J. H. Sked (8 page)

There was a soft ripping noise as the scrap of yellow tore loose, and Ricky over-balanced and sat down hard, as the whole mess of wood shifted uneasily, then settled again.

He clenched his fist around the material so he wouldn’t drop it – he was always dropping and losing things – then looked up at the woodpile, heart pumping so rapidly he felt it in his throat. For a moment he was been horribly afraid that the whole lot would come tumbling down on top of him, and there he’d be, stuck like a rat in a trap until old Scrout came back.

He shuddered and levered himself back up to his knees, dusting his breeches automatically, still staring dreamily into the wood, and nearly yelled with fright when he realized someone was staring back at him. He flinched back and landed hard on an elbow.

It was the tinker lady, he realized, once he got over his initial fright and his heart returned to something like normal.

She had passed through the village just yesterday, with her load of pans and pots and bright new ribbons for sale.

There would not have been many buyers for her; Five Hands was a poor place at the best of times, the past year had been a bad one, and strangers were suspect.

She had been pretty, once, with long brown hair tied back with one of her own ribbons, the yellow skirt she wore fluttering gaily about her calves as she passed down the main road and into the forest.

Now her eyes were wide and staring, lips parted in a snarl. Her skirt was bunched up around her waist and her neck was bruised and swollen, her head twisted enquiringly to one side as though to ask him a question, and she was very, very dead.

Ricky lay sprawled in the dirt before her and felt the blood pound through his head and ears.

He was young, but not stupid, and he had a very good idea of what would happen if Scrout should find him now.

He raised himself up once more, his breath rasping harshly in his throat, feeling his testicles draw up into his lower abdomen at the thought.

Eventually he stood, still tottering with shock, and realized that he was still clutching the fragment of yellow in one of his fists, darkening rapidly with the sweat from his hand.

She stared up at him, and Ricky could see the layer of dust on her eyeballs, a gritty grey sifting of powder that concealed the colour of her eyes and turned her into a blindly staring statue.

He dropped the scrap of material down onto her, and it lay against her dark hair. The bright colour looked obscene, conspiring with the dust and cobwebs in a gloating mockery of the morning light.

He knew he should close her eyes, they always closed dead people’s eyes - but he could not bring himself to touch her.

What if she tried to touch him back?

“Oh, stop it,” he whispered. “Just stop.”

He whispered a quick prayer to the Goddess, and hastily backed away. He had limped almost to the end of the yard when he stopped short, struck by a new and horrible thought.

He’ll know you were here
, a dry, matter-of-fact little voice informed him.

The overgrown tangle in the yard meant nothing – he came here to hide her, after all.

True. And Scrout didn’t like kids running near his house at the best of times. Wasn’t he more likely to check the back when he came home? To make sure his nasty little secret was still a secret?

“Let him check,” he whispered. “He won’t know who it was. I’m not the only youngling in the village.”

You’re the only one that leaves little round holes in place of a footprint
, the voice responded.

Ricky shuddered, and turned to look, feeling his neck creak reluctantly. Sheer terror had stiffened every muscle in his body.

Sure enough, a neat little row of impressions wound their way through the dry soil. Ricky moaned, a hopeless little sound in the back of his throat, and felt his bladder begin to contract.

Stop that!

“He’ll kill me. He’ll know it was me and he’ll kill me.”

No. Move fast, though – there be not much time left.

It took him nearly twenty minutes, first arranging more branches to hide the woman in her nest once more, then using a leafy branch to obliterate his prints, working frantically, and by the time he was finished he was covered in sweat and dust, and whimpering in the back of his throat, certain that he would turn and find Scrout standing behind him.

In the end he slipped away from the side of the house not five minutes before Scrout left the shed and ambled his way home.

Ricky hid against the side of the house opposite, hardly daring to breath until the man stumbled through his door and closed it behind him. Then he doubled over and vomited into the dust.

Eventually he straightened, wiping his mouth with the back of one shaking hand, his eyes filling with tears of disgust and sheer relief. He limped away from his mess and leaned briefly against the corner of the house, calming his breathing and trying to think.

He had to keep this secret until he could get to someone outside of the village, unless he wished to join the tinker woman under the wood, for there was nobody other than Anna he could trust – and going to his aunt would be the death of them both.

She was a good woman, but she would tell her husband – and Garth was one of the men who spent time with Scrout, drinking his poison down with the ale.

Anna had started showing a lot of bruises, since Scrout came home.

There was no horse or mule in the village, he would have to walk, and market day in the big town wasn’t for another week.

He wouldn’t get five larna before Scrout caught him and dragged him back – if he bothered to do so, and didn’t just cut his throat and leave him the forest for the scavengers to feast on.

And Scrout would come after him, he knew; the man was mean, and probably crazy as well, but he was cunning. He would know why Ricky had gone, with the self-preserving instinct that drove his kind.

Go with Anna. She always goes for market day, sells her pies and bread there. Go to the hawks
.

‘Oh, Goddess.’ He felt his heart thud dully in his chest at the thought.

