There was silence for a while, then more splashing, gasps, giggles—was that Touchstone laughing? Then a series of short, sharp, moans. Womanly ones. Sabriel flushed and gritted her teeth at the same time, then quickly lowered her head into the water so she couldn’t hear, leaving only her nose and mouth exposed. Underwater, all was silent, save for the dull booming of her heart, echoing in her flooded ears.

What did it matter? She didn’t think of Touchstone in that way. Sex was the last thing on her mind. Just another complication—contraception—messiness—emotions. There were enough problems. Concentrate on planning. Think ahead. It was just because Touchstone was the first young man she’d met out of school, that was all. It was none of her business. She didn’t even know his real name . . .

A dull tapping noise on the side of the bath made her raise her head out of the water, just in time to hear a very self-satisfied, masculine and drawn-out moan from the other side of the wall. She was about to stick her head back under, when Mogget’s pink nose appeared on the rim. So she sat up, water cascading down her face, hiding the tears she told herself weren’t there. Angrily, she crossed her arms across her br**sts and said, “What do you want?”

“I just thought that you might like to know that Touchstone’s room is that way,” said Mogget, indicating the silent room opposite the one with the noisy couple. “It hasn’t got a bathtub, so he’d like to know if he can use yours when you’re finished. He’s waiting downstairs in the meantime, getting the local news.”

“Oh,” replied Sabriel. She looked across at the far, silent wall, then back to the close wall, where the human noises were now largely lost in the groaning of bedsprings. “Well, tell him I won’t be long.”

Twenty minutes later, a clean Sabriel, garbed in a borrowed dress made incongruous by her sword-belt (the bell-bandolier lay under her bed, with Mogget asleep on top of it), crept on slippered feet through the largely empty common room and tapped the salty, begrimed Touchstone on the back, making him spill his beer.

“Your turn for the bath,” Sabriel said cheerily, “my evil-smelling swordsman. I’ve just had it refilled. Mogget’s in the room, by the way. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Why would I mind?” asked Touchstone, as much puzzled by her manner as the question. “I just want to get clean, that’s all.”

“Good,” replied Sabriel, obscurely. “I’ll organize for dinner to be served in your room, so we can plan as we eat.”

In the event, the planning didn’t take long, nor was it slow in dampening what was otherwise a relatively festive occasion. They were safe for the moment, clean, well-fed—and able to forget past troubles and future fears for a little while.

But, as soon as the last dish—a squid stew, with garlic, barley, yellow squash and tarragon vinegar—was cleared, the present reasserted itself, complete with cares and woe.

“I think the most likely place to find my father’s body will be at . . . that place, where the Queen was slain,” Sabriel said slowly. “The reservoir. Where is it, by the way?”

“Under the Palace Hill,” replied Touchstone. “There are several different ways to enter. All lie beyond this aqueduct-guarded valley.”

“You are probably right about your father,” Mogget commented from his nest of blankets in the middle of Touchstone’s bed. “But that is also the most dangerous place for us to go. Charter Magic will be greatly warped, including various bindings—and there is a chance that our enemy . . .”

“Kerrigor,” interrupted Sabriel. “But he may not be there. Even if he is, we may be able to sneak in—”

“We might be able to sneak around the edges,” said Touchstone. “The reservoir is enormous, and there are hundreds of columns. But wading is noisy, and the water is very still—sound carries. And the six . . . you know . . . they are in the very center.”

“If I can find my father and bring his spirit back to his body,” Sabriel said stubbornly, “then we can deal with whatever confronts us. That is the first thing. My father. Everything else is just a complication that’s followed on.”

“Or preceded it,” said Mogget. “So, I take it your master plan is to sneak in, as far as we can, find your father’s body, which will hopefully be tucked away in some safe corner, and then see what happens?”

“We’ll go in the middle of a clear, sunny day . . .” Sabriel began.

“It’s underground,” interrupted Mogget.

“So we have sunlight to retreat to,” Sabriel continued in a quelling tone.

“And there are light shafts,” added Touchstone. “At noon, it’s a sort of dim twilight down there, with patches of faint sun on the water.”

