chapter xx

Leaving the safe, aqueductbounded quarter of Belisaere proved to be a more difficult business than entering it, particularly through the northern archway, which led out to a long-abandoned street of derelict houses, winding their way up towards the northern hills of the city.

There were six guards at the archway, and they looked considerably more alert and efficient than the ones who guarded the passage from the docks. There was also a group of other people ahead of Sabriel and Touchstone waiting to be let through. Nine men, all with the marks of violence written in their expressions, in the way they spoke and moved. Every one was armed, with weapons ranging from daggers to a broad-bladed axe. Most of them also carried bows—short, deeply curved bows, slung on their backs.

“Who are these people?” Sabriel asked Touchstone. “Why are they going out into the Dead part of the city?”

“Scavengers,” replied Touchstone. “Some of the people I spoke to last night mentioned them.

Parts of the city were abandoned to the Dead very quickly, so there is still plenty of loot to be found. A risky business, I think . . .”

Sabriel nodded thoughtfully and looked back at the men, most of whom were sitting or squatting by the aqueduct wall. Some of them looked back at her, rather suspiciously. For a moment, she thought they’d seen the bells under her cloak and recognized her as a necromancer, then she realized that she and Touchstone probably looked like rival scavengers. After all, who else would want to leave the protection of swift water? She felt a bit like a hard-bitten scavenger. Even freshly cleaned and scrubbed, her clothes and armor were not the sweetest items of wear. They were also still slightly damp, and the boat cloak that covered her up was on the borderline between damp and wet, because it hadn’t been hung up properly after washing. On the positive side, everything had the scent of lemon, for the Sign of Three Lemons washerfolk used lemon-scented soap.

Sabriel thought the scavengers had been waiting for the guards, but clearly they had been waiting for something else, which they’d suddenly sighted behind her. The sitting or squatting men picked themselves up, grumbling and cursing, and shuffled together into something resembling a line.

Sabriel looked over her shoulder to see what they saw—and froze. For coming towards the arch were two men, and about twenty children; children of all ages between six and sixteen. The men had the same look as the other scavengers, and carried long, four-tongued whips. The children were manacled at the ankles, the manacles fastened to a long central chain. One man held the chain, leading the children down the middle of the road. The other followed behind, plying the air above the small bodies idly with his whip, the four tongues occasionally licking against an ear or the top of a small head.

“I heard of this too,” muttered Touchstone, moving up closer to Sabriel, his hands falling on his sword hilts. “But I thought it was a beer story. The scavengers use children—slaves—as decoys, or bait, for the Dead. They leave them in one area, to draw the Dead away from where they intend to search.”

“This is . . . disgusting!” raged Sabriel.

“Immoral! They’re slavers, not scavengers! We have to stop it!”

She started forward, mind already forming a Charter-spell to blind and confuse the scavengers, but a sharp pain in her neck halted her.

Mogget, riding on her shoulders, had dug his claws in just under her chin. Blood trickled down in hairline traces, as he hissed close to her ear.

“Wait! There are nine scavengers and six guards, with more close by. What will it profit these children, and all the others who may come, if you are slain? It is the Dead who are at the root of this evil, and Abhorsen’s business is with the Dead!”

Sabriel stood still, shuddering, tears of rage and anger welling up in the corners of her eyes. But she didn’t attack. Just stood, watching the children.

They seemed resigned to their fate, silent, without hope. They didn’t even fidget in their chains, standing still, heads bowed, till the scavengers whipped them up again and they broke into a dispirited shuffle towards the archway.

Soon, they were beyond the arch, heading up the ruined street, the scavenging team walking slowly behind them. The sun shone bright on the cobbled street and reflected from armor and weapons—and, briefly, from a little boy’s blond head. Then they were gone, turning right, taking the way towards Coiner’s Hill.

Sabriel, Touchstone and Mogget followed after ten minutes spent negotiating with the guards. At first, the leader, a large man in a gravy-stained leather cuirass, wanted to see an “official scavenger’s license,” but this was soon translated as a request for bribes. Then it was merely a matter of bargaining, down to the final price of three silver pennies each for Sabriel and Touchstone, and one for the cat. Strange accounting, Sabriel thought, but she was glad Mogget stayed silent, not voicing the opinion that he was being undervalued.

Past the aqueduct, and the soothing barrier of running water, Sabriel felt the immediate presence of the Dead. They were all around, in the ruined houses, in cellars and drains, lurking anywhere the light didn’t reach. Dormant. Waiting for the night, while the sun shone.

In many ways, the Dead of Belisaere were direct counterparts of the scavengers. Hiding by day, they took what they could by night. There were many, many Dead in Belisaere, but they were weak, cowardly and jealous. Their combined appetite was enormous, but the supply of victims sadly limited. Every morning saw scores of them lose their hold on Life, to fall back into Death.

But more always came . . .

“There are thousands of Dead here,” Sabriel said, eyes darting from side to side. “They’re weak, for the most part—but so many!”

“Do we go straight on to the reservoir?”

