Fly Up into the Night Air (2 page)

* * *

Harte was seated in the library, when his father came in through the arched door from his study. Councilman Magistrate Gastir Walford was uncharacteristically crude. "I hear that you were sniffing around some little waif at that hovel operated by the Sisters of Mercy, this morning." Councilman Walford passed a hand over his trim, light brown hair, and blinked his hawk's eyes. "What were you doing there? You couldn't be thinking a boy like that's got the coin to pay for an investigation could you? Or the clout to get the council to pay for it? Why do you waste your time?"

Harte wondered what had set his father off. "They beat the boy cruelly, Father. Somebody ought to look into it. And it's not like the council is rushing to assign me cases. I don't know why they appointed me, if they didn't think I was good enough to do any work for them."

"You must build your reputation, boy." He spat the words out. "You don't do that by championing pretty boys or the Canny, with their minds in the gutter. They appointed you, because I told them too. I told them you would serve their interests, as I have. Is this some kind of joke, to show up your father?"

Harte counted a row of leather-bound law texts before answering. "This doesn't concern you, Father. It's about justice for the boy. What do the Canny have to do with this? Did you hear something?"

"Who is this boy? Justice is for those who have the coin to pay for it. The sooner you learn that, the better off you'll be." Harte's father pushed back his hair and sat down at the table, his hooded eyes scanning Harte's papers.

Harte picked up his notes and left his father without speaking. He didn't believe that. He would never believe it. Harte ran up the stairs to the second floor, and through the door to his suite. Slamming the door, he flopped onto the couch in his sitting room. Somebody saw that boy get beaten. Tonight, he would find a witness.

* * *

Harte and Griff met outside the Ragged Crow at eleven bells and started down the hill towards Dock Street. Both were dressed in plain, dark clothes. But Harte's shirt was made from fine linen, and its sleeves still had the full cut of the latest fashion.

"This time, do me a favor, Griff," said Harte. "Help me talk to these people."

Griff imitated Harte's high-toned accent. "You know, they're not really my set."

Harte ignored the taunt. "They're even less mine. You look as if you might visit Dock Street now and then."

"You'd be surprised who goes down there. My rank can't afford that kind of fun. We have to sleep at night."

Harte grinned. "You accuse mine of debauchery?" Harte feinted right and attempted a left jab. Griff stepped neatly aside, gripped Harte's wrist, yanked him off balance and twisted his arm up behind his back. "Ha! Try that with the watch."

Harte struggled in vain, then relaxed. "I yield, I yield. I studied law, not wrestling!"

"So you say. Are you sure it wasn't haberdashery?"

"Leave off, about the clothes. I have a position to maintain."

"Said the peacock to the swallow."

"Swallow, my--" said Harte as they stepped onto Dock Street.

"I'd be happy to swallow yours--" said a low-pitched voice from the shadows. A woman in a frayed shawl moved partially into the light. "--for a price. Is it a big one?"

Griff smirked as Harte choked. "No, I don't think he's in the mood yet. Maybe later." He waved the woman off, and ushered Harte down the cobbles. "Come on Harte, the Angry C--the Red Rooster's this way."

* * *

Harte followed Griff into the Red Rooster and paused. The room was low-ceilinged and dark. The plank floors were covered in damp sawdust. It smelled of sour beer and smoke weed. In one corner, a man was juggling a couple of apples in front of a table of rowdy young men. The men flipped coins into a pile. When they were done, someone tossed another apple to the juggler. Now three rotated over the table. The men tossed more coins, and the juggler caught another apple. The pile grew until beads of sweat popped on the juggler's brow. Finally, one too many apples sent the lot tumbling to the floor to shouts of laughter and groans from the gamblers. It looked like any other tavern, thought Harte in surprise, except that he could see no women in it. A harried troop of boys rushed from bar to table and back again, serving beer and plates of food to the men who occupied every table.

Griff motioned to Harte and headed for the bar. Behind the bar, a big, middle-aged man with heavily muscled arms and thick wrists used a bucket to sluice spilled beer from the counter behind the bar. He looked at Griff and raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

"Something I can get you?"

"Two barley ales, please."

