Fly Up into the Night Air (19 page)

Pressure

The Red Rooster was nearly empty in the early afternoon. Harte leaned on the bar and caught the eye of the barkeep.

"What'll you have?" asked the man.

"I would speak to Soloni, if he is available."

The barkeep frowned. "Stay here. I'll check."

Harte looked around the tavern, curious to see it in the light of day. It was smaller than he remembered and cleaner than he expected. The hearth opposite the bar was well swept. A fresh supply of wood awaited the fire. There was a hint of sour ale in the air, but the overall impression was more of yeast. Harte became aware that a man was watching him with interest from across the room. He was middle-aged, with a gray fringe to his brown hair, and dressed in fine wool. He smiled when he noted Harte's attention and motioned to a chair at his table. Harte hesitated, then walked over.

"I don't believe that we've met, sir," he said.

"No, I don't believe that we have," the man answered. "Nevertheless, I am as delighted as I am surprised to find you here."

"I have business with the owner."

"Soloni's not in trouble is he?"

"Not as far as I know."

"Surely
you
would know."

"I see you have the advantage of me."

The man smiled again. "You asked if we had met, not if I knew who you are, Mr. Walford. My name is Gregor. I am very pleased to meet you. You must not think me impolite. But your case against Brin Greer has made you famous."

"Famous? I hardly think I--"

"Oh, come now. Walford's Crossing has never seen a presenter advocate seek justice for a pretty boy, much less a presenter advocate with
your
name. Did you think your crusade would go unnoticed?

Crusade, is that what people think?
Harte looked around to see if Soloni was in evidence.

"The gossip has hardly touched on any other matter, these past few weeks."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"You could not have expected otherwise," said the man. "I don't mean to distress you, only to thank you."

"I have only tried to do what seems right and fitting."

"Maybe so, but you have rolled a snowball on the slope of a glacier."

Harte looked around desperately for Soloni or for any other rescue, but found none. "You know, sir, if someone wanted to start a true revolution, he would find me a witness to identify Brin Greer in court. Until people begin to speak out for--ah! Soloni!" Harte rose. "If you will excuse me." He strode quickly across the room to where he had just seen Soloni entering.

"Mr. Walford. You wish to see me?" Soloni placed a parcel casually on the bar and cocked an eyebrow.

"I do. Can we?" Harte flicked a finger towards the back curtain and the staircase behind it.

Soloni raised his eyebrows. "You will start rumors."

"I would speak to you privately."

"As you wish." Soloni shrugged, picked up his parcel, and led the way upstairs. "May I interest you in some lunch?"

"No, thank you. I must leave soon."

"It's no imposition. I was just going to heat water for tea and eat a couple of these." He unwrapped his parcel, which was revealed to contain six stuffed crescents. "You have had these? They are really quite good."

"From the place around the corner?"

"You know it then? I'm so fond of these, I once tried to buy the shop. It's owned by a old fellow and his daughter, neither of whom would be moved by any promise of investment or riches. I believe they consider their buns a religious offering." While he talked, he poked the fire into new life and placed a small grate over it. A tea pot went on that.

"They certainly move one to a spiritual state."

"More likely, a spherical state." Soloni smiled and handed Harte a bun. They ate in silent reverence. Soloni finished by daintily licking his long thin fingers. "Now then, what new torment do you bring to my house?"

"No new torment, only an old one: you understand that the other day's hearing was only the start of the Greer prosecution. The trial will require that I clear a higher bar."

"Yes."

"I will be blunt, Soloni. I do not believe I can win without at least one witness to identify Greer as the one who did the beating."

"You have not
just
come to this conclusion!"

"No, but it becomes more urgent that I find such a witness."

"I suppose you want me to open a door to this blind alley."

"You have spoken before of a community." Harte searched Soloni's face for--something. "That man out there--who thanked me for my work--spoke as though my actions were motivated by some kind of political thinking. They have not been. But, if there is a community here--" He waived around. "--then it is time that it manifested more than whispers in the dark. Some credible person must appear in the light of day to demand justice. It cannot succeed any other way."

