There was no answer save more knocking. Grumbling, Sameth went to the door, expecting some zany or village fool to grin up at him from behind a breakfast tray. Instead, he was greeted by two wide-shouldered men wearing the red and gold sashes of the Rural Constabulary over their leather cuirasses. One, clearly the senior, carried some authority in his stern face and silver, short-buzzed hair. He also had a Charter mark on his forehead, which his younger assistant did not.

“Sergeant Kuke and Constable Tep,” announced the silverhaired man, thrusting past Sameth quite roughly. His companion also pushed in, quickly closing the door after him and letting the bar fall back in place.

“What do you want?” asked Sam, yawning. He didn’t intend to be rude, but he had no idea that they had an interest in him and had knocked on his door by choice rather than chance. His only previous experience with the Rural Constabulary was seeing them on parade, or inspecting some post of theirs with his father.

“We want a word,” said Sergeant Kuke, standing close enough that Sam could smell the garlic on his breath and see the marks where he’d scraped the stubble off his chin not long before. “Let’s be beginning with your name and station.”

“I am called Sam. I’m a Traveler,” replied Sameth, his eye following the constable, who had moved to the corner of the room and was examining his sword, propped against the saddlebags. For the first time, he felt a twinge of apprehension. These constables might not be the clodpolls he thought. They might even discover who he was.

“Unusual for a Traveler to stay at a posting inn, let alone the best room in the house,” said the constable, turning back from Sam’s sword and saddlebags. “Unusual to tip the ostler a silver denier, too.”

“Unusual for a Traveler’s horse not to have a brand, or clan tokens in its mane,” replied the sergeant, talking as if Sam wasn’t there. “It’d be pretty strange to see a Traveler without a clan tattoo. I wonder if we’d see one on this laddie, if we looked. But maybe we should start looking in those bags, Tep. See if we can find something to tell us who we’ve got here.”

“You can’t do that!” exclaimed Sam, outraged. He took a step towards the constable, but stopped abruptly as sharp steel pricked through his linen shirt, just above his belly. Looking down, he saw a poniard held steadily in Sergeant Kuke’s hand. “You could tell us who you really are and what you’re up to,” said the sergeant.

“It’s none of your business!” exclaimed Sam, throwing his head back in disdain. As he did so, his tousled hair flew back, revealing the Charter mark on his forehead.

Instantly Kuke called out a warning, and the poniard was at Sam’s neck, and his right arm pinioned behind him. Of all things the constables might fear, the bearer of a false or corrupted Charter mark was one of the worst, for he could only be a Free Magic sorcerer, a necromancer, or some thing that had taken human shape.

Almost at the same time, Tep opened a saddlebag and lifted out a dark leather bandolier, a bandolier of seven tubular pouches that ranged in size from a pillbox to a large jar. Wooden handles of dark mahogany thrust out of the pouches, making it quite clear what the bandolier held. The bells that Sabriel had sent to Sameth. The bells that he had locked away in his workroom and definitely hadn’t packed.

“Bells!” exclaimed Tep, dropping them in fright and leaping back, almost as if he’d drawn out a nest of writhing serpents. He didn’t notice the Charter marks that thronged upon both bandolier and handles.

“A necromancer,” whispered Kuke, and Sam heard the sudden fear in his voice and felt the hold on him slackening, the poniard drifting away from his throat, the hand that held it beset by sudden shivering.

In that instant, Sameth pictured two Charter marks in his mind, drawing them from the endless flow like a skilled fisherman selecting his catch from a glittering shoal. He let the marks infuse into his held breath—then he blew them out, at the same time throwing himself to the ground.

One mark flew true, striking Tep with sudden blindness.

But Kuke must have been some small Charter Mage himself, for he countered the spell with a general warding, the air sparking and flashing as the two Charter marks met.

Then, before Sam could even get up, Kuke’s poniard stabbed out, sinking deep into his leg, just above the knee. Sam screamed, the noise adding to Tep’s shouts of blind despair as he groped around the room and Kuke’s even louder shouts of “Necromancer!” and “A rescue!” That would bring every constable for miles and any guards who might be on the road. Even concerned citizens might come, but it would be brave ones since the word “necromancer” had been heard.

