‘You felt your father die?’ asked Kargrin. ‘You have the Abhorsen’s death sense?
‘I suppose so …’ faltered Clariel. ‘I never realised before that’s what it is …’
‘But you didn’t feel your mother die,’ said Kargrin. His forehead was crinkled with concern, and his voice showed he was trying to be kind, but was desperate to know the answer.
‘No,’ said Clariel. ‘But I was already on the stair. Her spell forced me to go. Otherwise I would have stayed to fight. I would have!’
‘I’m sure you would,’ said Kargrin. ‘But better you didn’t.’
‘Is there … Could Mother have survived?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Kargrin heavily. ‘Kilp was ever a master of misdirection. He’s put out a broadsheet claiming the King is dead, killed by insurrectionists, which is false of course. It also says that the King named Jaciel as his heir, with Kilp as “Lord Protector”, his name for an all-powerful regent. The coronation of the new Queen will take “some time” due to the “rebellion”, which is being suppressed by “loyal forces” under the Governor’s direction.’
‘So Mother might be alive,’ said Clariel wonderingly.
Kargrin shook his head. ‘I very much doubt it. No one has seen her, supposedly because she’s grief-stricken over the King’s death. I think she was killed with your father. I am sorry, Clariel.’
‘I still can’t … It doesn’t seem real,’ whispered Clariel. ‘But how can Kilp say the King is dead?’
‘Easily,’ said Kargrin, with a shrug. ‘The Governor’s story is that rebels have seized the Palace and killed the King. The Trained Bands have surrounded the Palace. It’s not quite a siege, not yet, but no one can come out. They’re emplacing war engines now on Coiner’s Hill, bolt-throwers, to shoot down Paperwings, though that will take some hours yet; and several galleys of the Eastern Company are standing off the Palace sea gate. All very well organised, as you would expect from Kilp.
‘Of course, none of this would be possible if it weren’t for the King’s obstinance. If Orrikan would just show himself on the city side of the wall Kilp’s nonsense would be obvious to all, and I’m sure there are loyal Guildmembers who would turn on Kilp. But the King won’t do it. He keeps muttering about letting all the poison out, to only hasten Tathiel’s reappearance.’
‘But does anyone … Do the people believe that the King is dead?’
‘They don’t know he’s not,’ said Kargrin. ‘Which is probably more to the point. He has been so absent these last few years that most of the people accept that Kilp is the power in the land, whether they like it or –’
Three quick knocks sounded on the door at the top of the steps, followed by two more.
‘Ah, all-clear. Let us go up. Follow me.’
Clariel noted that despite the signal knocks, Kargrin went warily, and she saw the glimmer of Charter marks held in his right hand, some spell that was already partially formed, needing only a master mark to complete it. But the door opened easily, and the innkeeper on the other side led them along a corridor, through a clean and airy kitchen and into a common room that looked snug and prosperous, despite its currently empty benches and tables and dearth of customers.
‘Told the regulars my wife’s sick and I’m feeling ill myself,’ said the innkeeper. ‘She’s enjoying playing the part. Gone to bed. I’ll join her in a minute.’
He indicated the bay window, which had heavy winter drapes of dark, coarse fabric drawn across it.
‘Just twitch the curtain aside, you’ll get a good view,’ he said. ‘And if you don’t mind, when you do go, take the side door I showed you, please, Magister.’
‘We will,’ said Kargrin. ‘Thank you, Jezep.’
‘Honour to serve,’ said Jezep. ‘May the Charter be with you.’
He bowed, and left. Clariel heard his heavy footsteps going upstairs to join his wife. She hoped that he would be able to claim ignorance and innocence if … or when … Kilp’s people came looking for their escaped prisoner.
Kargrin went to the window, knelt down and gently lifted a tiny corner of the curtain. Sunlight came through this spy hole, the soft light of early morning.
