Fly Up into the Night Air (3 page)

* * *

The corner's of Stilian's mouth twitched. He missed Judge Hugh. Someday he would go back. But not while he awakened every night from dreams of Kit.

Harte

Harte stuck his head into the solar to see if his mother was at her usual place in the cross-hatched light of the bank of mullioned windows. "Hello, Mother, how are you?"

"I must be fair indeed, to be honored by a visit from the Honorable Presenter Advocate, Harte Walford." Amalia Walford wore a plain, yellow, day dress and an apron, which was smeared and spotted with paint of various hues. She stood in front of an easel and held a palate in one hand and a brush in the other. She rocked from side to side and hummed tunelessly as she regarded the canvas before her.

Harte grinned. "Tis I who am honored to be in the presence of such fine and famous artist."

"
Infamous
would be more accurate. I'd give you a hug, but I'm covered in pigment--although a little color wouldn't damage that livery. Why so formal today?"

"I was hoping to get you to come with me on a little social call."

"A social call! Who are you, sir? Surely you are not the son
I
raised. He had to be dragged by his ears to join his mother on a social call. What extraordinary circumstance warrants this revolution?"

"I want to visit Megan Greer."

Amalia put down her paint brush and looked at her son. "I thought that was over."

"It is. But we're still friends. I want to ask her something. And I want an excuse to see her brother."

"Her brother! This is getting stranger by the minute. Oh wait. I see. This is not a social call at all. This request has a legal angle to it, doesn't it. You would
use
me."

"I knew there would be no fooling you."

"If I'm to be your accomplice in this, I want to know what it's about."

"I'm investigating a beating that took place on Dock Street. But that's all I can tell you right now."

Amalia's eyes narrowed. "This wouldn't be the cause of my husband's sour expression this morning, would it?"

"I wouldn't know."

"If you want my help, you're going to have to do better than that."

Harte sighed dramatically and winked. "Doesn't anyone in this family have any faith in me? Couldn't you just trust me once?"

Amalia smiled sweetly. "I love, trust, and respect you, my son. I also require that you tell me the reason for your request." Amalia gazed at her son, expectantly.

"You won't like it."

Amalia rolled her eyes. "Get on with it."

Harte looked around the sunlit room as he considered what to tell her. It seemed wrong to speak of sordid behavior and violence in such a bright and clean space. "Fine. Two days ago, I received a note from Sister Grace of the Sisters of Mercy Hospital."

* * *

"And you really think that Brin might have had something to do with it?" Amalia Walford was skeptical.

"I'm certain I've seen Brin wear a cloak with a collar like that. How many such can there be in this town? That cloak must have cost a pretty penny. It's too flamboyant for most folk."

"You are right about that. But if Brin was down Dock Street, are you prepared to take on his father? The Council will want nothing to do with this. Brin's father will certainly try to get you dismissed. At the very least, you'll never see any coin for your work. I can see why your father's upset."

"I told you that you wouldn't like it."

"And you were right. On the other hand, I don't like what was done to that boy any more than you do. What do you plan to do, if you find that cloak?"

Harte thought out loud. "I'll have to get a warrant to remove it from the house. That will take a magistrate's approval. I'll have to keep quiet, until I'm ready to act. I can't ask Dad; it would not be proper."

"He wouldn't do it anyway."

"No, I suppose not."

"The Council wouldn't approve it, so they're out. It will have to be another magistrate. Of course, a judge veritor could do it. But who knows when we'll see one of them, and the council would have to approve payment for a judge veritor. It always seems to come back 'round to the council, doesn't it." He paused. "There's one other way: a judge veritor can take over any case he or she thinks is not being handled properly. It's called invoking truth's privilege. But they rarely do it. And I'd have to find one--not to mention--convince him to act."

Amalia placed a finger on the end of her nose. "That cloak isn't going to be enough to prove anything, I don't think. What you'll need is somebody to identify Brin--if he was there." She used her finger to draw an imaginary picture. "You need a likeness of him to show to people who might have seen him."