After the first split-second shock of pain, when his whole mind seemed to crack open, Sam instinctively did what he’d been taught to save his life in the event of an assassination attempt. Drawing several Charter marks in his mind, he let them grow in his throat and roared out a Death-spell to strike everyone unprotected in the room.

The marks left him like an incandescent spark, leaping to the two constables with terrible force. In a second, it was quiet, as Kuke and Tep tumbled to the floor like brokenstringed puppets.

Sam pushed himself to his feet, the realization of what he’d done rising through the pain. He’d killed two of his

father’s men . . . his own men. They’d simply been doing their job. The job that he was afraid to do. Protecting people from necromancers and Free Magic and whatever else . . .

He didn’t stop to think any further. The pain was coming back, and he knew he had to get away. In a panic, he picked up his bags, thrust the cursed bells back in, buckled the sword around his waist, and left.

He didn’t know how he managed the stairs, but a moment later he was in the common room, with people staring at him as they backed against the walls. He stared back, wide-eyed and wild, and limped through, leaving bloody footprints on the floor.

Then he was in the stables, saddling Sprout, the horse blowing wide-nostriled, eyes white with fear at the scent of human blood. Mechanically, he soothed her, hands moving without conscious thought.

A year later, or in no time at all, or somewhere in between, Sam was in the saddle, kicking Sprout into a trot and then a canter, all the while feeling his blood washing down his leg like warm water, filling up his boot till it overflowed the rolledback top. Some part of his mind screamed at him to stop and tend to the wound, but the greater part shouted it down, wanting only to flee, flee the scene of his crime.

Instinctively, he headed west, putting the rising sun at his back. He zigzagged for a while, to lay a false trail, then took a straight track through the fields, towards a dark expanse of forest, not too far ahead. He had only to reach it and he could hide, hide and tend his hurt.

Finally, Sam reached the comforting shadow of the trees.

He went in as far as he could and fell off his horse. Pain climbed up his leg, spiking all the way. The green world of the forest spun and lurched sickeningly, refusing to hold still.

The morning light had gone from yellow to grey, like an overcooked egg. He couldn’t focus on the healing spell. The Charter marks eluded him, slipping from his mind. They simply wouldn’t line up as they should.

It was all too hard. Easier to let go. To fall asleep, to drift into Death.

Except that he knew Death, knew its chill. He was already falling into the cold current of the river. If he could have been sure of being taken under by that current, rushed through the cascade of the First Gate and then onwards, he might have given in. But he knew the necromancer who’d burnt him was waiting for him in Death, waiting for an Abhorsen-in-Waiting too incompetent to manage the manner of his own passing.

The necromancer would catch him, take his spirit, and bind it to his will, use him against his family, his Kingdom. . . . Fear grew in Sam, sharper than the pain. He reached for the Charter marks of healing once more—and found them.

Golden warmth grew in his weakly gesturing hands and flowed into his leg, through the black and sodden trouser. He felt its heat rushing through, all the way to the bone, felt the skin and blood vessels knit together, the magic bringing everything back to the way it was supposed to be.

But he’d lost too much blood too quickly for the spell to render him completely whole. He tried to get up but couldn’t. His head fell back, the leaf litter making him a pillow. He tried to force his eyes wide open but couldn’t. The forest spun again, faster and faster, and then everything went black.
Chapter Twenty-Nine. The Observatory of the Clayr

The Disreputable Dog woke with great reluctance, spending a number of minutes in stiff-legged stretching, yawning, and eye rolling. Finally, she shook herself and headed for the door. Lirael stood where she was, her arms crossed sternly across her chest.

“Dog! I need to talk to you!”

The Dog acted surprised, putting her ears back with a sudden jerk. “Shouldn’t we be hurrying home? It’s after midnight, you know. Third hour of the morning, in fact.”

“No!” exclaimed Lirael, all thoughts of talks forgotten. “It can’t be! We’d better hurry!”

“Still, if you want to have a talk,” said the Dog, sitting back on her haunches and cocking her head in a prime listening attitude, “there’s no time like the present, I always say.” Lirael didn’t answer. She rushed to the door, pulling on the Dog’s collar as she passed, yanking her upright.