‘Street’s empty,’ reported Kargrin, blinking madly, his eyes tearing up from the sunlight after his sojourn as a giant mole. ‘Just one pie seller and her cart is set well back off the road. I hope I was right about those bolt-throwers on the hill being slow to set up. And Bel being fit enough …’
‘Where is Bel going to fly me to? Back to the Palace?’ asked Clariel. She thought about where she wanted to go, but there was no obvious answer. She still yearned for the Great Forest, but a part of her now felt that she hadn’t … earned … that. Her parents had been killed, and their murderers still lived. That needed to be rectified. The Great Forest would have to wait.
Kargrin shook his massive head.
‘No,’ he said. ‘We have to get you safe. If your mother really is dead, then Kilp will want to see you set up as Queen, married to Aronzo and safely under his control. Bel will fly you to the Abhorsens at Hillfair.’
He rumbled up and gestured at the spy hole.
‘Have a look, get both eyes adjusted to daylight,’ he said. ‘If you see the Paperwing, tell me immediately. Do you want a glass of wine?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Clariel. She sat down by the window and looked out. Going to the Abhorsens at Hillfair. To her grandfather and aunt, and apparently a multiplicity of cousins. Who all thought her mother was a kinslayer … It was not an attractive proposition. Except that the Abhorsens would surely gather a force to combat Kilp, so she could at least join in that …
Clariel sighed and blinked. Even though the morning light was diminished by a band of clouds, it was still harsh on her eyes. The street looked much like any other street in Belisaere, paved with grey stone and bordered by the deep but gently curved gutters built to cope with the torrential rain in spring. This road was wider than the streets on Beshill, but the houses opposite, though as always faced with white stone, were only two or three storeys high and in general looked less well-kept.
There was no one on the street, which was very unusual in any part of the city. Clariel saw the pie seller diagonally opposite, leaning against her handcart, looking disgruntled. She wasn’t even bothering to keep the firebox going so the pies stayed hot, judging by the lack of smoke from the slim bronze chimney at the front of the cart. No point wasting money on fuel as well as a barrow-load of unsold pies that would have to be sold for animal fodder. Unless the citizens of Belisaere were less discerning than those in Estwael, who could detect a day-old pie at first glance, let alone first taste.
Clariel was thinking about the pies in Estwael when a long shadow flitted along the street, raced up the walls of the house near the pie cart, then turned and went back along the street again. The shadow was followed a moment later by the Paperwing that had cast it, the aircraft banking and looping around to land into the wind, coming down to swoop along the road a mere fingerbreadth above the stone paving, before sliding to a very neat halt three or four houses to the right of the inn.
‘Paperwing’s landed!’ shouted Clariel, jumping to her feet.
chapter twenty
you don’t see that every day
‘He has flown swiftly!’ said Kargrin. He set his wine glass down on the closest table and took Clariel’s hand. ‘Come on!’
They went out the side door of the inn into a narrow alley crowded with empty barrels stacked high against one wall. Clariel’s shoulder bumped against them as Kargrin dragged her along. He increased his pace to a full-out run as they reached the street, running to the Paperwing, the pie seller staring with her jaw open, her lack of sales now partially made up for by a story she could tell over many drinks.
The Paperwing was smaller than Clariel had expected. She’d seen them flying before but in the far distance, which made it hard to gauge their size and shape. This one had a body rather like a slim boat, tapered at e
ach end, with a hole in the middle where the occupants sat. Its hawklike wings stretched out and back from the middle. They were partially folded for landing, but when fully extended would stretch for forty paces a side, or perhaps even more. The whole craft was made of paper, Clariel knew, layered and bonded together with secret glues and considerable Charter Magic. The outer layers were coloured in glorious reds and golds, in swirls, dots and circles, save for the front where dark, very lifelike eyes looked ahead on either side.
Bel was standing up in the middle of the craft, slightly hunched and favouring his left side. He was wearing his gethre plate armour, one plate holed near the shoulder, over hunting leathers. He had a heavy wool cloak on as well, despite the warm and humid morning.
‘Clariel!’ he shouted out, combining a wave with sitting down in a clumsy motion that obviously hurt, for he gasped in pain before adding over his shoulder, ‘Quick!’