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.
The two men were near the fire. One was slumped on a stool, his arms folded on the table. He was staring deeply into the dull flames. The other stood, to Raffi’s amazement, by the window looking out into the dark. Both seemed so normal, as if they were lost in thought and would turn around at once. But neither did. Their crossbows lay on a huge weapons stack in the corner; Carys went over and helped herself to a pile of spare bolts.
“What story was it?” Galen asked, amused.
The Sekoi looked embarrassed. “These are crude men. It wasn’t easy. Frankly, keeper, it isn’t fit for your ears.”
Marco sniggered.
“Let’s go,” Carys said.
“Wait.” The Sekoi glanced swiftly at her. “I took the chance to search the place. On that wall are messages. Take a look.”
Carys felt Galen crowd behind her.
The board held brief reports, probably brought by post-riders from the nearest Watchtower. Each one told of the same thing—Sekoi movements; small bands of the creatures, lone travelers, even whole tribes, all heading west on every road.
“What does it mean?” Galen turned.
The Sekoi bit its nails. “It must be a Circling.”
“Which is?”
“A gathering. For something important.”
“You knew nothing of it?”
“Galen, I’ve been on Sarres all winter.”
Carys put her hand up to the board. In the top lefthand corner a larger notice had been torn off. The pin was still there, but only a fragment of white paper was left under it, with a few numbers that she stared at curiously. “I wonder where this went?”
“Why?” Galen looked at it.
“The numbers are the end of a code sequence. It was important—priority intelligence. Maybe direct from Maar.”
“Don’t you think we should go?” Raffi asked nervously.
“I agree.” Solon was watching the men in fascination.
“This is most strange. Will they remember seeing
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.
The two men were near the fire. One was slumped on a stool, his arms folded on the table. He was staring deeply into the dull flames. The other stood, to Raffi’s amazement, by the window looking out into the dark. Both seemed so normal, as if they were lost in thought and would turn around at once. But neither did. Their crossbows lay on a huge weapons stack in the corner; Carys went over and helped herself to a pile of spare bolts.
“What story was it?” Galen asked, amused.
The Sekoi looked embarrassed. “These are crude men. It wasn’t easy. Frankly, keeper, it isn’t fit for your ears.”
Marco sniggered.
“Let’s go,” Carys said.
“Wait.” The Sekoi glanced swiftly at her. “I took the chance to search the place. On that wall are messages. Take a look.”
Carys felt Galen crowd behind her.
The board held brief reports, probably brought by post-riders from the nearest Watchtower. Each one told of the same thing—Sekoi movements; small bands of the creatures, lone travelers, even whole tribes, all heading west on every road.
“What does it mean?” Galen turned.
The Sekoi bit its nails. “It must be a Circling.”
“Which is?”
“A gathering. For something important.”
“You knew nothing of it?”
“Galen, I’ve been on Sarres all winter.”
Carys put her hand up to the board. In the top lefthand corner a larger notice had been torn off. The pin was still there, but only a fragment of white paper was left under it, with a few numbers that she stared at curiously. “I wonder where this went?”
“Why?” Galen looked at it.
“The numbers are the end of a code sequence. It was important—priority intelligence. Maybe direct from Maar.”
“Don’t you think we should go?” Raffi asked nervously.
“I agree.” Solon was watching the men in fascination.
“This is most strange. Will they remember seeing
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