The Margrave (27 page)

“There should be voice controls,” Galen said irritably. “But maybe this . . .” Milo gave a yelp.

Alberic said, “We see you. God, you look worse than I do. Did you find your boy?”

Galen came forward and stood looking up. “We found Raffi,” he said, his voice quiet.

“And the Margrave?”

“The Margrave is dead.”

“Smart move.” Alberic sheathed his sword. “We’ve made a few killings here. Held them off for you, just like I said we would.”

Carys snorted. “You liar.” She waved at Milo. “No hard feelings.”

He shrugged, and stammered, “Well, no, but . . .”

She smiled sweetly. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

His face lit. “Thanks,” he whispered.

“My gallantry,” Alberic said briskly, “brings the price of this shebang up to three million.” He turned, as if someone had come in with a hasty message, then swung back, his narrow face transformed. “They’re pulling out!”

“We know,” Galen said calmly.

“Did you arrange it? God, keeper, that’s a trick I’d give a lot to master.”

“Listen.” Galen was impatient. “We’ll make our way back. Get your people ready.”

Alberic turned his back. “If you think I’m going anywhere . . .”

“You’re escorting the Interrex into Tasceron. An imperial escort, Alberic. Think of the luxury. The food, the wine. The palaces.”

The dwarf turned his sly face and spat. “I know your idea of luxury. A ruined hovel with no roof, that’s all you’re offering. Besides, Tasceron is a black hole.”

“Not anymore.”

The dwarf stared. Then he moved closer, his voice shrewd. “Are you telling me the truth? Does this mean the Watch are finished? That it’s over?”

“It will take time”—Galen looked at Quist—“but yes. We have infiltrated the Watch. They will be healed, like the planet, from within.”

Godric said, “Good news, Chief.”

“If it’s not all mumbo jumbo and claptrap.” Alberic smiled sourly. “Will there be any mercy for thieves under the Order though, eh? I doubt it. Give us ten years and we’ll be nostalgic for a few hangings and a firm hand. Maybe I should stick around after all.”

“You do that.” Galen moved to the controls, but Quist said, “Wait.” He looked up. “Is she safe?”

“Safe!” Alberic turned in disgust. “She’s driving me crazy.”

Scala was lounging on the bed, smiling. “So you’re alive, lover. It’s more than I thought. This means our reward is gone, then?”

“And any ransom.” Quist’s voice was low.

“So we ride free?”

He nodded. Then he said urgently, “Scala, you will wait for me?”

She picked a fruit from the bowl and threw it playfully at Alberic. “To be frank, lover, I can’t promise. The company here is less than classy.”

The screen dimmed. Quist was smiling; when he saw Carys’s look, he shrugged. “She’s crazy about me,” he muttered. And then, to himself, “Or she will be.”

 

 

RAFFI SAT SILENT in the dark room, his feet up on the seat, his head sideways on his knees. When the door creaked open he did not look up, or around. After a moment, the Sekoi came in and sat by the brazier, in the Margrave’s chair, staring deep into the red coals. In the silence the fuel settled, a light tinkle of sifting cinders. When the Sekoi spoke, its voice was gentle. “My actions have threatened our friendship, Raffi.”

He didn’t answer, so it went on, “You had grown fond of the creature.”

“No.”

“I think so. You came to find something likeable in it. That is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Raffi said, “It used to sit there. It told me about the Makers, how it used to talk to them. It told me such things . . . and such lies, and now I’ll never know what the truth is.” He couldn’t bear it; he jerked his head up and hissed, “Why did you do it! I don’t understand why! It had helped us.”

“I waited until it had done so.”

“You betrayed it! All of us! Did you plan this from the start? Have you always despised our ways so much that . . .” His voice broke. He shook his head. “I just don’t understand,” he whispered.

The Sekoi smiled unhappily. “Do you remember how once, long ago, Galen warned you that the Sekoi could not be trusted? That we have our own beliefs as you have yours, and hold them as dearly? He and I knew there would be a time when those beliefs would conflict. That time has come. Raffi, I cannot explain to you the . . . hatred the Sekoi felt for this creature. And the pity.”

“Pity!”

“Yes.” It scratched its fur. “It was one of us once. Kest took it and mutated it over the years. He used the genes of animals, and of Starmen. Your stories say it was a man he used, but that was not so, and the Sekoi have always known it—it has been our deepest shame. And each of us is taught that if ever we should even glimpse it, it must die.”

Raffi rubbed his face. He felt weary and lost. “It called you terrible and unforgiving.”

“So we are.” The Sekoi leaned forward. “We are not like you. I knew Galen too well. He could not kill. And Carys is becoming like him. Only I could do this. And with it I have made amends for my betrayal of the Great Hoard. It was harsh, but evil must not be allowed to spread. The innocent must not be corrupted. It would have corrupted you, in the end. If the Makers had only acted long ago . . .”

