“No one here,” Marco whispered.
“Yes there is.” The Sekoi said something to the owl in the Tongue. It hooted, long and low, and with a speed that startled Raffi, its wings opened and it swooped soundlessly out through an opening in the roof.
“Sit down,” the Sekoi said graciously.
There were cushions, thick and glossy. Solon sank among them in relief. “What luxury. And what happens now?”
“Food.” The Sekoi winked at Raffi. “We’re a hospitable race.”
When it came it was fruit, as he’d known it would be, but huge bowls of it, carried by an immensely strong Sekoi with pure white fur, its eyes amber and curious. Raffi was too hungry to wait; he ate berries and apples and the delicious soft flesh of the mavros eagerly, and drank the pale sherbet waters with Solon, debating about which was the best. Galen picked at the fruit, watching Marco, who said nothing and prowled uneasily.
Until the Karamax walked in.
There were seven of them, all tall and all masked. The masks were elaborate, covering the upper half of the face, made of satin and adorned with bizarre slashes of gold, with feathers and strange painted symbols. The eyes of the creatures behind them were amber and gold.
Galen went to move but the Sekoi glared at him and stood up, a tall, elegant figure. It began to speak urgently in the Tongue, its long fingers gesturing, and the seven Karamax sat on the cushions listening, their eyes flickering to the Starmen.
It bothered Raffi that he could feel nothing of them. He had grown to depend on the awen-field more than he’d realized.
The story took a long time. Finally the Sekoi fell silent.
The Karamax gazed at each other. Then the tallest, a red-furred creature dressed in yellow and blue, stood up. Its voice was female, and it spoke so they could all understand. “We have relived this tale with interest. We welcome you, keepers, and share our sorrows for your losses. Your enemies are our enemies. However, I fear there is little we can do except give you shelter. This relic our friend speaks of is unknown to us and we have no interest in such devices. The Makers’ power we acknowledge freely, but they are not our Makers . . .”
Galen leaped up, irritated. “Are you sure?” His voice was bitter with disappointment.
The Sekoi waved him back, alarmed. The Karamax seemed to stiffen.
“We have had this argument before,” the red-furred one said gently. “The Makers . . .”
Galen waved impatiently. “Not that! Are you sure you know nothing of the Coronet? Surely, in one of your many stories . . .”
“Nothing.”
Solon was on his feet too. “This is bitterly disappointing for us.”
“I know it. And for us too the weather is a cause of much disquiet,” the Karamax said smoothly, “but . . .” It stopped.
Outside the door-curtain loud voices were raised, one insistent, others angry. Suddenly the curtain was twitched aside, and two huge Sekoi marched in. Between them, struggling and furious, was a girl with soaked hair, the red dye almost washed out of it.
“Carys!” Raffi leaped up in delight.
The Sekoi gave a snarl of wrath. “You!”
“Yes, me!” She grinned at it, triumphant. “I told you no cage would hold me. I suppose they’ve already given you their excuses, Galen? Tried to fob you off with a pack of lies?”
He came forward and caught her arm. “What are you talking about, Carys?”
She laughed, scornful, shaking free of the sentinels. “Don’t you see? The Coronet is gold, isn’t it? Gold! So they’ve got it. It’s part of their Great Hoard, Galen, probably the most precious part. The Sekoi have the Coronet. They’ve had it for centuries.”
Astonished, he stared at her. “How do you know?”
She had looked forward to this. She drew herself up and grinned at him, enjoying it.
“Flain told me,” she said.
24
In the night the innkeeper crept into her room. The purse lay on a table; stealthily he opened it. One gold coin fell out. Then another. And another. The innkeeper capered with delight. He ran down the stairs and called to his wife.
“We’re rich!” he cried. The gold kept coming. More and more of it. And then he knew he couldn’t stop it.
Agramon’s Purse
SHE SHOULD HAVE KNOWN he wouldn’t be surprised. For a moment he almost smiled at her.
Then he gave the Sekoi a sharp look. “Is it true?”
The creature made a mew of disgust. “Of course it’s not true! I would have told you at the beginning!”
“You might not have known.” Dangerously tense, Galen turned on the Council of Seven. “Tell me the truth,” he said. “I ask you in the name of Flain and all your own secret gods. Do you have the Coronet?”
The seven Karamax exchanged glances. Behind their masks their eyes were sharp and uneasy. Finally one of them shrugged.
“All right. We do.”
The silence in the tent was immense; it was the Sekoi who broke it. It snarled angrily in the Tongue, all the fur on its neck swelling with rage.
The Karamax spoke back, rapidly, three of them, but the Sekoi flung away, disgusted. “Galen,” it snapped, “I swear to you I had no knowledge of this. None!”
“Liar,” Carys said calmly. She folded her arms. “Admit it. You knew the whole time. And this Watchspy business. There is someone else who knew about the Crow. It’s you!”
“Stop it.” Galen’s eyes were black. “We don’t have time. The Coronet is what we’re here for.”
He watched the seven closely. “You must let us use it. I swear we won’t try to take it from you. You say our enemies are yours—then work with us. Help us!”
A Karamax with gray fur and a black and gold mask shook its head. “Unthinkable. We don’t know your reasons.”
“Indeed,” the red-furred female said kindly. “You must plead your case. On the strength of it we will make our decision. And it will be final. Agreed?”
Galen turned. “Well?”
The Sekoi shrugged angrily. “You’ve got no choice.”
“Solon?”
“Yes, my son. And I will speak.”
Galen turned back. “Agreed,” he said heavily.
The sentinels went back to the door. Carys pushed past Marco and sat by Raffi. She poured out blue sherbet water. “Glad to see me?”
“What happened to you?” he whispered.
She drank thirstily. “Tell you later. I want to hear this.” Only Solon was standing now. Around him the red tent rippled and flapped in the rising wind; before him on silk cushions the Karamax sat, eyes bright in the slits of their masks. The gray owl flew soundlessly onto its perch. It preened out one downy feather that drifted to the floor.
Solon seemed uncertain how begin. “Friends,” he said at last. “You’ve heard our story. Our search for this relic has been a strange one, and time is running out. The Makers have told us that the Coronet is a device that will stabilize something they called the weather-net. It will also, we hope, arrest the movement of the moon Agramon.”
The Council eyed one another.
Marco shifted, restless. “Come on, old friend,” he breathed.
Solon licked dry lips. He gave his kindest smile. “Believe me, we understand that gold is precious to you. But this relic is small. It weighs little. And because it was Flain’s, that makes it the property of his successors, that is, the Order. I am Solon, Archkeeper of the Order. I am the last successor of Flain.”
Marco’s eyebrows shot up. He looked at Raffi. Raffi nodded, silent.