trees, cold and utterly dispirited. The sun had gone; now twilight gathered, smelling of damp fungi. Marco still shivered, despite his borrowed layers of dry clothes.

They were all thinking the same thing, but it was Carys who said it. “No wonder they didn’t need to guard the crossing.”

“Was that an avanc?” the Sekoi wondered. “Never have I heard of one so far inland.”

“If it was, the spines are new,” Galen growled. He glanced at Marco. “And the stench.”

They could still smell it, a putrid fishy reek that brought clouds of gnats and hungry bloodflies out of the dark undergrowth. Solon slapped one off his face. “This is not a healthy place to mope, my friends.”

Carys sat up. “Quite right. So here’s what we do.”

“If you think,” Marco said savagely, “that I’m going anywhere near—”

“Save your breath. And forget the river. We’re going over the bridge.”

They all stared at her. Then Galen said, “Go on.”

She put her fingers together. “For a start, there’ll be no more than four Watchmen on a crossing this remote. We’ll need to split them up—a diversion. You can do that, Galen. Also, there’ll be dogs . . .”

“We can deal with most dogs,” Galen said briefly.

She nodded. “Right. Say we get them here in the wood. The other two men will stay on the bridge.”

“Which is double-barred,” the Sekoi murmured.

“Which is double-barred. So we get them to open it.”

Solon looked at her as if all this was too fast for him. “How?”

“A traveler wants to cross. Someone on his own. Not a keeper. Not on any wanted list. Someone they don’t know. Unarmed. Harmless.”

There was an uneasy silence.

The Sekoi looked up and saw everyone was looking at it. “Great,” it said acidly. It scratched its tribemark and managed a sour smile. “Kind of you to think of me, Carys.”

“You’ve done worse.”

“Oh? And what do you suggest I say to them when I get through the gate? With a crossbow pointed at each eye?”

Carys smiled sweetly. “I think you should tell them a story.”

THE TWO WATCHMEN STOOD in silence on the bridge.

“Can you still see them?”

“The lanterns. Just there.”

Between the trees small yellow lights flickered.

“What do you think it was?”

The taller man shrugged. “The avanc. You can smell it. It’s had some riverfox or other.”

Far off, the dogs barked. Deep in the woods the lanterns were lost for a moment, and a gray owl hooted. Under the roar of the water the silence was oppressive. Then a whistle blew. Six short blasts; one long.

Both men relaxed. The signal meant: “Investigating further. No danger.”

“Riverfox,” the smaller man said, turning away. “Nothing else screams like that.”

“RIGHT.” CARYS DROPPED THE WHISTLE into her pocket. “Off you go.”

The Sekoi glared at her, then at the two Watchmen crumpled in the shadows, their dogs curled up contentedly beside them. Raffi helped it on with its pack, the creature plucking the straps into place with its long fingers. It looked nervous and lanky.

“We’ll be right outside,” Raffi said.

“Small keeper, I’d be happier if you were inside.”

Galen stood up. “If you don’t want to . . .”

“Of course I don’t want to.” The Sekoi’s voice was an exasperated snarl. “However, I’ll go. The logic of the choice was impeccable. It’s just . . .” Its yellow eyes flickered to Carys. “I just wish someone else had suggested it.”

She tucked her red hair behind one ear and grinned.

Quietly, they all moved through the wood. On the edge of the trees the Sekoi stopped, put its hand into its coat, and made odd wriggling movements. Then it dumped a warm money belt into Raffi’s hands.

“A few small coins for the Great Hoard. If I don’t come back, pass them on to any Sekoi.”

Raffi felt the weight of it in amazement. “You’ve been busy.”

The Sekoi winked.

Then it was loping up the track to the bridge. Dappled moonlight lit its back, sending three tall shadows into the trees.

“A brave soul,” Solon muttered, half to himself. Behind him, Galen nodded.

When the creature got to the bridge it looked back, once. Through the sense-lines Raffi felt nothing, but the Sekoi were notoriously hard to reach. It turned and pulled a long cord.

Somewhere a bell jangled.

Crouching beside Solon under a fallen tree thick with ivy, Raffi felt rather than saw the Watchman who opened the grille. They were too far to hear what was said, but the words “Another one” rang in the sense-lines for a moment, and he knew the man had been sour, but hardly surprised.

