The Margrave

15

I am in darkness, and abandoned, my eyes without sight, my mind without memory.

I am forgotten by my friends.

Even God has turned his back on me.

Litany of the Makers

HE LAY STILL. His eyes were gummy and his mouth dry; as he dragged a hand up to his face, he felt the ache of bruises, the stiffness of his legs lying crookedly under him. The touch of his own skin was rough, unfamiliar.

He didn’t know where he was. His fingers went to his neck and felt absently for something that should have been there, but he couldn’t remember what. His mind had deep black holes in it and they were joining up. Blotting him out. With a struggle he managed to sit up. There was a pack beside him; he recognized it vaguely and rummaged inside. A few crumbs of dried bread. The water was all gone.

He only knew he was thirsty. The agony of it was a dull pain between his eyes, crowding out everything else; he staggered up, through the neat stacks of baled hay. It was some sort of barn. When he found the door he pushed it open weakly, blinking in the brilliant sunlight.

“God, son,” someone said. “You look rough.”

He stumbled out. The men were sitting in a row. They wore dark clothes and their horses cropped the abandoned fields. They had a table with maps spread on it. And they had water.

Raffi moved toward it quickly. Someone tripped him and he fell; everyone roared with laughter. Then they tossed a small leather flask to him, and he drank, desperately, endlessly.

“Hey!” one of them shouted, but he ignored that, drinking and drinking until the cold water was all gone. Then he looked at them.

They were Watch.

The knowledge jolted him. Why hadn’t he seen that! What was the matter with him?

“Is he worth taking?” A Watchman got up, casually unwinding rope from his waist.

“Makes up the quota.” The one who had thrown the water came over. “Not much muscle, though. What’s your name, boy?”

Raffi rubbed his face. Someone was telling him not to speak, but he ignored it, groping after the name and saying it carefully. “Raffael.”

“What?”

“More . . . More.”

“Papers?”

He stared up at the man, blank. “What papers?”

“God! What sort of a bender have you been on!” Roughly, expertly, the man hauled him up and searched him. “Nothing! Where are they?”

“I don’t know.”

The Watchman slapped him, hard. “Don’t mess with me. Everyone has papers!”

Stunned, Raffi shook his head. He tried to hang on to his balance, but he was too dizzy. He crumpled into the mud on his knees, and shook his head hopelessly. “Not me,” he whispered.

HE WAS IN A CART. Being jolted. Other bodies were packed in around him; someone elbowed him in the ribs. “Move over. And stop mumbling!”

It was dark. Through a slot there were stars, and six of the moons. He counted them over and over, trying to pin their names on in bright letters, Atterix, Cyrax, Lar, but the letters kept falling off and one name was always missing. He groped after it, back in darkness.

“FLAINSTEETH! Are these the best you could get! An idiot and a cripple!” The bald overseer behind the table made a gloomy note on his paper. “With this sort of rubbish, no wonder we’re behind schedule. When I said get anyone, I didn’t mean anyone.”

“The boy’s wiry, though his brain’s gone. This one can work too, despite the arm. Sign for them and finish it.”

Fascinated, Raffi watched the overseer’s pen scratch over the grimy paper. Someone grabbed his arm; something cold was pressed onto his neck. “Number twentyseven,” a voice snapped. “Remember that.” All around him gangs of workers hauled stone, chipped stone, chiseled stone. The noise was deafening, the air thick with flying dust.

“Get them started. Fourth section. Cato’s Cleft.”

A great hairy rope was put in his hands and he heaved on it. All day he dragged the rope, and others dragged, and the one nearest him was a scrawny one-armed man who whispered, “Put your back into it, son. Slack off when they’re not looking. That’s it. You’ve got it,” until it was hours later and he was slumped in exhaustion and his hands were raw and the one-armed man was eating both their rations of food.

Out of nowhere, clarity swung into Raffi’s mind. He struggled up. “That’s mine. You’re eating mine.”

The man stared. “You can speak?”

“Of course I can speak.”

