But just then Gildas muttered, so he took the chance and curled up, bringing k closer.
"Can you hear me?" he said to it. "Are you there? Please, answer."
The storm raged. It whined in his teeth and nerves. He closed his eyes and felt despair, that he had imagined all of it, that the girl did not exist, that he was indeed born in some
Womb here.
And then, as if out of his own fear, came a voice, a soft remark. "Laughed? Are you sure that's what he said?"
Finn's eyes snapped open. A man's voice. Calm and considering.
He glanced around wildly, afraid the others had heard, and then a girl said, "... Of course
I'm sure. "Why should the old man laugh, Master, if Giles was dead?"
"Claudia." Finn whispered the name before he could stop himself.
Instantly Gildas turned; Keiro sat up. Cursing, Finn shoved the Key into his coat and rolled over to see Attia staring at him. He knew at once that she'd seen everything.
Keiro had his knife out. "Did you hear that? Someone outside." His blue eyes were alert.
"No." Finn swallowed. "It was me."
"Talking in your sleep?"
"He was talking to me," Attia said quietly.
For a moment Keiro looked at them both. Then he leaned back, but Finn knew he was not convinced. "Was he now?" his oathbrother said softly. "So who's Claudia?"
THEY CANTERED quickly up the lane, the deep green leaves of the oaks a tunnel over their heads. "And you believe Evian?"
"On this I do." She looked ahead at the mill rising at the foot of the hill. "The old man's reaction was all wrong, Master. He must have loved Giles."
"Grief affects people strangely, Claudia." Jared seemed worried. "Did you tell Evian you would find this Bartlett?"
"No. He--"
"Did you tell anyone? Alys?"
She snorted. "Tell Alys and it's around the servants' hall in minutes." That reminded her.
She slowed the breathless horse. "My father paid off the swordmaster. Or tried to. Has he said anything more to you?"
"No. Not yet."
They were silent while he leaned down and unlatched the gate, easing the horse back to drag it wide. On the other side the lane was rutted, lined by hedgerows, dog-roses twined among nettles and willow-herb, the white umbels of cow-parsley.
Jared sucked at a sting on his finger. Then he said, "That must be the place."
It was a low cottage half obscured by a great chestnut that grew beside it. As they rode closer Claudia scowled at its perfect Protocol, the thatch with holes in it, the damp walls, the gnarled trees of the orchard. "A hovel for the poor."
Jared smiled his sad smile. "I'm afraid so. In this Era only the rich know comfort."
They left the horses tied, cropping lush long grass from the verge. The gate was broken, hanging wide; Claudia saw how it had recently been forced, how the grass blades were dragged back under it, still wet with dew.
Jared stopped. "The doors open," he said.
She went to step past him, but he said, "A moment, Claudia." He took out the small scanner and let it hum. "Nothing.
No one here."
"Then we go in and wait for him. I've only got today." She strode up the cracked path;
Jared followed quickly.
Claudia pushed the door wider; it creaked and she thought something shuffled inside.
"Hello?" she said quietly.
Silence.
She put her head around the door.
The room was dark and smelled of smoke. A low window lit it, the shutter off and leaning against the wall. The fire was out in the hearth; as she came in she saw the blackened cooking pot on its chains, the spit, ashes drifting in the draft down the great chimney.
Two small benches lined the chimney corner; near the window stood a table and chair and a dresser with some battered pewter plates and a jug on it. She picked the jug up and sniffed the milk inside.
"Fresh."
There was a small doorway into the cow byre. Jared crossed to it and looked through, stooping under the lintel.
His back was to her, but she knew, from his sudden, intent stillness, something was wrong. "What?" she said.
He turned, and his face was so pale, she thought he was ill. He said, "I'm afraid we're too late."
She came over. He stayed, blocking her way. "I want to see," she muttered.
"Claudia..."
"Let me see, Master." She ducked under his arm.
The old man lay sprawled on the floor of the byre. It was quite obvious that his neck was broken. He lay on his back, arms flung out, one hand buried in the straw. His eyes were open.
The byre smelled of old dung. Flies buzzed endlessly and wasps came in and out through the open doorway; a small goat bleated outside.
Cold with awe and anger she said, "They killed him."