The Shadow at the Gate (2 page)

The passage ended at an iron door. There was no handle, only a knocker. The accountant glanced expressionless at Ronan and then let the knocker fall. A bell-like tone rang out and echoed away into the darkness of the passage. It sounded like a funeral knell. The door swung open.

Before them was a narrow hall, lined with pillars rising to a low ceiling. Carvings adorned the stone walls, elaborate scenes of the city, all of Hearne—the habitations of the rich and of the poor, the crowded marketplaces, the groves and fountains of Highneck Rise—chiseled in graceful strokes by some long-dead craftsman. There were a number of doors behind the pillars on either side of the walls. The same strange torches that lit the passageway with their cold, blue fire, were the only source of illumination in the hall.

As soon as Ronan stepped through the door, the flesh prickled on the back of his neck. Never, in all his time with the Guild had the court been empty when he had been there. It was always a place of exuberant life, of loud voices and a multitude of conversations jumbled together into the incoherent roar of a family. A sly, devious one that might stab you in the back given the opportunity—true—but still a family.

Now, however, there was only silence. At the far end of the hall there were two people. Standing beside the dais was the short figure of Dreccan Gor—steward and advisor of the Silentman. Slouching in the stone chair on the dais was the Silentman.

“Approach,” said the Silentman.

Smede and Ronan walked down the long, lonely length of the hall. The Silentman leaned forward as they neared. His face was a blur of enspelled shadow that went out of focus whenever Ronan looked at him. The torches on either side of the dais limned his stone chair with blue light and lent a sickly hue to Dreccan Gor’s face. The shadow shrouding the Silentman drank the light and was not diminished.

“How long has it been, Ronan,” said the Silentman, “since you first entered my employment?”

“Thirteen years,” offered Dreccan. “Almost to the month.”

A trickle of sweat ran down Ronan’s back.

“The steward’s right, my lord,” he said. “Nearly thirteen years.”

The Silentman leaned back in his chair. “When I first became the Silentman, the Guild was a feeble construct, a rabble ruled by a meteoric succession of fools unable to see beyond their own lusts. But I’ve built the Guild into an enterprise stretching as far north as the coast of Thule and south to the bazaars of Damarkan in Harth. I’ve ruled the Guild with an iron hand—I won’t deny it, particularly to the three of you who know more than all the other members taken together—but my severity has been more than balanced by our success. While much of this has been due to my will, some of this success hinged on surrounding myself with capable and extraordinary people—foremost, the three of you. If you would indulge me, the three of you are death, money, and wisdom personified. And I, of course, am power.

“The tedious machinations of money are, in your hands, Smede, a work of art. What were you before I found you—a draper’s clerk in Vomaro, totting up bolts of silk? You pluck sense from a hundred different tangled threads of gold that weave their way through Hearne. With you at your books, I can rest easy, for I know your diligence.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said the accountant. Out of the corner of his eye, Ronan noticed Smede edging away from him.

“And Dreccan Gor, the Guild has profited from your advice. The Gors have always served the house of Botrell well, our thin-blooded line of ruling regents, as you still do today, but I fancy your wisdom does more good for the Guild.”

The fat steward bowed.

“We Gors have advised the house of Botrell for nearly two centuries,” the steward said. “Our present regent, Nimman Botrell, has proven to be somewhat of a wastrel and lazy hound, but we still have stood by him, my father before me, and now I. We are Gors.”

A snarling laugh echoed from the shadows of the Silentman’s chair. “And if the regent heard your words, Dreccan?”

“I’d tell him to his face, my lord,” said the steward, “if I thought it beneficial for him and Hearne.”

“I suspect you would, but you waste your time on Botrell.”

Dreccan bowed again. “I serve you better with my ear in the regent’s castle, privy to his thoughts.”

“As long as there isn’t a conflict,” said the Silentman.

Ronan had the distinct impression that the conversation was a charade, a delay while the Silentman examined him from the shadows.