“God help us, boy, you’ve gone all day without a word! Two days, come to that. I thought you were weak in the head.” He glanced ruefully at the hard bread and onions and then laughed. “Well, you’d better eat too.”

Raffi tore the bread and sucked it; it was too dry to bite. The onions made his eyes water.

“So why the dumb act?” The one-armed man considered him.

“It’s not an act.”

“No. You look sick, lad. Feverish.” He backed off hastily. “Not catching, is it?”

Raffi drank some water clumsily. His hands were so sore; the pain had come out of nowhere, into his back and shoulders, and to hide from it he said, “Where are we? Are we prisoners?”

The man roared with laughter, showing broken yellow teeth. “Flainsthumb, son! You are an idiot.” But then he stopped abruptly and said, “This is the Wall we’re building. This is Cato’s Cleft, in the Sarno hills, three leagues from Maar, and they’ve had fourteen men crushed here in the last week in rock-falls. Our chances don’t look good.”

“Maar?” Raffi whispered. “Did you say Maar?”

“Sure. Just up the road.”

It was a syllable of horror. He didn’t know why. Like a touch on a raw wound, his mind flinched away from it.

The man was watching him carefully. “You’ve had some bang on the head, haven’t you? What do they call you?”

“Raffi.” He looked up suddenly. “Do the Watch know my name? Did I tell them?”

“You told them some name. Is it important?”

“I don’t know.” Raffi looked around, utterly confused. They were in a small wooden hut, the door chained and bolted. It was crammed with prisoners, men and women. Most were asleep, others huddled together open-eyed. They were all filthy. So, he realized, was he. His hair was matted with mud; as he scratched, things crawled in it.

“Look . . .”

“Silas.”

“Look, Silas, something’s happened to me. I’ve been ill. For days . . . I think . . . perhaps days . . .”

“Take it easy.” The man edged closer. “Keep your voice down and tell me quietly. Anyone in here could be a spy.”

Knees up, Raffi struggled to think. It was getting harder again. “Including you,” he said slowly.

“Sure, son.” The man rubbed his stump; it ended in a filthy dressing at the elbow. “Sure I could. And so could you. But if you want to talk, I’ll listen. If not, get some sleep. You need it. Tomorrow’s a long day.”

“It’s just . . . I get lost . . . my mind drifts. I was on some sort of journey.” He shivered, putting his forehead on his knees. “Galen would know, but . . .”

“Galen?” the man asked quickly.

Raffi shook his head.

“Who’s Galen?” Silas leaned nearer. He stank of onions and sweat.

“I can’t remember. It’s just, if I start saying things . . . the Watch . . .”

“Then keep shut. Like you did today. Say nothing.”

“But if I do, will you warn me? If I tell them?” He was so giddy, he couldn’t sit up anymore, and had to lie on the damp floor, struggling through weariness for the words. “If I tell them things. Do you understand?”

“Things?”

“Secrets.” His voice trailed off; his eyes closed.

Silas bent and whispered in his ear, “Whose secrets, Raffi?”

Raffi turned sleepily. When he answered, his voice was barely there. “The Order’s.”

Silas stared down at him a long time, and then nodded. “Sure,” he muttered. “Sure. I understand.”

THEY WORKED FROM DAYBREAK until dark. Cato’s Cleft was a fearsome place. The Wall had to cross it, a sheer ravine of loose scree where the streambed had been hastily diverted and the rock-falls made the task of raising the highest levels dangerous. It was hard labor: hauling rock or carrying it in great baskets, up the hills of rubble, tipping it into the infill of the Wall, the dust choking them, filling their eyes. There was little water, less food. For three days Raffi worked almost without thinking, the rare moments of clarity flecking his bruised mind like shafts of sunlight in a dark wood. He kept silent as much as possible. Slowly, he forced himself to remember that he was a prisoner of the Watch, that this was the Wall, that there was someone called Galen and someone else called Carys who didn’t know where he was. There was some great unhappiness just behind him; he became convinced it was following him like a shadow, a nightmare that would devour him if he even let himself think of it. Only at night would the knowledge wake him out of terrified dreams; a distorted creature watching him from a maze of mirrors, but when he woke and sat shivering and rocking himself among the sleeping slaves, he could never remember what the terror had been or whose long, strange hand had gripped his.