Harte joined Griff at the bar and waited, while the barkeep poured the ale from a barrel that was chocked on the back counter. "Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?"

"Who's asking?"

"My name is Harte, and this is Griff. We're ... trying to help out a friend. There was a boy beaten across the street from here, last night."

"Ain't nothing unusual in that."

"He was left for dead, under the archway at Trast and Son. We're looking for anyone who saw anything."

"Why? The watch don't bother with what passes down here at night." He looked pointedly at Griff. "Do they?"

Griff's face reddened. "Not generally, no."

"So what's your interest?" The man shifted his gaze to Harte. "You say he's a friend of yours? I ain't seen you in here, before. Raf isn't the type to stray very far. Specially not up hill." His eyes rested on Harte's sleeves. "That's a fine shirt."

Harte kept his gaze steady. "You called him Raf. I take it you know him."

"He's a regular body, you could say."

"Was he in here last night?" said Harte.

"Like as not." The barkeep shrugged. "I couldn't say for certain. It was very busy." He drew a rag across the bar. "We're always very busy."

"Is there someone who might have noticed when Raf left?"

"Hold up! I didn't say he was here. I said he might've been."

"Would this help you remember?" Harte place a gold coin on the bar, in front of him.

Griff quickly shifted his body to shield the coin from view. "Watch what you flash around here," he hissed.

The barkeep passed his hand over the bar. When Harte looked down, the coin was gone. The barkeep glanced around the room, to see if anyone was paying undue attention. "That Raf, ya see, is fond of dancing. Last night, he had some coin--found a customer early, I think--and had three or four ales. Anyway, he was dancing on a table. You know, to warm up the house, stir up a little interest. He got lots of attention, but I didn't see anyone leave with him."

"Did anyone leave about the same time?" Griff asked.

"Not that I--well, Peli was still following him around. He's a new one, come around here a few weeks ago. Real young; spots on his face. He sort of latched onto Raf. Looked up to him, I guess." He grunted. "Lord knows why."

"Have you seen him tonight?" asked Harte.

"Nope."

"If we were to buy another round and drink it, say, at that table by the door, would you flash us a sign if he comes in?"

"I'll not be rattin' out any of my customers. We keep an eye out for our little family, here at the Angry C--Red Rooster."

"Right." Harte looked him in the eye and placed another coin on the bar in front of him. "Just nod or something."

Griff and Harte settled at the table by the door and ordered another round.

"Do you think there'll be any table dancing tonight?" Harte asked idly.

"Do you think you'd like to watch?"

"Of course not."

"Of course not," Griff mimicked.

* * *

"Look!" said Griff. A young boy had just entered the tavern and was drifting towards the back. "Do you think--?"

"Maybe. What's the barkeep doing?"

The barkeep looked casually over in their direction and nodded slightly before turning back to his bar.

"I'll go and talk to him," whispered Harte. You keep an eye on the door, in case he spooks."

Harte worked his way over toward where the boy was trading greetings some men. One of the men gently shoved the boy away. "A bit young for it, aren't you? Git."

Harte stepped up behind the boy and tapped his shoulder lightly. The boy jumped like a startled rabbit and twisted around. "Huh!"

"Whoa, there," said Harte. "I'm not here to trouble you."

The boy was thin as a reed, with straw blond hair, light blue eyes, and a narrow face. He looked about fourteen or fifteen, and while not tall, he had the slightly awkward carriage that can follow a sudden growth spurt.

"What do you want?"

"My name's Harte, Peli. I want to talk to you for a moment. Are you hungry? Of course you are." Harte steered the boy over to the table by the door and motioned to Griff. "What would you like?" Griff slid into a seat across from the boy. Harte continued talking quietly and steadily in a smooth, quiet voice that you might use to soothe a skittish horse. "This is my friend, Griff. Griff, would you get something for us to eat? Maybe some of those nice sausages? And a cider for this fellow? Thanks very much." Griff nodded and headed back to the bar.

"What do you want?" Peli repeated.

"Griff and I are trying to find out what happened to Raf last night. We know you were there, Peli. Don't worry, we just want to find out who hurt Raf. What exactly did you see? Tell us what you saw."

