Free The Lost Heiress #2 by Catherine Fisher

bring the record.”
    She turned and stalked away, keeping her head up. When she found the desk she lounged there, looking around moodily. Maybe he’d report it. Maybe not. She didn’t really care.
    When the records came, they were in three enormous red books. She signed her name for them, then leafed through eagerly, but was soon disappointed.
    Each year had the name of the children brought in, and their age, but that was all. No villages, no family names. All the children in Marn Mountain that year had the same surname—Arrin. It had been the castellan’s name, that was why. Briefly she wondered about Carys, but there was no way of finding out.
    When she found her own name and number she stared at them coldly for a long moment, as if they belonged to someone else. And in a way they did. It surprised her how bitter she felt then; the Watch had taken everything, her family, even her name. But the Rule said, “The Watch is your name and your family.”
    She slammed the book shut and tapped her fingers on it thoughtfully. She’d been stupid to think she could find anything here. They covered their tracks too well; they didn’t want anyone to know too much. As for the Interrex, that would be hopeless.
    Abruptly she got up, walked down the endless hall, passed the clerk without a glance, and went out, into the labyrinth.
    Braylwin was not impressed. Smoothing the sleeves of a new coat he watched her closely in the mirror. “The Hall of Moons? I went there myself once, years ago. Were you looking for the Interrex, sweetie? Or something else?” His eyes were sharp in his plump face. “Has little Carys being looking for her mummy?”
    She ignored him. Instead she said, “Have you ever been to the Overpalace? To the library?”
    He shrugged. “Never. It’s not an easy place to get to. And there are no maps of the Overpalace—the place is almost unknowable. The Higher Watchlords may go there, maybe.” He grinned at her. “All those delicious secrets, Carys.”
    She nodded, thinking. “It’s guarded, of course.”
    “Three bastions, each with a metal door. Once you get inside . . .” He turned, interested. “Do you know what I was once told? Deep under the whole of this mountain are tunnels, a great network of them. Kestcreatures lurk down there, and some of them find their way up through to the passageways and corridors of the Overpalace. They’re allowed to. They crawl about at night. Eat the odd spy, I suppose, or any fanatical keepers who get that far.” He was smirking, enjoying himself.
    Suddenly she stared back at him, dubious. “Stories to scare children, Braylwin.”
    “Ah, but are they? Who knows what goes on in the Tower of Song—isn’t that a proverb?” He turned back to the mirror and adjusted his sleeves. “Even we in the Watch, beloved, don’t know the half of this place. When it was first taken, patrols often got lost. One group starved; their bones were found days later. Bones, mind. Something ate them. And then there’s the legend of the Lost Hall . . .”
    “Go on,” she said drily, peeling a slim-fruit with her knife. She knew he was teasing her, that it might all be lies.
    He examined a spot on his chin. “It’s a famous story around the tower. A captain called Feymir was drunk one night, wandered off and got lost. Next morning he put in a report about a great hall he’d found, chock-full of Maker-gadgets. When he tried to find it again he couldn’t. No one ever has. Whatever he’d been drinking, it must have been good.”
    Outside the open window, the rain was crashing on a roof.
    Braylwin fiddled with his skullcap and stood back. “What do you think?”
    “Charming,” she said, eating peel.
    He picked a pair of gloves off the table and swished to the door. “Don’t wait up!”
    When he’d gone she hurled the knife after him in disgust. It embedded itself in the wood, vibrating. Then, head on hands, she stared grimly out into the rain. What was wrong with her? She’d