"Hmm. I hope you were at least polite to that man out there. He's Gregor Illeutan, one of the wealthiest merchants in the river trade. He stops here when he comes to inspect his holdings. I believe he likes my ale, or some such, for he tried to buy
me
out once."

"You would divert me, I think."

"Has anyone ever pointed out your regrettable lack of patience."

"Recently."

"What about that beautiful judge veritor you have been entertaining at Walford House? Could he not help you to expose Greer's lies?"

Harte found himself shifting restlessly. "Everyone knows Greer is lying. The trick is to show such compelling evidence that they have no choice but to convict him. The beating must also be exposed as the cruel, violent, crime that it was. For the jury will be predisposed to excuse a proud man for lashing out when insulted by a pretty boy. The beating will have to be shown as out of proportion with the insult."

"You ignore my question. What about Judge Cast? Could he not intervene?"

"He has gone to Bugport to visit his family. In any case, a judge veritor may only intervene under the most extraordinary circumstances."

"Is your crusade not extraordinary enough?"

That word again!
Harte's thoughts returned to his last exchange with Stilian. "We cannot depend on assistance from that quarter."

Soloni sighed. "I will consider what might be done."

* * *

Dear Harte,

Poor Petar! He does not understand why we were compelled to leave a perfectly snug stable in the dead of winter. I arrived at Grenton this evening, after an endless ride in the snow. My nose is frozen, and I'm snow blind. But I scratch this out in compliance with your silly demand. I imagine you reading by that lovely, great fireplace in the library. You are sipping hot mulled wine, your eyes unblinking as you devour some new idea. The picture irritates me.

How is Peli? You have checked on him, haven't you? I have been thinking of him: I feel we must help him to find his place in the world. No matter what happens in court, Raf's memory is best served by helping Peli. I know you begin to care for him.

I'm frantic with worry about Hugh. The cord binding me together during these last two years of circuit riding has been the thought that some day I would go home to my adopted family at Blue House. I cannot imagine the place without Judge Hugh. The walls lose their shape without him.

I do not believe Kit would have ever left Grayholme for very long. How he loved it there! But Grayholme always seemed a fantasy to me--not quite part of the world. I long for home, and yet, there is a part of me that must always be out in the world looking for--I know not what. That is my guilt; I would have left Kit behind, had it come to that.

When I return, Harte, will you scour the world with me? Will you travel until we are old, and we can sit by the fire content that we have done what we were here to do? I know I ask too much of you. I'm tired, and I must ride on into the white tomorrow.

I will think of you until I am released in sleep,

Stilian

* * *

Griff was aware of the men following from the time he left the girl's village. But he took no notice until he heard them break into canter along a deserted stretch. The road was marked only by a flat space between reeds and white-draped shrubs. He twisted around to watch as they approached, their horse's hooves sending up billows of snow as they pounded up the narrow trail he'd cut before them. It did not occur to him to be concerned. The men were dressed in typical winter traveling gear: high necked tunics, long hooded cloaks, and high boots. Their tack looked more expensive than most of the farmers in the area could afford, but not remarkably so. There were three of them, and they carried no banners or insignia.

Griff called a greeting as they thundered into range, but they did not respond. He turned back to steady his horse. The first man slowed as he came parallel to Belle. Without saying a word, bent to grasp a rein where it ran along her neck. Griff called out in dismay. "Stop that!" The second man came up on the other side. Both men spurred their horses, dragging Belle and Griff with them. When they reached a canter, the second man drew a dagger from his belt, leaned over and stabbed Belle in the neck. Belle screamed and floundered, then reared up on her hind legs. Griff fought for balance. He was not a frequent rider, but he might have stayed on anyway, had it not been for the blow he received from behind. It must have come from the third rider. He fell from the saddle, one foot caught in a stirrup. Belle dragged him, his head preserved from bouncing on the ground only by the thick coat of snow covering the road. Twisting furiously, he fought to get his foot clear of the stirrup.