“And my Knife,” said the Silentman.

A breath of air feathered across Ronan’s face. Sweat sprang from his forehead at its touch.

“Thirteen years,” said the shadowed figure. “Thirteen years and I’ve never had cause for complaint. All the hardest jobs, all the delicate matters I couldn’t allow into other hands, and all the deaths I’ve found sadly necessary. I’ve never enjoyed a fellow Guild member’s death—”

“Neither have I,” muttered Ronan.

“But always you’ve proven faithful to the task.”

“That he has,” said Dreccan Gor. “Dependable. As even-keeled as one of those Thulish cargo boats.”

“This is the problem, Ronan,” continued the Silentman, ignoring his steward. “When the Guild’s hired to do a job, it’s my word given as surety that the customer will be satisfied. Our reputation rests on this. When that reputation is tarnished, our profits fall. This, I cannot have.”

“I’ve always given the Guild my complete loyalty, my lord,” said Ronan. “What prompts your speech? I confess myself confused.”

“The Guild was hired recently to recover a box from the house of Nio Secganon, a member of that group of scholars mucking about the university ruins. They’ve been searching for ancient manuscripts and whatnot. Trinkets from the past. Botrell is a fool. He should never have allowed them permission. It’s always best to let the past sleep. Anyway, the box had previously belonged to our client and then, unfortunately, found its way into the hands of this Nio fellow.”

“The box carved with the hawk,” said Ronan. “I remember it. I delivered it to your hands in full sight of the steward here, just a few days ago.”

“Were all the details of the job observed?”

“Of course.”

Memories from that night raced through Ronan’s mind. The moonless sky. Listening at the chimney and hearing the stealthy descent of the boy down through the darkness. Waiting crouched on the roof and gazing out over the sleeping skyline of Hearne. Tension in the rope, signifying the boy’s return. The tiny, poisoned knife hidden and waiting inside his cloak. And the guilt. Numb as ever, but guilt nonetheless.

“But they weren’t,” said the Silentman. “The box was opened.”

“What do you mean, my lord?” asked Ronan.

“The box was opened,” repeated the Silentman. His voice, diminished to a rough whisper by whatever magic masked him, was vicious. “It was the simplest of instructions. What am I to do if my most trusted thief, my ablest killer, doesn’t obey me?”

“I didn’t open the thing,” said Ronan, hating the shadowed figure in front of him. “Did I become the Knife to act like a child, to hear words and then forget them?”

“But the boy’s dead, isn’t he?”

“Beyond a doubt,” said Ronan. “He took enough lianol to kill all four of us. He would’ve been dead thirty seconds after I jabbed him. I’d stake my life on it.”

“I might have to take you up on that.”

The words fell into the silence of the room and lay there, heavy and immobile. Torchlight gleamed on Dreccan Gor’s face. His fat jowls glistened with sweat. A dispassionate part of Ronan’s mind observed this with interest.
He’s afraid. This fat old man I thought as sturdy and as unmovable as the hill of Highneck Rise. The unshakable Gor fears something. Something that isn’t being said, behind these words and whatever is in the devious mind of our Silentman. Something stands in the shadows behind them.

I’m afraid too.

“My lord?” said Ronan.

His senses tingled raw, poised for sudden movement. He felt the weight of the knife slung around his neck. One second. That’s all it would take to draw and fling the knife. He could already see it buried in the Silentman’s throat. He never missed. But he didn’t know what kind of magic was guarding the man. His fingers twitched once and then were still.

“The box was opened before it reached this court. Of that I’m in no doubt.”

“How do you know this is true, my lord?” said Ronan.

The Silentman waved one hand in irritation. “It was opened. It contained an item of great power and now it’s gone. It was gone before you brought the box here.”

“But you have only the word of your client on this. Perhaps he’s merely—”

“Silence!”

The Silentman rose from his stone chair in fury. Shadow thickened around him, and the torches throughout the hall dimmed as if choked of air.