“It wasn’t evil,” Raffi hissed. “It did evil things, but . . .”

“What is evil, if not that?” The Sekoi stood. “I will have to go before my people for their judgment. But before I do, I would like to have your forgiveness. If you can give it.”

Raffi pushed back his hair and looked up. “Why me? I should thank you. I could never have survived down here.”

“Nevertheless, it is you I ask.”

He was silent a long time. Then, with an effort he said, “I hate what you did. But I will never hate you.”

The Sekoi nodded sadly. “Then I will have to be content with that.”

It was halfway through the door when Raffi whispered, “That was the way I felt about the Margrave.”

 

 

GALEN CARRIED THE MARGRAVE’S body down and laid it in the crystal sphere, its ridged hands clasped. He closed the door and then, to their surprise, spread his arms and chanted the long prayer of Atonement, said only for keepers. Raffi joined in, his voice hoarse. He felt so strange. Through the thick crystal he watched the face of the being that had lived so long, that had spoken with the Makers, that had hunted him through the world, had terrified him. When had he stopped being afraid of it? When had he begun to think of it differently? He couldn’t remember. But it had changed him, and now it was dead. Although, in the heart of the machines, somewhere in their hum, in the energies of the awen-field, something of it lingered. For no one dies, the Book says. Not even the worst of us.

 

 

HE TOOK SOME OF the Earth books, pushing them into Carys’s pack.

“What are these?” she asked.

“I want to take them. Don’t tell Galen.”

“You’re not his scholar anymore, Raffi. Take what you want.” Shoving them down in the pack she said, “What will happen if we get to Tasceron?”

“Felnia will be crowned.” Galen stood in the doorway, the Sekoi behind him. “And we will call a great meeting of the Order. Everyone left alive will come, keepers and scholars, out of hiding, out of terror.” He put an arm around Raffi’s shoulders. “We will choose a new Archkeeper.”

“It should be you.”

“Not me.” Galen laughed darkly. “The Crow will have much to do. There is a whole world to be remade; it will not happen quickly.”

Tugging the straps on the pack tight, Carys was silent a moment. Then she looked up. “Galen. You’ve lost your scholar.”

“Not lost.”

“Yes, but what I mean . . .” The strap would not go through the buckle; she threw it down in exasperation. “What I mean is, are you looking for another? Another scholar?”

He scowled. “Carys, if you mean that nephew of Alberic’s, I’m sorry but . . .”

“I mean me.”

“
You!”

“Yes.” She couldn’t help grinning. She had finally done it. For the first time since she had known him she had utterly astonished him.

He stared at her, wordless.

“Don’t you think I can do it?”

“Of course you could,” Raffi said.

“I agree,” the Sekoi said softly.

Galen took a breath. His voice was quiet. “I am not an easy master, Carys.”

“Oh, I know. Neither was the Watch. And I warn you, I’m not going to be the easiest of scholars. Is there some test I have to pass?”

The keeper said, “If there were, you would have already passed it.” He put his hand in his pocket, took out the beads that had been Raffi’s, and tossed them to her. “Welcome home, Carys,” he said quietly.

 

 

RAFFI WAS THE LAST to climb over the lip of the pit. The Sekoi helped him up, and he stared in utter joy at the sunlight, the pale moons, at the blue dome of the sky. All around them after the rain, the desert had bloomed, a glorious flood of tiny fragile flowers, red and palest pinks. They stood among it all in silence. And along the sense-lines a voice came to him, and the voice was Flain’s.

“I have been here before you, Raffi,” it said. “And the Deepest Journey starts here.”

Carys looked back at him. Galen said, “They will still come.” He looked out at the miles of sunlit land. “Remember those words we heard in the House of Trees.
Wait.
We might have completed their work, but we still need them.”

Raffi nodded. “I know,” he whispered.

“A thriller of the highest order; Fisher could give the show
24
a run for its money with her twists and messed-up characters. I read one chapter and putting it down took a serious act of will.”

—Junot Diaz quoted in
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★ “Fisher’s dystopic future, in which technology and decay coexist in a dazzling kaleidoscope of images and time periods, is brilliantly realized . . .”

—
The Horn Book
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★ “A tour de force . . . [for] fans of steampunk and epic fantasy alike . . .”

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School Library Journal,
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★ “Breathless pacing . . . shocking twists and a killer ending . . .”

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Booklist
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★ “Like the finest chocolate, a rich confection of darkness, subtlety and depth, bittersweet and absolutely satisfying.”

—
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★ “Fisher scores a resounding success in this beautifully imagined science fantasy.”

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“Intricately plotted and richly imagined . . . The surprise ending will leave readers clamoring for the sequel.”