"You could do that for me. You could draw him."

"You're really determined to do this?"

Harte was adamant. "I didn't study the law in order to be a gopher for the town council."

"If you pursue this, you'll likely not be anything for the Walford's Crossing Town Council. I wouldn't try bringing a judge veritor into it, either. You know how the councilmen feel about the Canny. They would have no-one to gainsay them."

"I don't care. I never wanted to work for them. That was Father's dream."

Amalia gazed vaguely at the painting on the easel before her. It depicted the Bug River from a vantage point just behind shoulders of large raptor. She spoke softly. "It's a lot to ask, that I assist you in capsizing your career."

Harte tried to catch her eye. "Aren't some things more important than a career? Please, Mother. Don't worry about me. Do it because the boy deserves justice."

Amalia picked up her brush. "I'll think about it."

Stilian

The light had faded to blue and the air had cooled, when Stilian stopped to set up camp. He shivered as he rushed to settle Petar and collect wood for a fire. It was going to be cold tonight. The pale light of the crescent moon would only make it seem colder. As he worked, he thought of another cold, moonlit night, almost eight years before.

* * *

Stilian wondered if he was ever going to get anything to eat. After leading him out of the room with the wooden desks, the judge took Stilian down a corridor and into room that appeared to serve as a sort of watchman's duty lounge. Two sturdy young men in brown uniforms were playing cards at a table. Both stood when they saw the judge.

"What can we do for you, Judge Veritor?" said the taller one.

"I'm afraid that I need your help. Matt, would you please go and spell Justin in the applicant's hall? I must send him on an errand. Poul, would you please keep an eye on this young man until I get back? His name is Stilian."

"Yes, Judge Veritor," they answered.

The time passed pleasantly enough after the judge left Stilian with Poul, if slowly. Poul taught Stilian how to play Star and Hammer. Stilian won, until Poul grumbled, "You're young to be one of them. Never any point to playing cards with you lot, is there?" After that, Poul retreated to a cot set in a niche in the corner of the room and announced that he was taking a nap. "You might as well do the same." Never mind that his was the only cot. "Don't bother to try and explore. I'll hear you open the door, and I'll not be pleased to be wakened."

After pacing for at least a bell, Stilian decided to try the door anyway. But before he could do so, it swung open to reveal Matt and another boy about Stilian's age. The boy had spare features and light brown hair that stuck up in tufts. He was dressed in a simple tunic and leggings with holes in them. Staring at the newcomer, Stilian wondered if anyone
ever
got anything to eat around here.

"This is Kit. His application was just accepted. You're to room together tonight. Kit this is ..."

"I'm Stilian." Kit nodded as Stilian eyed him.

Matt stepped over to the cot and shook Poul's shoulder firmly. "Wake up Dunderhead!"

Poul groaned and rolled to his feet. "Leave off. Can't a fellow get a little rest, now and then?"

"When have you ever done anything to earn a rest? The judge wants you to take these two down to the kitchen and get them fed. Then deliver them to the matron to find a room in the dormitory. After that, you can spell me in the applicant's hall."

"Aye, what you said."

The kitchen was a wonder to Stilian--and to Kit too. Kit spun in round-eyed and ravenous awe. It wasn't so much the quality of the food as the quantity: a roasting pig in the walk-in hearth, chickens roasting in the hearth, more chickens hanging from the rafters waiting to be plucked, fresh loaves of bread cooling in a basket, cheeses in large rounds, and sacks of squash and yellow apples. Kit asked the cook how many lived in the dormitory.

"It varies depending on the time of year and the term, but around about 50 or so stay here. With the blue robes and servants, I feed about 70 every day."

"I thought the Canny all lived at Grayholme. Why are there so many, here?"

"Don't you know?" said Kit. "This is Blue House. This is where they train judges veritor."