Touchstone asked. There was an unspoken question there, Sabriel knew. Should they—could they—save the children first? She looked at the sky, and the sun, before answering. They had about four hours of strong sunlight, if no clouds intervened. Little enough time, anyway. Assuming that they could defeat the scavengers, could they leave finding her father till tomorrow? Every day made it less likely his spirit and body could be brought back together. Without him, they couldn’t defeat Kerrigor—and Kerrigor had to be defeated for them to have any hope of repairing the stones of the Great Charter— banishing the Dead across the Kingdom . . .

“We’ll go straight to the reservoir,” Sabriel said, heavily, trying to blank out a sudden fragment of visual memory; sunlight on that little boy’s head, the trudging feet . . .

“Perhaps we . . . perhaps we will be able to rescue the children on the way back.”

Touchstone led the way with confidence, keeping to the middle of the streets, where the sun was bright. For almost an hour, they strode up empty, deserted streets, the only sound the clacking of their boot-nails on the cobbles. There were no birds, or animals. Not even insects. Just ruin and decay.

Finally, they reached an iron-fenced park that ran around the base of Palace Hill. Atop the hill, blackened, burnt-out shells of tumbled stone and timber were all that remained of the Royal Palace.

“The last Regent burned it,” said Mogget, as all three stopped to look up. “About twenty years ago. It was becoming infested with the Dead, despite all the guards and wards that various visiting Abhorsens put up. They say the Regent went mad and tried to burn them out.”

“What happened to him?” asked Sabriel.

“Her, actually,” replied Mogget. “She died in the fire—or the Dead took her. And that marked the end of any attempt at governing the Kingdom.”

“It was a beautiful building,” Touchstone reminisced. “You could see out over the Saere. It had high ceilings, and a clever system of vents and shafts to catch the light and the sea breeze.

There was always music and dancing somewhere in the Palace, and Midsummer dinner on the garden roof, with a thousand scented candles burning . . .”

He sighed, and pointed at a hole in the park fence.

“We might as well go through here. There’s an entrance to the reservoir in one of the ornamental caves in the park. Only fifty steps down to the water, rather than the hundred and fifty from the Palace proper.”

“One hundred and fifty-six,” said Mogget. “As I recall.”

Touchstone shrugged, and climbed through the hole, onto the springy turf of the park. There was no one—and no thing—in sight, but he drew his swords anyway. There were large trees nearby, and accordingly, shadows.

Sabriel followed, Mogget jumping down from her shoulders to saunter forward and sniff the air.

Sabriel drew her sword too, but left the bells.

There were Dead about, but none close. The park was too open in daylight.

The ornamental caves were only five minutes’ walk away, past a fetid pond that had once boasted seven water-spouting statues of bearded tritons. Now their mouths were clogged with rotten leaves, and the pond was almost solid with yellow-green slime.

There were three cave entrances, side by side.

Touchstone led them to the largest, central entrance. Marble steps led down the first three or four feet, and marble pillars supported the entrance ceiling.

“It only goes back about forty paces into the hill,” Touchstone explained, as they lit their candles by the entrance, sulphur matches adding their own noisome stench to the dank air of the cave. “They were built for picnics in high summer.

There is a door at the back of this one. It may be locked, but should yield to a Charterspell.

The steps are directly behind, and pretty straight, but there are no light shafts. And it’s narrow.”

“I’ll go first then,” said Sabriel, with a firmness that belied the weakness in her legs and the fluttering in her stomach. “I can’t sense any Dead, but they could be there . . .”

“Very well,” said Touchstone, after a moment’s hesitation.

“You don’t have to come, you know,” Sabriel suddenly burst out, as they stood in front of the cave, candles flickering foolishly in the sunshine.

She suddenly felt awfully responsible for him. He looked scared, much whiter than he should, almost as pale as a Death-leeched necromancer.

He’d seen terrible things in the reservoir, things that had once driven him mad, and despite his self-accusation, Sabriel didn’t believe it was his fault. It wasn’t his father down there. He wasn’t an Abhorsen.

“I do have to,” Touchstone replied. He bit his lower lip nervously. “I have to. I’ll never be free of my memories, otherwise. I have to do something, make new memories, better ones. I need to . . . seek redemption. Besides, I am still a member of the Royal Guard. It is my duty.”

“So be it,” said Sabriel. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here.”

“I am too—in a strange sort of way,” said Touchstone, and he almost, but not quite, smiled.

“I’m not,” interrupted Mogget, decidedly.

“Let’s get on with it. We’re wasting sunlight.”

The door was locked, but opened easily to Sabriel’s spell, the simple Charter symbols of unlocking and opening flowing from her mind through to her index finger, which lay against the keyhole. But though the spell was successful, it had been difficult to cast. Even up here, the broken stones of the Great Charter exerted an influence that disrupted Charter Magic.

The faint candlelight showed damp, crumbly steps, leading straight down. No curves or turns, just a straight stair leading into darkness.

Sabriel trod gingerly, feeling the soft stone crumble under her heavy boots, so she had to keep her heels well back on each step. This made for slow progress, with Touchstone close behind her, the light from his candle casting Sabriel’s shadow down the steps in front, so she saw herself elongated and distorted, sliding into the dark beyond the light.