Silas stayed close. The scrawny man worked stripped to the waist, a makeshift scarf wound around head and mouth and nose. He made one for Raffi too, and though it was hot and smelled of horses, Raffi was glad to wear it, because it made him feel disguised, hidden, and his tangled hair and ragged shirt were unrecognizable too. Silas was a survivor; he quipped with the guards, stole water, kept them off the dangerous jobs.

“I’m looking out for you, boy,” he would mutter, hauling a basket of broken stone one-handed onto the barrow. “Your head’s getting better. You even remembered my name this morning.”

Once, when the terrible blankness had gone for a moment, Raffi asked him about his hand.

Silas spat. “You’ve guessed, or you should have. Cut off for theft. I was lucky not to lose both.”

“You!” A Watchman came up; Raffi ducked his head instantly, his heart thudding. “Silas! You and your idiot friend up on the top, now. They need a few extra hands.”

“Sure,” Silas said drily. “So do I.” He pushed Raffi toward the ladders. “Go on, lad. It’s a chance to get out of the dust, at least.”

Scaling the ladder, Raffi felt the dizziness creep back, had the feeling he was climbing and climbing into some great castle, but as he hauled himself wearily over the edge, a roaring wind struck him and he staggered up, balanced on the half-built top of the mighty Wall. Out there, like a nightmare, stretched the Unfinished Lands.

Here, they were stark and empty. A great desert of hot sand, in places vitrified by some intense heat, with oily black pools that bubbled and spat and stank. Not far off was a structure that might once have been a house. Now it was a ruin in the sand, half lost, its cracked roof glinting with tiny rainbows.

“God!” Silas gripped Raffi’s shoulder, staring out into the raging wind. “So that’s what we’re keeping out,” he yelled. “No wonder the Makers left!”

Small flies buzzed up here, clouds of them. Raffi beat them off feverishly. “Makers?” he whispered. And instantly, the light went on in his brain. He gasped, clutching his head in agony. It was a small red light, and it pulsed right through him. For a second, all around him, a net of sense-lines woke and crackled.

“Raffi. Get up!” Silas was hauling at him.

“I can feel it,” he gasped. “It’s the signal!”

“Signal?”

“It must be Carys! The relic!” It was all flooding back. The relic power lit his mind like a Maker-lamp in a dark room; it energized him. He remembered everything. He grabbed the man’s arm. “She must be close. Somewhere near!”

Silas looked around. Two Watchmen were closing in. “For God’s sake, Raffi . . .”

It was too late. A crossbow jabbed Raffi’s ribs. “All right, what’s going on? Get on your feet.”

He was hauled up; a whip flicked. Stinging pain slashed down one arm. “Leave me alone.” Raffi snarled it; the Watchman’s eyes widened.

“Since when could you talk!”

“He’s not been well,” Silas said hastily. “Had a bit of a knock.”

“Has he! Then I’ll give him another one.” The Watchman caught hold of Raffi, dragging him around.

“Don’t touch me!” Anger charged him; it surged from the awen-field. The air cracked with a vivid explosion, a blue spark that struck the Watchman full in the chest and flung him back, senseless, hard against the heaped stone.

There was a stunned silence. All work had stopped. Raffi glanced around. A ring of crossbows pointed at him.

Silas stepped back quickly, raising his hand.

“He’s nothing to do with me,” he said rapidly. “Don’t bring me into this.”

“He was with you,” a Watchman hissed.

“I don’t know him. But I can tell you what he mutters in his sleep.”

Something shifted behind; before Raffi could turn, a rope was around him, pinning his arms tight. He was grabbed and hauled down, struggling, kicking.

Silas gazed down at him. “It’s about the Order,” he said, his voice very quiet. “A lot of stuff about the Order.”