knees . . . twice. This time . . . her imagination failed her, which was probably just as well: whatever her mother came up with was likely to be far worse.
She looked wildly around, and saw a door—a trapdoor, really. Square, about three feet on a side, set waist-high, black as the wall all around it, it obviously opened into someone’s coal chute.
Praying it wasn’t locked, she ran over to it and shoved at it with the palms of her hands. It didn’t move.
The footsteps echoed closer. The Night Watchers would turn the corner any second . . .
She rammed her shoulder into the door. Wood splintered, and it swung inward. She held it open against the force of the spring trying to close it. Staring at the pitch-black square leading who-knew-where, she hesitated; then she heard a man’s voice from the street say, “Did you hear something?” and in sudden terror threw herself headfirst through the opening.
The door banged shut behind her. In absolute darkness she slid down a metal chute, arms outstretched and legs spread to try to slow her descent.
She shot out of the chute and fear wrenched a scream from her as she fell—
—not, fortunately, very far; but all the same, coal really wasn’t the softest thing in the world to land on. She tumbled over and over in a welter of rock and finally came to rest on a hard stone floor, bruised, breathless, no doubt filthy, but not seriously hurt. Making good use of several more interesting words she’d learned on the street, she sat up.
Then she yelped in terror as a voice out of the darkness said, “Who’s there?”
FOUR
The Boy in the Basement
F OR A MOMENT Mara didn’t answer, too shocked to say a word.
“I know you’re there, I heard you,” the voice said: a young voice, a boy’s voice. “I warn you, I’ve got a knife—”
“So do I!” Mara squeaked. A lie, of course, but
he
wouldn’t know that. “What are you doing down here?”
“What are
you
doing down here?” the boy countered. Mara thought he was about ten feet away. His voice didn’t echo much; the cellar must be small.
“It’s after curfew,” Mara said. “There were Night Watchers coming.”
“You’re not Masked?” The boy sounded relieved.
“No,” Mara said.
Not for another week.
“Are you?”
“No!” The word exploded from him. “No! And I won’t be, either.”
Mara stared at the place where the voice came from. “But—”
“The Masks are evil. The Masks are . . . are wrong. I won’t wear one.”
“But when you turn fifteen—”
“I
am
fifteen,” the boy said. “I turned fifteen a week ago.”
“But then—”
“I ran away. The night before my Masking. I’ve been hiding ever since.”
Mara gasped. “But—but if they catch you—”
“They won’t catch me,” the boy said. “This is my last night here. I have a way out of the city.”
“You have to be Masked in the country, too!”
“Watchers can’t be everywhere,” the boy said. “There are places you can go. People who . . .” He stopped. “Who are you?” Suspicion flooded his voice. “Are you a spy for the Watchers?” She heard a shuffling sound, and then his voice sounded much closer. “What are you doing out after curfew?”
“I’m not a spy!” Mara protested. If this boy had run away from his Masking, he probably really
did
have a knife . . . and if he thought she might turn him over to the Watchers he’d probably
use
it, too. “Honestly! I just sneaked out. For fun.”
“Fun for you,” the boy growled. “Life and death for me if you led the Night Watchers here.”
“If they’d seen me stuff myself into that chute, they’d be down here already!”
Silence for a moment. “I suppose so.” Another pause. “What’s your name?”
Mara hesitated, but saw no reason to lie. “Mara,” she said. “What’s yours?”
“Keltan,” the boy said instantly.
“Keltan?” Mara blinked. “That’s the name of the Autarch’s horse!”
“You don’t
She looked wildly around, and saw a door—a trapdoor, really. Square, about three feet on a side, set waist-high, black as the wall all around it, it obviously opened into someone’s coal chute.
Praying it wasn’t locked, she ran over to it and shoved at it with the palms of her hands. It didn’t move.
The footsteps echoed closer. The Night Watchers would turn the corner any second . . .
She rammed her shoulder into the door. Wood splintered, and it swung inward. She held it open against the force of the spring trying to close it. Staring at the pitch-black square leading who-knew-where, she hesitated; then she heard a man’s voice from the street say, “Did you hear something?” and in sudden terror threw herself headfirst through the opening.
The door banged shut behind her. In absolute darkness she slid down a metal chute, arms outstretched and legs spread to try to slow her descent.
She shot out of the chute and fear wrenched a scream from her as she fell—
—not, fortunately, very far; but all the same, coal really wasn’t the softest thing in the world to land on. She tumbled over and over in a welter of rock and finally came to rest on a hard stone floor, bruised, breathless, no doubt filthy, but not seriously hurt. Making good use of several more interesting words she’d learned on the street, she sat up.
Then she yelped in terror as a voice out of the darkness said, “Who’s there?”
FOUR
The Boy in the Basement
F OR A MOMENT Mara didn’t answer, too shocked to say a word.
“I know you’re there, I heard you,” the voice said: a young voice, a boy’s voice. “I warn you, I’ve got a knife—”
“So do I!” Mara squeaked. A lie, of course, but
he
wouldn’t know that. “What are you doing down here?”
“What are
you
doing down here?” the boy countered. Mara thought he was about ten feet away. His voice didn’t echo much; the cellar must be small.
“It’s after curfew,” Mara said. “There were Night Watchers coming.”
“You’re not Masked?” The boy sounded relieved.
“No,” Mara said.
Not for another week.
“Are you?”
“No!” The word exploded from him. “No! And I won’t be, either.”
Mara stared at the place where the voice came from. “But—”
“The Masks are evil. The Masks are . . . are wrong. I won’t wear one.”
“But when you turn fifteen—”
“I
am
fifteen,” the boy said. “I turned fifteen a week ago.”
“But then—”
“I ran away. The night before my Masking. I’ve been hiding ever since.”
Mara gasped. “But—but if they catch you—”
“They won’t catch me,” the boy said. “This is my last night here. I have a way out of the city.”
“You have to be Masked in the country, too!”
“Watchers can’t be everywhere,” the boy said. “There are places you can go. People who . . .” He stopped. “Who are you?” Suspicion flooded his voice. “Are you a spy for the Watchers?” She heard a shuffling sound, and then his voice sounded much closer. “What are you doing out after curfew?”
“I’m not a spy!” Mara protested. If this boy had run away from his Masking, he probably really
did
have a knife . . . and if he thought she might turn him over to the Watchers he’d probably
use
it, too. “Honestly! I just sneaked out. For fun.”
“Fun for you,” the boy growled. “Life and death for me if you led the Night Watchers here.”
“If they’d seen me stuff myself into that chute, they’d be down here already!”
Silence for a moment. “I suppose so.” Another pause. “What’s your name?”
Mara hesitated, but saw no reason to lie. “Mara,” she said. “What’s yours?”
“Keltan,” the boy said instantly.
“Keltan?” Mara blinked. “That’s the name of the Autarch’s horse!”
“You don’t
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