“So, we’ll find Father’s body, bring it back to safety here,” said Sabriel, “and . . . and take things from there.”

“It sounds like a terribly brilliant plan to me,” muttered Mogget. “The genius of simplicity . . .”

“ Can you think of anything else?” snapped Sabriel. “I’ve tried, and I can’t. I wish I could go home to Ancelstierre and forget the whole thing—but then I’d never see Father again, and the Dead would just eat up everything living in this whole rotten Kingdom. Maybe it won’t work, but at least I’ll be trying something, like the Abhorsen I’m supposed to be and you’re always telling me I’m not!”

Silence greeted this sally. Touchstone looked away, embarrassed. Mogget looked at her, yawned and shrugged.

“As it happens, I can’t think of anything else. I’ve grown stupid over the millennia—even stupider than the Abhorsens I serve.”

“I think it’s as good a plan as any,” Touchstone said, unexpectedly. He hesitated, then added, “Though I am afraid.”

“So am I,” whispered Sabriel. “But if it’s a sunny day tomorrow, we will go there.”

“Yes,” said Touchstone. “Before we grow too afraid.”

Chapter 20

Leaving the safe, aqueduct-bounded quarter of Belisaere proved to be a more difficult business than entering it, particularly through the northern archway, which led out to a long-abandoned street of derelict houses, winding their way up towards the northern hills of the city.

There were six guards at the archway, and they looked considerably more alert and efficient than the ones who guarded the passage from the docks. There was also a group of other people ahead of Sabriel and Touchstone waiting to be let through. Nine men, all with the marks of violence written in their expressions, in the way they spoke and moved. Every one was armed, with weapons ranging from daggers to a broad-bladed axe. Most of them also carried bows—short, deeply curved bows, slung on their backs.

“Who are these people?” Sabriel asked Touchstone. “Why are they going out into the Dead part of the city?”

“Scavengers,” replied Touchstone. “Some of the people I spoke to last night mentioned them. Parts of the city were abandoned to the Dead very quickly, so there is still plenty of loot to be found. A risky business, I think . . .”

Sabriel nodded thoughtfully and looked back at the men, most of whom were sitting or squatting by the aqueduct wall. Some of them looked back at her, rather suspiciously. For a moment, she thought they’d seen the bells under her cloak and recognized her as a necromancer, then she realized that she and Touchstone probably looked like rival scavengers. After all, who else would want to leave the protection of swift water? She felt a bit like a hard-bitten scavenger. Even freshly cleaned and scrubbed, her clothes and armor were not the sweetest items of wear. They were also still slightly damp, and the boat cloak that covered her up was on the borderline between damp and wet, because it hadn’t been hung up properly after washing. On the positive side, everything had the scent of lemon, for the Sign of Three Lemons washerfolk used lemon-scented soap.

Sabriel thought the scavengers had been waiting for the guards, but clearly they had been waiting for something else, which they’d suddenly sighted behind her. The sitting or squatting men picked themselves up, grumbling and cursing, and shuffled together into something resembling a line.

Sabriel looked over her shoulder to see what they saw—and froze. For coming towards the arch were two men, and about twenty children; children of all ages between six and sixteen. The men had the same look as the other scavengers, and carried long, four-tongued whips. The children were manacled at the ankles, the manacles fastened to a long central chain. One man held the chain, leading the children down the middle of the road. The other followed behind, plying the air above the small bodies idly with his whip, the four tongues occasionally licking against an ear or the top of a small head.

“I heard of this too,” muttered Touchstone, moving up closer to Sabriel, his hands falling on his sword hilts. “But I thought it was a beer story. The scavengers use children—slaves—as decoys, or bait, for the Dead. They leave them in one area, to draw the Dead away from where they intend to search.”

“This is . . . disgusting!” raged Sabriel. “Immoral! They’re slavers, not scavengers! We have to stop it!”

She started forward, mind already forming a Charter-spell to blind and confuse the scavengers, but a sharp pain in her neck halted her. Mogget, riding on her shoulders, had dug his claws in just under her chin. Blood trickled down in hairline traces, as he hissed close to her ear.