"I didn't see anything. They just started hitting him. He yelled a lot. Then he fell down, and they kicked him."

"Ah, they hit him first. Did they say anything?"

* * *

Griff stood back from the table with a plate of sausages in one hand and a mug in the other. Watching Harte talk to the boy was odd. There was something almost mesmerizing about the way Harte gazed into the boys eyes as he talked. He seemed not to listen to the boy's answers at all, but asked question after question, one following another, as if any pause at all would break the spell. The boy's answers were nearly inaudible.

"What kind of motion did Raf make with his hand? How did the man react? Who was the one who did the kicking? Would you recognize him again, if you saw him? What was he wearing? Was there anything unusual or distinctive about his clothes? Was he wearing shoes or boots? What kind of boots?"

Eventually, Harte closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Griff lurched into motion and sat back down at the table. He placed the plate and mug in front of the boy. The boy started to eat rapidly, still staring at Harte.

"Are you going to help him?" the boy asked.

"I'm going to try."

"Good."

* * *

Griff was uncharacteristically quiet as they walked up the hill, at dawn.

"All right, speak up," said Harte.

"It's no matter. I've never seen you like that."

"How so?"

"Fierce, no--focussed."

"I was trying to determine what happened."

"And you got more out of Peli than I thought likely. You had him mesmerized." He was silent for a moment. "Peli said that the man who stamped on Raf had a black and white striped, fur collar, on his cloak. That's not a common article. If we ask around, we might find someone who's seen that collar, or who knows the man who wears it."

"Yes, we might find someone who remembers seeing it," said Harte slowly, reluctant to meet Griff's eyes. He looked up the hill instead, towards the market square and its neighborhood of mansions.

"What, you don't think it will work?"

"No, it might work. We'll certainly need to do that. But I have someone I want to visit, first. Bless the Sisters, but I'm tired. Let's go home and get some sleep. I'll send you a note at Watch House, when I need you."

Griff seemed a little put out. "Who are you going to visit?" When Harte did not answer, he put up the hood of his cloak. "Don't you want me with you?"

"No, not for this."

"Is she pretty?" Griff tried. But Harte would not be baited.

Stilian

Stilian found a place by a small stream that meandered near the road, and stopped to eat. He slid off of his horse and looped the reins over his saddlebow. "You won't wander off, Petar, will you?" The cob's only answer was to drop his head and begin to tear at a patch of grass near the stream. "Good idea." Stilian unstrapped his saddle bags and pulled them off. Laying them out on the grass, he rummaged around for the bread and cheese he'd packed for the midday meal. While he gnawed at them, he pulled a letter from a pocket.

Dear Stilian,

I cannot begin to tell you how much we miss you and want you home. It does not matter that we must necessarily share in your burden. You say that you cannot return, that it is too hard sharing the pain of your loss. Can you not find some joy in your memories of Kit? We know that you will always miss him, but has the sharp edge of your pain not dulled a little with time? Must we lose you forever, too? Please come home after you finish your current circuit, even if only for a few days. Thalia and I will be together at Grayholme for the solstice.

Thalia and I miss you terribly,

Hugh

Stilian folded the letter away and squinted at the sunlight sparkling on the surface of the stream. Perhaps he should try to go back to Bugport or Grayholme. But he was not ready. Kit's loss was too raw. The influenza had taken him in less than the four days it took to travel from Bugport to Grayholme. The shock of it still set him shivering in quiet moments. If only he hadn't been so far away, he would have known Kit was sick. He would have returned sooner--perhaps to die with him. Stilian leaned back against his saddle bags, closed his eyes, and whispered, "We bonded for life, Kit. How was I to know we had so little time?"

When they met, Stilian had been fifteen, skinny, and with big hands and feet. He'd found his way to Bugport on his own after running away from his family: a stiff-necked father and muscle-headed brothers who had no use for the Canny--and even less use for a skinny runt who shamed them.

