Chert heard the dry scratching again, and this time he could tell it came from outside the front door: something or someone was trying to get in.
A thousand superstitious fears hurried through his brain as he went to where his tools were hanging on the wall and took out his sharpest pick, called a shrewsnout. Surely nothing could get through that door unless he opened it-he and Opal's brother had worked days to shape the heavy oak, and the iron hinges were the finest product of Metal House craftsmen. He even considered going back to bed, leaving the problem for the morning, or for whatever other householder the scratching burglar might visit next, but he could not rid himself of a memory of little Beetledown, the Rooftopper who had almost died helping Chert look for Flint. The castle above was in chaos, with troops in Tolly livery ranging everywhere to search for any information about the astonishing kidnapping of Princess Briony. What if Beetledown was now the one who needed help? What if the little man was out there on Chert's doorstep, trying desperately to make his presence known in a world of giants?
Weapon held high, Chert Blue Quartz took a breath and opened the door. It was surprisingly dark outside-a darkness he had never seen in the night streets of Funderling Town. He squeezed the handle of his pick until his palm hurt, the tool he could wield for an hour straight without a tremor now quivering as his hand shook.
"Who is there?" Chert whispered into the darkness. "Show yourself!" Something groaned, or even growled, and for the first time the terrified Chert could see that it was not black outside because the darklights of Fun-derling Town had gone out, but because a huge shape was blocking his doorway, shadowing everything. He stepped back, raising the shrewsnout to strike at this monster, but missed his blow as the thing lunged through the door and knocked him sideways. Still, even though he had failed to hit it, the intruding shape collapsed in the doorway. It groaned again, and Chert raised the pick, his heart hammering with terror. A round, pale face looked up at him, grime-smeared but quite recognizable in the light that now spilled in through the doorway.
Chaven, the royal physician, lifted hands turned into filthy paws by crusted, blackened bandages. "Chert…?" he rasped. "Is that you? I'm afraid… I'm afraid I've left blood all over your door…"
The morning was icy, the stones of Market Square slippery. The silent people gathered outside the great Trigonate temple of Southmarch seemed a single frozen mass, packed shoulder to shoulder in front of the steps, wrapped in cloaks and blankets against the bitterly cold winds off the sea.
Matty Tinwright watched the solemn-faced nobles and dignitaries as they emerged from the high-domed temple. He desperately wanted a drink. A cup of mulled wine-or better, two or three cups! — something to warm his chilled bones and heart, something to smear the hard, cold edges of the day into something more acceptable. But of course the taverns were closed and the castle kitchens had been emptied out, every lord, lady, serv¬ing maid, and scullion commanded to stand here in the cold and listen to the pronouncements of their new masters.
Mostly new, at least: Lord Constable Avin Brone stood with the others at the top of the steps, big as ever-bigger even, since the dark clothes and heavy cloak he wore made him look like something that should be on creaking wooden wheels instead of boots, some monstrous machine for knocking down the walls of besieged castles. Brone's presence, more than all else, had quelled any doubts Tinwright might have had about the as¬tonishing events of the last days. Surely King Olin's most solid friend and most trusted servitor would not stand up beside Hendon Tolly if (as some whispered) there had been foul dealing in Princess Briony's disappearance.
Tinwright had not forgotten his own encounter with Brone-surely not
even the Tollys of Summerfield would dare make that man angry!
The skirl of the temple musicians' flutes died away, the last censer was swung-already the smoke was vanishing, shredded by the hard, cold breeze-and, after a ragged flourish of trumpets from the shivering heralds, Avin Brone took a few steps forward to the edge of the steps and looked down at the gathered castle folk.
"You have heard many things in these last days." His great bull-bellow of a voice carried far across the crowd. "Confused times breed confused stories, and these have been some of the most confusing times any of us have seen in our lifetimes." Brone lifted a broad hand. "Quiet! Listen well! First, it is true that Princess Briony Eddon has been taken, apparently by the criminal Shaso dan-Heza, the traitor who was once master of arms. We have searched for days, but there is no sign of either of them within the walls of Southmarch. We are praying for the princess' safe return, but I as¬sure you we are not merely leaving it up to the gods."
The murmuring began again, louder. "Where is the prince?" someone near the front shouted. "Where is her brother?"
Brone's shoulders rose and he balled his fists. "Silence! Must you all jab¬ber like Xandy savages? Hear my words and you will learn something. Prince Barrick was with Tyne of Blueshore and the others, fighting the in¬vaders at Kolkan's Field. We have had no word from Tyne for days, and the survivors who have made their way back can tell us little." Several in the crowd looked out across the narrow strait toward the city, still now and ap¬parently empty. They had all heard the singing and the drums that echoed there at night, and had seen the fires. "We hold out hope, of course, but for now we must assume our prince is lost, killed or captured. It is in the hands of the gods." Brone paused at the uprush of sound, the cries and curses which started out low but quickly began to swell. When he spoke again his voice was still loud, but not as clear and composed as it had been; that by itself helped still the crowd. "Please! Remember, Olin is still king here in Southmarch! He may be imprisoned in the south, but he is still king-and his line still survives!" He pointed to a young woman standing next to Hendon Tolly, plump, and plain-a wet nurse holding what was apparently an infant, although it could have been an empty tangle of blankets for all Matt Tinwright could make it out. "See, there is the king's youngest," Brone declared,"-a new son, born on Winter's Eve! Queen Anissa lives. The child is healthy. The Eddon line survives."
Now Drone waved his hands, imploring the crowd for quiet rather than ordering them, and Tinwright could not help wondering at how this man who had terrified him down to the soles of his feet could have changed so, as if something inside of him had torn and not been fully mended.
But why should that surprise? Briony, our gracious, wonderful princess, is gone, and young Barrick is doubtless dead, killed by those supernatural monsters. Tin-wright's poetic soul could feel the romantic correctness of that, the sym¬metry of the lost twins, but could not work up as much sympathy for the brother. He truly, truly missed Briony, and feared for her-she had been Matt Tinwright s champion. Barrick, on the other hand, had never hidden his contempt.
Brone now' gave way to Hendon Tolly, who was dressed in unusually somber attire-somber for him, anyway-black hose, gray tunic, and fur-lined black cloak, his clothes touched here and there with hints of gold and emerald. Hendon was known as one of the leading blades of fashion north of the great court at Tessis. Tinwright, who admired him without liking him, had always been sensitive to the nuances of dress among those above his own station, and thought the youngest Tolly brother seemed to be en¬joying his new role as sober guardian of the populace.