Galen hurried them on. He knew that if the ship was caught the crew would talk, and if the Watch found out their destination they were in trouble. But more than that, the hunger for Tasceron drove him like a pain; all his blinded senses longed for it, to feel the secrets that were there, the power that might be hidden. Silent, he climbed and scrambled relentlessly over the salt-marsh and through the rough scrub, Carys and Raffi struggling to keep up. No one spoke. The journey became a nightmare of cold, cut hands, breathless-ness. For miles they walked into a darkness that seemed to grow thicker before them, even though all seven of the moons rose one by one to form the great Arch, each strange and eerie in its own light, the pearl-pale Karnos, red Pyra, the crescent of Agramon at the zenith.

Then, on a low hill, Galen stopped suddenly. Raffi sank down, too sore to be glad, doubled over the stitch in his side. It was a while before he lifted his head, breathing deeply.

Below them lay Darkness. A valley of night. Tall spires rose out of it here and there; far, far in the distance strange domes were shadowed with steams and vapours. The blackness was heavy; it stretched as far as he could see. Behind him Carys brushed back her muddy hair; Galen stood upright, saying nothing.

They all knew this was Tasceron.

The Wounded City

The Wounded City

16

Tasceron, O Tasceron.

I mourn you, my city.

Your great halls are broken open;

The Darkness has come over you.

Rats eat the finery of your kings.

The Lament for Tasceron

CARYS CRAWLED BACK around the tangle of thorns and sucked a scratched hand. ‘Useless,’ she muttered. ‘They’re searching every pack and waggon, looking at everyone’s papers. I got close enough to listen. We’ll never get in this way.’

If anything, Raffi was relieved. He peered through the branches at the city gate. It was a gaunt, dark turret, jutting from the wall, and through the gloom that seemed to seep from it he could make out muffled men and a short line of waggons waiting to pass through.

‘Bringing food?’ he wondered.

‘Probably.’ Galen stared out, his eyes moving along the line. Then he glanced up at the walls. The double ramparts of the Evil City were huge and black; smooth, Maker-built. There was no chink or window in them; the great stones stretched away into the eerie dark, and Raffi guessed they ran like that for miles, endless miles. The travellers might walk along them for weeks and not find a breach.

‘And if we did it would only be guarded,’ he muttered aloud.

Galen turned, squatting. In the murk his face was only an edge of shadow, but when he spoke Raffi knew that harsh, determined tone, and felt instantly uneasy.

‘I have an idea. It’s dangerous, but it seems the only way. These waggons –’