“Ow!” yelped the Dog. “I was only joking! I’ll hurry!”

“Come on, come on!” snapped Lirael, pushing her hands against the door and then trying to pull at it, which was difficult because it didn’t have a handle or a knob. “Oh, how does this open?”

“Ask it,” replied the Dog, calmly. “There’s no point pushing.” Lirael let out a huff of frustration, took a deep breath, and then forced herself to say, “Please open, door.”

The door seemed to think about it for a moment, then slowly swung inwards, giving Lirael enough time to back away. The roar of the river rose through the doorway, and a cool breeze came with it, lifting Lirael’s sadly singed hair. The wind also brought something else, something that attracted the Dog’s attention, though Lirael couldn’t tell what it was. “Hmmm,” said the Dog, turning one ear towards the door and the Charter-lit bridge beyond it. “People. Clayr. Possibly even an aunt.”

“Aunt Kirrith!” exclaimed Lirael, jumping nervously. She looked around wildly, seeking another way out. But there was nowhere to go except back across the slippery, river-washed bridge. And now she could see bright Charter lights out in the Rift, lights made fuzzy by the mist and spray from the river. “What’ll we do?” she asked, but her question echoed in the room, taking up the space where there should have been an answer. Quickly, Lirael looked back, but there was no sign of the Disreputable Dog. She had simply disappeared.

“Dog?” whispered Lirael, eyes scanning the room as tears started to blur her vision. “Dog? Don’t leave me now.”

The Dog had left before when people might have seen her, and every time she did, Lirael harbored the secret fear that her one and only friend would never come back. She felt that familiar fear uncoil in her stomach, adding to the fear she felt from what she’d learned. Fear of the secret knowledge she felt seething and broiling in the book she held under her arm. It was knowledge that she didn’t want to have, for it was not of the Clayr. A single tear ran down her cheek, but she quickly wiped it away. Aunt Kirrith wouldn’t have the satisfaction of seeing her

cry, she decided, tilting her head back to keep further tears at bay. Aunt Kirrith always seemed to expect the worst of Lirael, seemed to think that she would commit terrible crimes and never amount to anything. Lirael felt that it was all because she wasn’t a proper Clayr, though some part of her mind had to acknowledge that this was the way Aunt Kirrith treated anybody who departed from her stupid standards.

Lirael kept her head proudly tilted back until she took her first step on the bridge, when she had to look down, down into the roiling mist and the fast-rushing water. Without the Dog’s solid, sucker-footed body at her side, she found the bridge much, much scarier. Lirael took one step, faltered, then started to sway. For a moment, she felt she would fall, and in a panic she crouched down on all fours. The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting shifted as she moved, and it almost fell out of her shirt as well. But Lirael shoved it back in and started to crawl across the narrow bridge.

Even crawling took all her concentration, so she didn’t look up until she was almost across. She was now also acutely aware that her hair was burnt and her clothes totally soaked by the spray that kept washing over the bridge. And she was barefoot.

When she finally did look up, she let out a stifled scream and made a reflexive hop like a frightened rabbit. Only the quick hands of the two closest Clayr saved her from a potentially fatal fall into the swift, cold waters of the Ratterlin.

They were also the people who had given her the shock, the last two people Lirael would expect to see looking for her: Sanar and Ryelle. As always, they looked calm, beautiful, and sophisticated. They were in the uniform of the Nine Day Watch, their long blond hair elegantly contained in jeweled nets and their long white dresses sprinkled with tiny golden

stars. They also held wands of steel and ivory, proclaiming that they were the joint Voice of the Watch. Neither of them looked a day older than when Lirael had first met them properly, out on the Terrace on her fourteenth birthday. They were still everything Lirael thought the Clayr should be.

Everything she wasn’t.

There were a whole lot of the Clayr behind them, as well. More of the highest, including Vancelle, the Chief Librarian, and what looked like more of the Nine Day Watch. Quickly counting, Lirael realized that it probably was all of the current Nine Day Watch. Forty-seven of them, lined up behind Sanar and Ryelle, white shapes in the darkness of the Rift.