She smelled the reservoir before she saw it, somewhere around the thirty-ninth step. A chill, damp smell that cut into her nose and lungs, and filled her with the impression of a cold expanse.

Then the steps ended in a doorway on the edge of a vast, rectangular hall—a giant chamber where stone columns rose up like a forest to support a roof sixty feet above her head, and the floor before her wasn’t stone, but water as cold and still as stone. Around the walls, pallid shafts of sunlight thrust down in counterpoint to the supporting columns, leaving discs of light on the water. These made the rim of the reservoir a complex study of light and shade, but the center remained unknown, cloaked in heavy darkness.

Sabriel felt Touchstone touch her shoulder, then she heard his whisper.

“It’s about waist-deep. Try and slip in as quietly as possible. Here—I’ll take your candle.”

Sabriel nodded, passed the candle back, sheathed her sword, and sat down on the last step, before slowly easing herself into the water.

It was cold, but not unbearable. Despite Sabriel’s care, ripples spread out from her, silver on the dark water, and there had been the tiniest splash. Her feet touched the bottom, and she only half stifled a gasp. Not from the cold, but from the sudden awareness of the two broken stones of the Great Charter. It hit her like the savage onset of gastric flu, bringing stomach cramps, sudden sweat and dizziness. Bent over, she clutched at the step, till the first pains subsided to a dull ache. It was much worse than the lesser stones, broken at Cloven Crest and Nestowe.

“What is it?” whispered Touchstone.

“Ah . . . the broken stones,” Sabriel muttered.

She took a deep breath, willing the pain and discomfort away. “I can stand it. Be careful when you get in.”

She drew her sword, and took her candle back from Touchstone, who prepared to enter the water. Even forewarned, she saw him flinch as his feet touched the bottom, and sweat broke out in lines on his forehead, mirroring the ripples that spread from his entry.

Sabriel expected Mogget to jump up on her shoulder, given his apparent dislike for Touchstone, but he surprised her, leaping to the man. Touchstone was clearly startled too, but recovered well. Mogget draped himself around the back of Touchstone’s neck, and mewed softly.

“Keep to the edges, if you can. The corruption— the break—will have even more unpleasant effects near the center.”

Sabriel raised her sword in assent and led off, following the left wall, trying to break the surface tension of the water as little as possible. But the quiet slosh-slosh of their wading seemed very loud, echoing and spreading up and out through the cistern, adding to the only other noise—the regular dripping of water, plopping loudly from the roof, or more sedately sliding down the columns.

She couldn’t sense any Dead, but she wasn’t sure how much that was due to the broken stones. They made her head hurt, like a constant, too-loud noise; her stomach cramped; her mouth was full of the acrid taste of bile.

They had just reached the north-western corner, directly under one of the light shafts, when the light suddenly dimmed, and the reservoir grew dark in an instant, save for the tiny, soft glow of the candles.

“A cloud,” whispered Touchstone. “It will pass.”

They held their breath, looking up, up to the tiny outline of light above, and were rewarded when sunlight came pouring back down.

Relieved, they began to wade again, following the long west-east wall. But it was short-lived relief. Another cloud crossed the sun, somewhere in that fresh air so high above them, and darkness returned. More clouds followed, till there were only brief moments of light interspersed by long stretches of total dark.

The reservoir seemed colder without the sun, even a sun diluted by passage down long shafts through the earth. Sabriel felt the cold now, accompanied by the sudden, irrational fear that they had stayed too long, and would emerge to a night full of waiting, life-hungry Dead.

Touchstone felt the chill too, made more bitter by his memories of two hundred years past, when he’d waded in this same water, and seen the Queen and her two daughters sacrificed and the Great Stones broken. There had been blood on the water then, and he still saw it—a single frozen moment of time that would not get out of his head.

Despite these fears, it was the darkness that helped them. Sabriel saw a glow, a faint luminescence off to her right, somewhere towards the center. Shielding her eyes from the candle’s glare, she pointed it out to Touchstone.

“There’s something there,” he agreed, his voice so low Sabriel barely heard it. “But it’s at least forty paces towards the center.”

Sabriel didn’t answer. She’d felt something from that faint light, something like the slight sensation across the back of her neck that came when her father’s sending visited her at school.

Leaving the wall, she pushed out through the water, a V-line of ripples behind her. Touchstone looked again, then followed, fighting the nausea that rose in him, coming in waves like repeated doses of an emetic. He was dizzy too, and could no longer properly feel his feet.

They went about thirty paces out, the pain and the nausea growing steadily worse. Then Sabriel suddenly stopped, Touchstone lifting his sword and candle, eyes searching for an attack. But there was no enemy present. The luminous light came from a diamond of protection, the four cardinal marks glowing under the water, lines of force sparkling between them.

In the middle of the diamond, a man-shaped figure stood, empty hands outstretched, as if he had once held weapons. Frost rimed his clothes and face, obscuring his features, and ice girdled the water around his middle. But Sabriel had no doubt about who it was.

“Father,” she whispered, the whisper echoing across the dark water, to join the faint sounds of the ever-present dripping.