“You dare question me?” he said. “The box was opened.”

“Not by me,” said Ronan.

“Someone opened the accursed thing!”

Ronan’s thoughts rapidly filled in the answers, the options. There was only one. But it was impossible. The boy’s face, bewildered and frightened and knowing all at once, flashed through his mind. Vanishing down into the darkness of the chimney.

“That means,” said the Silentman, “one of two possibilities. Either the boy opened the box, or you opened it.”

“And,” said Dreccan, “if the boy opened the box, he might still be alive.”

“But the lianol—”

“The lianol would not have killed him if he had opened the box. Whatever was in the box might have—I’m not sure—protected him. Preserved him, perhaps.”

The Silentman pointed a long black arm at Ronan. “One of you opened the box.”

As quickly as the Silentman’s fury had flared, it was gone, damped down and invisible beneath the shadows wreathing his body. But Ronan could hear it vibrating below the surface of the Silentman’s words. Anger welled up within his own mind in answer. His mouth went dry with it and his hands trembled. The anger was tinged with fear. He hated the Silentman, then, as he never had, for having such an effect on him—the Knife, the dreaded enforcer of the Guild.

“There’s magic involved,” said the Silentman, speaking more to himself now than to the three assembled before him. He shifted restlessly on his chair. Shadow drifted around him. “We still don’t know what the box contained. Our client is proving unusually close-mouthed on the subject. There’s the possibility something unusual happened to the boy, as Dreccan said. If he opened the box. I won’t discount that. You’re convinced he’s dead, Ronan. But your certainty puts you in a bad spot. For if he’s dead, that leaves me with few options. You’re hereby stripped of the position of the Knife of the Guild. You’ll confine yourself within the city walls. Leave Hearne and your life is forfeit.”

“I’ll find him,” said Ronan, his voice hoarse. “His body, anything—”

“Get out of my sight,” said the Silentman. His voice was a monotone, as if his mind were already busy somewhere else.

White-faced, Ronan bowed. He turned and walked away. Smede scurried after him. The torches guttered in the hall as the door shut. The Silentman and his steward were alone.

“What are your thoughts, Dreccan?” said the Silentman. His voice was changing. The forced whisper relaxed to the even tones of a man well-bred. The shadows around his form retreated.

“I can’t sleep at night but I hear that thing’s voice whispering,” said Dreccan. “I jump at every shadow and twitch at the slightest noise, thinking that he—that it—will be standing there when I turn. I fear the Guild chose poorly. Magic’s a chancy matter at best, but this thing we’re dealing with is probably something from the distant past, something that was old even before the Midsummer War. I don’t doubt your pet wizard’s capabilities, but this thing is beyond him.”

“Maybe so,” said the Silentman. “But even he could scry the interior of the box and tell that it once contained great power.”

“I think we can assume our client didn’t lie. Whoever opened that box also opened a door that would’ve been best left shut. We don’t know what came crawling through. Our doom, perhaps.”

“The doom of Hearne,” said the Silentman. “It was too much gold to turn down, and you know how empty our coffers are.” He laughed sharply, a harsh bark devoid of mirth. “Perhaps my greed has gotten the better of us all.”

“I find it hard to believe Ronan had any hand in this. He’s been nothing but loyal for thirteen years, and he knows the penalty—as he should, seeing that he’s been the one meting it out.”

“But there are few options before us,” said the Silentman. His fist slammed down on the arm of his chair. “Two people handled that cursed box between the theft and its delivery to us: a boy who could be alive or dead, and a decidedly alive Ronan. What am I supposed to think?”

“We don’t have the boy. Alive or otherwise.”

“True.”

“If Ronan is doing any thinking on this—and I’d bet his entire mind will be grappling with the problem—then he’ll find the boy, if he is to be found. The Knife or not, he’s still the best the Guild has.”

“His salvation is the boy alive, so he must find him. But what will he find?”

“That’s the hinge upon which all else turns.”

“Have him watched.”