He glanced at Solon. “They were expecting him?”

The Archkeeper looked grave. “They were expecting someone, my son. I pray we haven’t made a great mistake.”

The gate was opening. Like a shadow the Sekoi slipped in. The bolts shot to behind it, then the inner gate was opened; Raffi felt the slow, heavy drag of the wood, deep in the curved groove it had worn in the floor.

It slammed in his head.

And the river swirled by, breaking the sense-lines.

Galen leaned his head back against the ivy-covered tree.

“Now we wait,” he muttered.

IT SHOULDN’T HAVE TAKEN THIS LONG. Restless, Raffi strapped the belt of coins tighter under his shirt. It felt strangely heavy, as if it weighed him down. Keepers had no money—that was one of the Precepts of the Order. Idly he wondered what it would be like to spend all this.

After a daydream of warm beds and fine food, he came back to himself to find Solon praying the Litany quietly and Carys talking to Marco, lying on one elbow. Both had their bows ready.

“So how did you get yourself arrested?” she was saying.

The bald man grinned. “Oh, that. Bit of an error of judgment.” Dropping his voice so Galen wouldn’t hear, he said, “I had a contract from the Watch. I was a licensed dealer. Any relics I heard of, I bought up, usually from farmers, and then sold on to the Watch. The profit was pitiable, but sometimes,” he said with a wink, “sometimes I found something really juicy and held out for a good price. And of course, you can always get two castellans to bid against each other. They’ll do anything to get a promotion.”

Carys made a face. “You don’t have to tell me.”

He looked at her. “I’ll bet you were some spy.”

“The best.”

“And you don’t miss it?”

She winked at Raffi. “I’m still some spy.”

Marco chortled. “Well anyway, I went too far. Found a pen that memorized what you wrote with it—amazing thing, still working. I sold it to one Watchhouse, but the sergeant at the other found out and had my business dealings watched. That was that. In days I was in the cells.”

“That was where you met Solon?” Raffi said.

Marco glanced over at the older man. “Crazy old fool was giving away all his food to the others. If I hadn’t looked after him, he’d be dead.”

There was silence. Then Raffi said, “The Sekoi’s taking a long time.”

Carys shrugged. “That creature can scam its way out of anything.”

He knew that. He’d felt the powerful hypnosis of Sekoi stories himself, the way they dragged you in, so you smelled and heard and lived the adventure. He wondered what yarns it was spinning in there. Kalimar and the Wyvern? The Last Stand of the Sekoi at Hortensmere? A clatter made him jerk suddenly. Galen leaped up. “Get ready.”

The gate was being unbolted. They crouched, alert, Raffi suddenly afraid that the Sekoi’s battered body would be thrown out onto the track.

The gate swung wide. A tall figure stood there with a lantern.

“Well, Galen?” it said irritably. “Are you coming?”

Relief soaked Raffi. And scrambling out, for a second he remembered Tasceron, the blind alley, the screaming, vicious attack of the draxi.

The Sekoi looked smug. Both gates were open; as soon as everyone was through, Galen and Marco dragged them shut, slamming home the bolts and the intricate sliding levers of the great locks.

“What about the men outside?” Solon muttered.

“Listen to you!” Marco scowled. “You’re a softhearted wretch, even for a poor broken-down keeper.”

Solon smiled. “I wouldn’t want them to freeze.”

“They weren’t so concerned about us. They can knock, Your Holiness, just like anyone else. Try not to shed too many tears.”

Raffi looked scandalized.

Carys grinned. She could see the deep affection under the banter; it must have been all that kept the two of them sane in the horror of the Watch cells.

The Sekoi led them quickly over the bridge. The structure was wooden, and through the slits between the rough planks, Carys glimpsed the swift, dark rush of the water below. Their footsteps rang loud; coming to the north gatehouse the Sekoi turned. “Keep as quiet as you can.”

Inside, the guardroom was spartan. Just like every other Watchpost, she thought acidly, recognizing the rotas and huge logbooks, the endless Rules painted in red letters down the walls, the meager fire with its tiny ration of wood. And that smell, so hard to name, so full of hateful memories.