* * *

Harte woke to a rough shake from his father's hand. "Harte, wake up! That pipsqueak from the hospital is here, insisting on some emergency that needs you. Wake up!"

"What is it? Who's here?" Harte come to himself slowly.

"It's that boy from the hospital, Peli. Cook would not let him in, but he threw rocks at the windows until she gave in for fear he would break one. He's yours to deal with, boy. I'm going back to bed."

"Peli's here? Why?"

"How should I know?"

Harte rose and threw on the nearest clothes he could find. He went down the servant's stair directly to the kitchen, where he found a red-faced Cook squaring off with a wide-eyed, wild-haired, shivering, Peli.

"Master Harte, this mad ragamuffin nearly broke my window throwing stones at it! Now he won't leave without seeing you."

"I only threw the stones because you wouldn't let me in!"

"Am I to let in every urchin off the street, just because he requests it?"

Peli stamped in frustration. "I am not
any
urchin off the street. I know Mr. Walford. I am supposed to help him."

"Help him? You!" Cook was nearly apoplectic.

Harte threw up his hands in supplication. "Please, please, stop! Cook. I'm sorry Peli disturbed you. Please accept my apologies on his behalf and go back to bed. I will see to this."

Cook seemed inclined to argue, until a firm look from Harte reduced her to a muttering retreat. "It's not
your
apologies I'm wanting, Master Harte. Not you who--"

"Peli. I take it something
very
important has happened."

"Yes. I dreamt that--"

"Wait. You're shivering. Let's go into the library and get a fire going."

"But Mr. Griff--"

"What about Griff?"

"I dreamt he's freezing and can't move. He's afraid. I think he's hurt."

"Hurt? Where is he?"

"I don't know! He must be on the road somewhere, right? He went to find that servant girl, and he must have had a mishap or something."

"Peli. Are you sure?"

"I think so. This afternoon, Sister Grace told me that she found out from one of the ward nurses that there was a man who couldn't breathe last night. He had a new 'mona' or something."

"Pneumonia. You think that last night's dream was real, therefore this one must be?"

"I was so sure when I woke up. I was shivering like I was buried in snow, even though I was in bed and under the blankets. Now I'm not sure. What should I do?"

"I think you have already done it, Peli. Now, I must take over. How I wish Stilian were here to consult. He would know if this is plausible." He thought for a moment. "No, it doesn't matter. If I were not to act, and Griff were to be injured or die, I would never forgive myself. Peli, run back to the hospital and put on your warmest clothes--make that all your clothes. Tell Sister Grace that you are with me. You must wake her, if necessary. When you have done that, meet me here at the stables." He waved Peli on his way, still talking. "I must go to Watch House. But first, a sleigh ..."

* * *

It took persuasion, bluster, and finally the promise of a reward to get two of Griff's patrol to agree to help, but Harte prevailed. They made a strange procession jingling down the King's Road towards the country village where the servant girl lived. The watchmen, Garth and Tom, rode on either side of the road. Each carried a lantern hung from a pole that was braced to his saddle. Harte and Peli rode in the Walford family sleigh, behind a matched pair of geldings. Four more lanterns were fixed to each corner of the sleigh. The sleigh, the horses' driving tack, and even the watch horses, all had bells on them.

They were unquestionably lucky, in that it was a clear night with a three-quarter moon. Harte still despaired of finding Griff, if he were more than a few feet from the road. He drove the men and horses on, regardless.

"Peli, do you sense anything at all?"

"No, I don't think so. I don't know." Peli shook his head in frustration. "It was so real in my dream."

"If sleeping is the only way you can find him, then why don't you sleep?" Harte was willing to try anything. He pointed at the seat next to him. "Sit close to me and close your eyes."

"But I'm not sleepy. I want to help look for him."

Harte put an arm around Peli and pulled the bearskin rug over them both. "You may do Griff more good this way. Just relax next to me. If you can't sleep, let your mind drift. Perhaps you may come within sight of Morpheus' gate."