"That's right," said the cook. "It takes them two years before they can wear the heart and holly."

Stilian must have looked like the village idiot. Then the light dawned. "Oh. The badge on the judge's tunic: it had a purple heart on it--and holly leaves."

"I plan to be a judge veritor, when I've finished school," remarked Kit.

"You'll be one of only a few, then." said the cook. "There's many more go to Grayholme than come back here for training. Now shoo, both of you. You can eat through there, in the dining hall." The boys grabbed their tin plates and passed into the empty hall.

"Where is everyone?" Stilian asked.

Kit shrugged. "Must be between terms. You're as hungry as I am."

"Did your father bring you, or did you have to walk like I did?" Stilian asked.

"My mother came with me. We walked together from Longfield. We haven't had a horse since Tallboy died."

"We have four horses on our farm. But they're draft horses, so nobody rides 'em much. I walked here myself from Rosset's Grade. That is, I walked most of the way. I got a ride on a hay wagon from Talson."

The boys talked while they munched the bread, apples, and cheese offered by the cook. They talked while the matron showed them the room where they were to stay. They talked until it was dark, and the moon swung lazily round to their window. On the farm, Stilian's brothers had never had much time for him. They were older, bigger, and well--dumber. Kit, it turned out, was the same age as Stilian, and he was skinny, too. But he was lucky; Kit had a mother to look out for him. When she figured out that Kit was canny, she reacted like it was a
wonderful
thing. Kit told him how they'd traveled together to the local Magistrate's office to ask about schooling at Grayholme. Then they'd planned the trip here to apply. Stilian wondered what
his
mother would have done, if she'd lived long enough to find out that he was canny.

The room they were lodged in was simple and clean. It had two cots, two small chests, a small table, chairs, and a fireplace. There was a window on one side of the fireplace, which looked out onto a courtyard. It smelled of wood smoke, candles, and wool. Stilian would have thought it downright comfortable, if it hadn't been for the lack of wood for the fire and the steady draft from the window.

When the boys finally started nodding and shivering at the same time, they decided to go to bed. It was too cold to undress, so they took off their boots and huddled under their blankets. Later, the wind came up and the air got colder and colder, until Stilian could see his breath in the moonlight flooding through the window.

"Kit!" Stilian called softly, "Are you cold?"

"I'm freezing!" whispered Kit.

"We'll be warmer together."

Harte

Harte met Griff for a meal at the Ragged Crow. He talked rapidly, while he poked idly at a meat pie. "The plan is for Mother and I to visit Greer House on a social call, ostensibly to visit Miss Megan. While I'm there, I find a way to search for that cloak. Meanwhile, my mother will find an excuse to make a drawing of Brin. If I find the cloak, you and I will use the drawing to find a witness who can identify Brin. Then I'll have enough evidence to take to a magistrate. We'll get a warrant to remove the cloak from Greer House. Then--"

"The sun will change direction and fly off into the heavens, leaving us all in darkness." Griff captured Harte's waving fork and placed it back on the table. "How can you possibly think this will work? There are so many holes, it'll unravel like a moth-eaten blanket. Even if you get into Greer House long enough to look around without having to engage yourself to marry Miss Greer, how are you going to arrange to be alone long enough to search the place? How is your mother going to draw a likeness of Brin? He probably won't even be there."

"What would you do?" Harte pointed his fork at Griff.

"I would talk to the victim again--you said he was called Raf, right?--and see if he will confirm the description of the cloak, before I'd go haring off to throw myself under a loaded dray."

Harte began to sort his carrots to one side and peas to another. "Why is it that everyone thinks I'm out to destroy myself?"

"Aren't you? What do you hope to get out of this?"

"I've been bored stiff, since I came home. I hate working for the council. I want to do something--just because it's right."

Griff sighed. "What do you want me to do?"

"You had a good idea. Let's go to see Raf again."