“Wait! There are nine scavengers and six guards, with more close by. What will it profit these children, and all the others who may come, if you are slain? It is the Dead who are at the root of this evil, and Abhorsen’s business is with the Dead!”

Sabriel stood still, shuddering, tears of rage and anger welling up in the corners of her eyes. But she didn’t attack. Just stood, watching the children. They seemed resigned to their fate, silent, without hope. They didn’t even fidget in their chains, standing still, heads bowed, till the scavengers whipped them up again and they broke into a dispirited shuffle towards the archway.

Soon, they were beyond the arch, heading up the ruined street, the scavenging team walking slowly behind them. The sun shone bright on the cobbled street and reflected from armor and weapons—and, briefly, from a little boy’s blond head. Then they were gone, turning right, taking the way towards Coiner’s Hill.

Sabriel, Touchstone and Mogget followed after ten minutes spent negotiating with the guards. At first, the leader, a large man in a gravy-stained leather cuirass, wanted to see an “official scavenger’s license,” but this was soon translated as a request for bribes. Then it was merely a matter of bargaining, down to the final price of three silver pennies each for Sabriel and Touchstone, and one for the cat. Strange accounting, Sabriel thought, but she was glad Mogget stayed silent, not voicing the opinion that he was being undervalued.

Past the aqueduct, and the soothing barrier of running water, Sabriel felt the immediate presence of the Dead. They were all around, in the ruined houses, in cellars and drains, lurking anywhere the light didn’t reach. Dormant. Waiting for the night, while the sun shone.

In many ways, the Dead of Belisaere were direct counterparts of the scavengers. Hiding by day, they took what they could by night. There were many, many Dead in Belisaere, but they were weak, cowardly and jealous. Their combined appetite was enormous, but the supply of victims sadly limited. Every morning saw scores of them lose their hold on Life, to fall back into Death. But more always came . . .

“There are thousands of Dead here,” Sabriel said, eyes darting from side to side. “They’re weak, for the most part—but so many!”

“Do we go straight on to the reservoir?” Touchstone asked. There was an unspoken question there, Sabriel knew. Should they—could they—save the children first?

She looked at the sky, and the sun, before answering. They had about four hours of strong sunlight, if no clouds intervened. Little enough time, anyway. Assuming that they could defeat the scavengers, could they leave finding her father till tomorrow? Every day made it less likely his spirit and body could be brought back together. Without him, they couldn’t defeat Kerrigor—and Kerrigor had to be defeated for them to have any hope of repairing the stones of the Great Charter—banishing the Dead across the Kingdom . . .

“We’ll go straight to the reservoir,” Sabriel said, heavily, trying to blank out a sudden fragment of visual memory; sunlight on that little boy’s head, the trudging feet . . .

“Perhaps we . . . perhaps we will be able to rescue the children on the way back.”

Touchstone led the way with confidence, keeping to the middle of the streets, where the sun was bright. For almost an hour, they strode up empty, deserted streets, the only sound the clacking of their boot-nails on the cobbles. There were no birds, or animals. Not even insects. Just ruin and decay.

Finally, they reached an iron-fenced park that ran around the base of Palace Hill. Atop the hill, blackened, burnt-out shells of tumbled stone and timber were all that remained of the Royal Palace.

“The last Regent burned it,” said Mogget, as all three stopped to look up. “About twenty years ago. It was becoming infested with the Dead, despite all the guards and wards that various visiting Abhorsens put up. They say the Regent went mad and tried to burn them out.”

“What happened to him?” asked Sabriel.

“Her, actually,” replied Mogget. “She died in the fire—or the Dead took her. And that marked the end of any attempt at governing the Kingdom.”

“It was a beautiful building,” Touchstone reminisced. “You could see out over the Saere. It had high ceilings, and a clever system of vents and shafts to catch the light and the sea breeze. There was always music and dancing somewhere in the Palace, and Midsummer dinner on the garden roof, with a thousand scented candles burning . . .”