"Who's Morpheus?"

"The god of dreams."

"Then I have been tormented by a god, every night?"

"Hush. Don't be vain. Try to sleep."

They rode out of Walford's Crossing, past prosperous holdings with large houses and stone barns, then past more distant hardscrabble farms, until they came to a stretch of dark forest where their lanterns hardly seemed to pierce the gloom under the barren branches. Harte was quiet, hoping the clopping of the horse's hooves and jingling of the bells would lull Peli. But his eyes scanned every hillock and lump that might conceal the body of a man or horse. Twice their noisy progress set an owl hooting as it glided silently to a more distant perch. Later, a deer stood unmoving under the tree boughs, its eyes reflecting the yellow light of their lanterns. Harte started to point it out to Peli, but he realized that the boy's eyes were closed, and that he drew the even breaths of a sleeper.

It must have been five bells and nearing dawn, when Peli jerked awake. "He's awake; I think he hears our bells!" He looked around frantically. "We must be close." They had passed from the forest and begun to follow a frozen stream as it wound in and out of sight of the road. There were marsh grasses and gnarled bushes as high as a horse blocking the view. "Griff! Where are you?" Peli yelled suddenly. Garth and Tom reined in and looked around in surprise.

"Did you hear something?" said Garth.

"The boy may have."

"Griff! Can you hear us? Griff!" yelled Tom, taking up the call.

"Whoa there, boys." Harte brought the sleigh to a halt.

"Griff! Griff!" called Peli again.

"Hush now," Harte said. "Let's listen for a moment." They stood silent, but they could hear nothing but the heavy blowing of the horses and the occasional jingle, when a horse shifted or stamped. "Let's go farther and try again," Harte said. They resumed moving slowly and continued for a furlong or so, then stopped and called out again.

"Griff! Griff! Can you hear us?" Once again, there was no response, so Harte motioned them on.

"How far do you think the sound of the bells carry?" Peli asked.

"I don't know. Maybe pretty far, in this still air."

"Griff!"

Tom saw it first; the feeble wave of a watchman's stick, seeming to come from a snow covered bush, four or five strides off of the road. He spurred his horse to trot, then reined in and slid off. "Ho, look here! Garth! Boys!"

"Shut up, you great oaf, and get me out of here," whispered Griff horsely. "I can't feel my hands and feet."

Tom laughed gaily, his breath making a great steaming cloud. "I've found a talking bush, and a rude one at that."

Harte had not even brought the sleigh to a halt when Peli leaped off. Harte reined in and followed quickly. Garth trotted over from the other side of the road.

"Griff, Griff, I knew you were here! Are you all right? Your ankle, does it hurt?"

"Hush boy," Harte said. "Let's get him into the sleigh. He is very cold."

"Be careful of his ankle."

They lifted Griff out of the make-shift shelter that he had constructed and carried him over to the sleigh. "Get him under that bear skin. Peli get under there with him. Help to warm him. Tom, help me get this sleigh turned around." They got the sleigh pointed back towards Walford's Crossing and set out as fast as their tired horses would carry them.

Harte pulled out a flask and gave it to Peli. "Give him a taste of this. Not too much. Help him with it."

"That burns," Griff moaned.

"What happened to you?"

Between bouts of shivering, Griff told his story. "Men. Grabbed my reins and stabbed Belle." He stopped to take another swig from the flask. "She reared up and threw me. I caught my foot in the stirrup. Damn horse dragged me twenty yards before I got loose. Twisted my ankle. Tried to walk for a while, but had to stop."

"What happened to Belle?"

"Gone." He stopped as a shudder rippled through his body. "I hope she gets eaten by wolves. Gods, I'm cold."

"Here, unwrap your cloak and get Peli in there with you. You'll warm faster." Griff complied with shaking hands. It was then that Harte noticed that Griff was wearing a second cloak underneath the plain outer one. It had a distinctive black and white striped, fir collar.