Go to the hawks, or stay here, with Scrout, and pretend you know nothing.

Not an option.

He could avoid the man as much as possible for a week. But for the rest of his life? Could he spend it pretending he didn’t know, hadn’t seen?

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face. Her dusty, open eyes, asking him if he was really just going to pile that wood over her face and leave her there for the ants and the flies to feast upon.

Ricky shuddered.

And that was the way things sat in the village of Five Hands for the next few days.

Until the morning Dakron ripped his clothes off in the middle of the street and tore screaming into the shed, where he found two of his drinking cronies having a quiet game of dice.

Chapter 3

B
right Lance squad had been at weapons drill for most of the morning when the message came that there was a lad in the Keep looking for the hawks.

Bright Lance squad had the closest practice yard, and was currently off-duty, so the message had come to Ariaan, the squad captain.

“He won’t say anything else, ser,” the human recruit who carried the summons said to him. “He’s a bit young, like, but stubborn. Says he needs the hawks and won’t say boo to anyone else.”

Ariaan grunted, wiping his face and hands with a bit of cloth. It was a hot, bright day, and they’d been hard at work from early that morning.

“Right, then. Call those two,” he nodded at Amber and Seiren, seemingly intent on skewering each other on the other side of the practice yard, “and send the lad to me in my quarters in, say, fifteen minutes.”

By the look on the young recruit’s face, it would take him nearly half that time to interrupt the hawks.

Ariaan bit back his impatience.

“Watch them for a few minutes, pick up a few pointers,” he said instead, and saw open relief in the young man’s eyes.

Sweet Mother, what do they teach their children about us?

‘
Try not to ignore him for too long, aye?’
He sent to the other two, whom he knew cursed well had been fully aware of his conversation, as had every hawk in the yard.

Hawk ears are sharp at the best of times, and a message sent during a practice session was unusual enough to have every pointed pair twitching, though politeness alone wouldn’t let them show it.

He sighed, shaking his head, and made his way into the building.

Sheer curiosity meant that his seconds waited a bare two minutes before turning to the nervous youngster watching them in the courtyard, and joining Ariaan in his room shortly afterwards.

The three hawks were waiting silently when two pairs of footsteps approached and halted outside the door. A mumbling of voices, and then the heavier tread retired hastily back down the corridor, fading away well before the timid knock sounded.

“It’s open,” Ariaan called out. There was a startled silence from the other side of the wood, then another of those timid, scratchy taps.

“Ser.” He stopped. “Ser. I – I need t-to speak to the h-hawks.” He closed his eyes and cringed, as if expecting a slap, and Seiren exchanged a quick glance with the other two in the room before answering.

“You’re in the right place, lad. Best come in, then.”

Ricky opened one eye and peered at him. Seiren smiled reassuringly, then took him by the arm and drew him gently into the room, the peg leg thumping on the stones.

“What’s your name, lad?” Ariaan followed Seiren’s lead and spoke softly, running a swift, appalled eye over the boy.

He was painfully thin, though clean enough – it appeared he had taken the time to bathe his head and hands – and his one foot was bare, covered with scratches and healed over scabs.

Seiren led him to a chair and sat him down, then looked over his shoulder at the other two hawks.

Touching the boy had being like handling a bag full of glass marbles; the bones had moved beneath his hand under the fragile skin as though seeking an escape route.

I’m getting him some broth from the kitchens. He looks like he hasn’t eaten for a month.
Seiren sent on a tight link.

Get some berry juice, too.
Amber replied. She could see the first sores blooming on the drawn skin beside the boy’s mouth.

“Elrick, ser. From Five Hands village,” the boy answered as he slipped gratefully onto the chair, flicking a wary sideways glance at the blonde hawk as Seiren slipped out of the room.

Ariaan looked at Amber, who shrugged. She had little enough experience in dealing with the average human, let alone their cubs, and Ariaan glowered at her before grasping at the reins of the conversation once more.

“You were a while on the road, Ricky?”

“About five day’s walking, se – Ariaan. But I got a lift this morning, on the back of a cart. They brought me into town, so they did, with a big brown horse pulling us. Everyone waved.” He smiled again, wistfully.

He’d never ridden on a cart before, and the novelty had been almost as great as the relief to his feet, although it had paled besides his first view of a large town, and the great grey Keep that squatted above it.

Seiren re-entered the room bearing a tray with a steaming bowl, a chunk of bread and cheese, and glass of red juice.

Ricky stared at the tray, trying not to drool. His stomach clanged and growled at the smell from the bowl, rich and meaty. Ricky, whose experience in meat eating had extended as far as the odd rabbit that Dakron snared, and once, a taste of the young deer unlucky enough to get caught in Anna’s vegetable patch, wondered if these hawks ate meat every week.

“The farmer that brought him in reported to the garrison right after he finished at market,” Seiren said. “His village is about five larna northward of Five Hands, and there’ve been incidents.”

“What kind?” Ariaan cocked his head.