Witchsign. Den Patrick
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that.’ Kristofine shook her head. ‘It was a year ago.’
‘I didn’t know you a year ago.’ Kjellrunn paused, watching the woman hang her clothes out by the fireplace. Kristofine knelt down and stoked the fire, adding a few logs.
Why are you being so nice to me? she wanted to ask.
Kristofine smiled and took a seat in the armchair opposite.
‘Strange you mention my mother. I was just thinking about Steiner, he told me that you never knew yours. He said he can barely remember her. That must be hard.’
Kjellrunn nodded but didn’t trust herself to speak. Hadn’t Verner said that she took after her mother? Hadn’t Marek said the arcane burned people up and hollowed them out? Her mother might well have passed on to Frejna’s realm.
‘Why are you being so nice to me?’ said Kjellrunn, so quietly the words were almost lost as the fire crackled and popped.
‘I suppose I know what it is to miss someone,’ replied Kristofine. ‘I didn’t always see eye to eye with my mother, but I’d give anything to have her back.’ She leaned forward in her chair, rested her elbows on her knees and laced her fingers together. ‘I imagine you feel like that right now about Steiner. And your mother too.’
The rumble of voices in the tavern fell quiet and Kjellrunn turned her head, ears straining for a snatch of sound or some clue.
‘Come here,’ said Kristofine, and led her to the wall where the timber’s grain formed a whorl, a knot of wood. Kristofine picked at the knot until something came free.
‘It’s a cork from a wine bottle,’ said Kjellrunn.
Kristofine nodded and held a finger to her lips, then gestured to Kjellrunn to peek through the hole in the wall. The view of the tavern was a good one, though Kjellrunn had to go up on her toes to see through the hole.
Bjørner stood behind the bar, one brawny hand resting on the polished surface. It was the only thing polished about the tavern; Steiner used to joke that Bjørner spent more time caring for the bar than he did himself. Håkon leaned against the wall nursing a pint and fixing an unfriendly stare across the room. Two men in black stood beside the door, cowing the room into silence. Kjellrunn pulled back and gestured that Kristofine look.
‘What will you drink?’ said Bjørner, his words too loud and too forced in the sullen quiet.
‘They’re Okhrana,’ whispered Kristofine, pulling back from the spy hole.
‘Imperial?’ replied Kjellrunn.
Kristofine nodded. ‘Has your father never told you of the Okhrana?’
Kjellrunn pressed her eye to the hole again. ‘My father never told us lots of things.’
The men in black had moved out of sight, but the sidelong looks of the townsfolk told Kjellrunn the Okhrana hadn’t left. She saw the furtive glances and faces lined with worry. Hands grasped at pints and even the most bellicose of the townsfolk became as field mice.
‘They are the Emperor’s watchmen, his bloody left hand,’ said Kristofine.
‘And the soldiers?’
‘The soldiers are his bloody right hand,’ replied Kristofine. ‘The mailed fist used to ensure obedience.’
‘And where does that leave the Synod and the Vigilants?’
‘They are the Emperor’s heart. The Emperor is one of them, after all.’
‘The Emperor is a Vigilant?’ Kjellrunn frowned.
‘Does your father tell you nothing?’
‘He tells me to brush my hair and wash dishes. He only scowls when we mention the Empire, and the meisters at school refuse to acknowledge anything east of the border.’
Kristofine peeked through the spy hole once more and then stoppered it with the cork.
‘We’ve never had Okhrana here before. In Cinderfell perhaps, but they usually stay at the Smouldering Standard. They never darken our door. Why are they here?’
‘Because of what happened at Helwick,’ said Kjellrunn, her eyes straying to the sitting room door, expecting the Okhrana to enter at any moment.
‘What happened at Helwick?’
‘I have to go,’ said Kjellrunn, and began pulling on her damp clothes.
Kristofine folded her arms and watched the girl dress from the corner of her eye, disapproval written clearly on her sullen pout.
‘What happened in Helwick?’ she repeated, and all trace of the kindly elder sister she’d pretended to be disappeared.
‘A Troika of Vigilants were killed. Or went missing. Something like that.’
‘A whole Troika?’
‘All three. A traveller told us just yesterday morning as he was leaving town.’ Kjellrunn hated lying but how else would she know if not for the fact she knew the killer?
‘So why don’t the Okhrana search Helwick? Why are they in Cinderfell? Why are they here?’
Kjellrunn pulled on her boots and shrugged, then looked away, unwilling to add to the tangle of deceit.
‘I have to go,’ was all she said.
‘Fine,’ replied Kristofine, ‘I need to get to work, my father will be wondering where I’ve fetched up.’
‘Thank you,’ said Kjellrunn awkwardly as she fumbled with the door handle. Kristofine didn’t move from the fireplace, watching her leave with an accusing gaze.
The sky was full of keening wind and cold rain as Kjellrunn trudged home, and remained so for many hours to come.
There can only be true peace when the Scorched Republics give up their foolish notions of autonomy and join the glory of the Empire. Once we are united we will crush the city states of Shanisrond in the south. Until then, the Empire waits for war and all its chances for glory.
– From the field notes of Hierarch Khigir, Vigilant of the Imperial Synod.
The creature remained unflinching, unmoving beneath writhing fire. Steiner dared himself to look away. The newcomers were not alone; other girls and boys lined the edges of the square, ranging from ten to twenty years old. All were pale with tiredness and sullen-eyed. They wore quilted coats in mottled scarlet that reached their knees, while heavy boots and mittens completed the attire. Steiner guessed them to be novices, cargoes from previous years, other lives separated from their loved ones. Here was the living proof they would not be executed after all. The children hunkered in the doorways of buildings many storeys tall, others hid in shadows beneath brightly coloured awnings.
The soldiers filed into the square behind the new arrivals, blocking the archway beneath the gatehouse. There would be no frantic dash down the steps to Romola, no desperate begging to escape. The soldiers unslung their maces and held them close to their sides, hidden along the line of their cloaks. The dragon remained still, even as the fire continued to roil about it.
‘It’s a statue,’ said Steiner after a moment. He stepped forward and held his hands up. The fire at least was real, he could feel the warmth even at a distance of several feet.
‘This one has a brain,’ said Shirinov. He moved through the throng of children, leaning heavily on his walking stick as he went.
‘You are almost right about the statue,’ said Khigir, but was prevented from explaining