Stilian tumbled off the hay wagon in the Bugport's market square and marched straight across to Blue House, where one applied for schooling with the Canny at Grayholme. There wasn't much point in sightseeing; he had no food or coin left. Inside the building, he found a large, cold room with a stone floor and three rows of small desks. A group of seven or eight boys and girls populated the seats, all anxiously peering around or whispering to one another. Most of them appeared to be three or four years older than Stilian. The sight almost sent him back out the arched entrance again. What were they waiting for? Either you could sense the feelings of people around you, or you couldn't. He certainly could. He was practically nauseous from the waves of anxiety coming from the applicants.

At the front of the room, an old man with a gray beard and dark blue tunic sat behind a small table. There was some kind of insignia on his right shoulder that Stilian didn't recognize. Before moving forward, Stilian tried to sense what the man was feeling, but there was nothing he could be sure of. Either the man was feeling nothing--unlikely--or he was hiding his emotions. That idea intrigued Stilian, and he stepped further into the room. He'd never met anyone who could hide from him--not if he was really trying.

Whatever the man was doing to block him, he was clearly the person to whom Stilian needed to speak. So he strode up to the little table, looked the man in the eye, and spoke firmly. "Good morning. Are you the person I should talk to about going to Grayholme?"

The man looked up at Stilian and smiled. "Yes, that's right." He handed Stilian a piece of paper. "Did you come to pick up an application? Here, take this home. Bring it back when you're ready."

Stilian inspected the paper unhappily. The first questions on it asked about his parents and the location of his home. He wasn't particularly eager to broach either topic. "I thought you take anyone who's canny."

"Generally, yes, we do, if your test shows talent and your parents agree."

"What if you don't have any parents? I mean if they're dead or something."

Gray Beard looked carefully at Stilian. "Are your parents dead?"

Stilian knew he shouldn't lie, even though he wanted to. "My mother is. My father isn't dead. But I don't live with him anymore. He doesn't want me, because I'm canny, and it makes him angry." He paused. "And my brothers call me Runt all the time."

"I see. Does your father know that you've come here?"

"I left him a note when I left."

"It would have been better if you'd brought him with you." The man pulled his beard. "You'll just have to go home and get him to help with the application. He has to sign it, you know."

"But I can't go home! I came all the way from Rosset's Grade. It's too far to walk, and I've no more coin!" Stilian's voice rose with each sentence. "I can't go home." Stilian looked at the door behind the man's desk and considered whether he could dash past the man. There must be someone inside he could talk to. Just then the door opened and a gust of warm air and the smell of fresh bread heralded the arrival of a young man in a brown watchman's uniform. The watchman bit off small chunks of bread and ate them as he took up station beside the door. The smell make Stilian's stomach growl.

"Justin, you're back. Good!" said the old man. "I think I may be needing your assistance."

Justin waved and kept chewing. "Whatever, you need, Judge Veritor."

Judge Veritor! Stilian froze where he was standing. This man was a judge veritor? Stilian had never seen a judge veritor. Rosset's Grade was too small to have one. Even the circuit riders didn't come far enough up into the Ragged Hills to get to Rosset's Grade. To be a judge veritor, this man had to be canny, and he had to have the truth reading skill. Such people were rare and powerful, because they presided over important trials for crimes like murder or treason. The only position more important open to a canny person, was that of King's Fool, and there was only one fool.

Stilian straightened his back and wiped his nose on his sleeve. What could he say to this man to get him to agree to accept his application? The judge veritor seemed to be considering as he gazed at Stilian. Stilian tried to look worthy, while fighting a sudden impulse to escape the waves of anxiety buffeting him from the benches. His stomach growled and his attention strayed to the young man in the watch uniform just as he raised a hunk of bread to his mouth. With the flash of a wedding ring on the man's left hand, Stilian became aware of a strong and irritating new feeling. He jerked his head at the man and blurted, "If he's feeling guilty about wanting the blond girl, why doesn't he go home to his wife?"

The judge's gaze sharpened. "Being a successful member of our community demands both sensitivity and
discretion
. If you have only
one
of those, maybe Grayholme isn't the place for you." Stilian's heart beat in his ears. He was afraid he'd destroyed his only chance at a place with people like himself. After a long moment, the man smiled and pulled his beard. "That's more becoming." He got up decisively. "Come this way, please. What's your name, boy?"