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big!”
    “Fixed? By who?”
    “My uncle.” His voice was breathless; his eagerness to tell her everything filled her with contempt and pity. “He’s behind it. Everyone’s terrified of him.”
    “He’s going to break you out?” she asked, puzzled.
    “No! The whole place is full of his people. The Watch have no idea! Lots of the workmen, the prisoners, are under his orders; we’ve been infiltrating this place for weeks. I was in on the plan from the start. Well”—he gave an odd, self-conscious laugh—“you could almost say it was my idea, really. He thinks the world of me. I just said, “Uncle, I’ve got this brilliant—’ ”
    “I’m sure,” Carys said acidly, “but what’s the use of having all your men made workslaves?”
    “Don’t you see! It’s a stroke of genius. When he attacks, we let him in. We’ve got weapons, brought in under the cartloads of stone. The Watch will never know what hit them!” His voice fidgeted, as if he was wriggling in delight.
    Carys shook her head. “It would take an army. And what about—”
    “We’ve got an army! My uncle’s the most ferocious warlord there is!”
    Bolts rattled. Instantly, Carys jerked away from the crack.
    Voices rang in the stone corridor, keys clinked; it sounded as though the prisoners were being taken out to join in the work. She listened, catching the rattle of chains, waiting for them to come for her, but no one did, and the shuffle of feet and barked orders died away into an eerie silence. As if the place were empty.
    After a few minutes she edged back to the crack. “Are you still there?”
    No answer. So it seemed she really was spared hauling stone. That was one good thing; it gave her time to work out what to do. And for something else.
    She got up, went to the door, and lifted the grille as far as it would go, a dark slot in the rusty metal of the door. Then, with all her concentration, she listened. It took at least five long minutes before she was absolutely sure there was no sentinel outside, or anywhere in the corridor. Someone was talking, but the low voices were a long way off, probably in the guardroom near the gatehouse. It seemed safe. In any case, she’d have to take the chance.
    Going to the darkest corner of the cell she worked quickly. Shrugging her jerkin off, she undid the third wooden toggle. Only it wasn’t wood, just carefully painted to look that way. It came apart easily, the Maker-material smoothly unscrewing, and inside it tiny lights pulsed, green and blue. There was a small button in the center; she pressed it and held it down, counting the seconds off silently. Four minutes. To make sure she made contact. She released the pressure, counted one minute, then repeated the procedure, every muscle in her body tensed, listening for the slightest rustle outside the door.
    Still no one came.
    While the button was held down the lights changed color, blue to red. As soon as the time was up she screwed the whole thing together hastily, pulled the jacket on, and huddled up against the wall, her heart thudding. If they had any way of knowing . . . Of course they didn’t. Calm down, she told herself firmly. It was quiet now, outside. Gradually her mind relaxed.
    The boy’s boasting was odd. Especially if it was true. He might just be trying to impress her, but it seemed more than that. Scala worried her more. Carys had foreseen nothing like her. It was obvious the castellan and her captain were working for themselves—they wanted to know where Raffi was so they could pass the information on and pocket the rewards.
    Raffi. That was the thing she couldn’t grasp—why Raffi? Was it just a way to get to the Crow? What on earth could the Margrave want with a . . . She stopped, her mind cold. Wait a minute. Just wait a minute.
    She remembered now. It had been the night after they’d used the Coronet of Flain—a night stop on that hurried journey out of Sekoi lands. Just the two of them. Raffi had been huddled by