The Wicked Day (28 page)

“Stop where you are!” shouted a voice.

They dropped the last ten feet down to the ground. Guards hurried up out of the morning half-light, out of the mist hanging among the roses, hands reaching for them. Declan punched the nearest in the face and tripped another so that he fell over the low rock wall surrounding the fountain and tumbled into the water.

“Run!” said Declan.

They ran, without looking back, as the sun came up in the east and lit the day with its slanting rays. High above them, the hawk teetered through the air on motionless wings. The soldiers at the castle gates fell back before Declan’s sword. And then they were pounding through the quiet, tree-lined streets of Highneck Rise and down toward the city.

On top of the castle, the morning light fell on the strange cloud of darkness trailing along the peak of the roof. The darkness retreated from the light as if it were pained by its touch. It shrank, unraveling a bit, and then dissipated until only a remainder wavered from the top of the chimney. And then even that was gone, diving back down the chimney toward whatever waited below.

The man at the mantel stood with his head bowed, one arm inside the fireplace. Inside the fireplace? That did not make sense. Botrell could not properly see from where he stood. They had been standing there for so long. His back ached, but he daren’t move. The room was silent. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Gor shifting from foot to foot. The man turned. Water dripped from his nose, from his fingertips. A puddle spread out slowly from around his feet.

“They have escaped,” he said, almost gently, as if he were reluctant to tell them the bad news.

“Oh?” said Botrell, feeling that he had to say something. “I’ll put the word out. The Guild, you know. We have our eyes and ears everywhere in this city.

“I am—my master is greatly displeased. He doesn’t like being displeased. He’s been patient with you, Silentman.”

“For which I’m grateful, let me assure you. The Guild aims to deliver on its contracts. A man’s word is his bond. After all, if you can’t stand by your word, what do you have? Confusion, ill-will, and anarchy.” Botrell felt rather good about that last bit. He often lectured Arodilac on a similar theme. He cleared his throat. The man seemed to be listening to him, his head tilted to one side. “And if anarchy reigns, then what’s left to man but to live like a beast, rending and tearing the necessities of life from his fellow man?”

The man smiled. He couldn’t be such a bad fellow after all.

“Just a mild setback,” continued Botrell. “We’ll catch the wretch for you. Gor, get the word out to the Guild. Raise the Guard as well. Tell Owain Gawinn to put every man of his into the city on patrol.”

“That won’t be necessary, Silentman.”

“No?”

“I’ve grown hungry and I must eat before I do anything else. It is a pressing need, to say the least.”

“I’ll ring for some breakfast, then. I’ve a marvelous cook.”

“No.” The man smiled again. He did have large teeth. He shook his head. “You’ll do just fine.”

In that one frozen moment of silence, the man smiled even wider. It was not that he had large teeth, but that there were too many of them. Too many packed inside his mouth. He reached for Botrell with one hand, his arm stretching, growing longer and longer as if it were made of water and darkness that had no limit to it but could flow and grow and rush into whatever emptiness it might find. Botrell screamed and turned to run. He stumbled over Gor. They both scrabbled at the door handle. The man chuckled behind them.

CHAPTER TWELVE

RAISE THE DUCHIES

Owain Gawinn frowned and fiddled with the ink pen on his desk. The numbers added up tolerably well. Enough gold left over from the theft to finance two hundred more recruits, including all equipment and several years of upkeep. Of course, that didn’t address the more fundamental problem of finding recruits. Perhaps Harth? His heralds had never ventured that far south. The men of Harth were good fighters and excellent horsemen. Not as good as those of Harlech, of course, but he doubted anyone from Harlech would ever consent to serve in the Guard.

Owain tossed the pen onto the desk. It was a dark, cold morning outside his window. Not even morning yet, but just that indeterminate time before the sun lightened the eastern sky. Most of the city still slept, and he envied them heartily. The thought gave him pause. Early mornings, sleepless nights, long days in the saddle, grinding sword-work for hours on end in the exercise yard, night duty on the wall—all of that had been food and drink for his soul. Perhaps he was getting old. Nonsense. He grinned wolfishly. He could still wield a sword with the best of them and outride even the younger soldiers. He locked the study door and hurried down the steps to the bottom of the tower. His breath plumed in the chill air. A Guardsman snapped to attention. A cadre of recruits straggled across the practice ground in weary formation.

“You there!” Owain called to a passing soldier. The man turned. “Ah, Bridd. Saddle a horse for me. Quickly, now.”

Arodilac dashed off toward the stable. The recruits on the practice ground had divided into pairs and were practicing the first sets of swordplay. Lunge, parry, counterattack, recover, circle. The movements were stiff and stylized, and wildly impractical on an actual battlefield, but their memorization provided a foundation for the split-second improvisation that battle required. Owain watched for a while, listening to the clash of swords and the bark of the sergeant. He nodded. Quite a few had strong wrists and decent sensibilities.

“Here you are, my lord.”

“Thank you, Bridd.”

Owain was about to mount, but then he stopped and frowned. It was not the best of light, being still the murky hour before dawn, but he noticed a man walking by the gates to the Guard compound. A man hunched over against the cold. A man he had seen before.

“Bridd.”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Careful how you look, but do you see that fellow walking by, just outside the gate?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“After I ride out, I daresay he’ll try to follow me.”

“My lord?”

“Stop gaping at me like that, Bridd. He was loitering on a street corner near my house this morning. The odds of him being there and here, all within the same half hour, are too small for any good explanation. It might have something to do with our burglary. Take several men and arrest him, once I’ve ridden out. On second thought, are Posle and Hoon on duty?”

“Posle is, my lord, not Hoon. But Varden just came on.”

“Good. Take the two of them, and keep it quiet from the other men, do you hear me? Make up a story if you have to. I’ll wait about here until you’re ready.”

“Very well, my lord.” Arodilac dashed off.

Owain stroked the horse’s neck and murmured wordlessly to it. Perhaps he was being too cautious, but he had definitely seen the man earlier that morning. There was no mistaking the way he walked: a slow, easy saunter. It might be coincidence, but he was willing to bet a great deal of gold it wasn’t. And he didn’t want to be taking chances on coincidences where the Guild might be concerned. The Guild was not so delicate in how it handled its affairs. He had heard plenty of stories and he had run across enough evidence in his years in the Guard to realize there was more truth than fantasy in those stories. And the mystery surrounding the identity of the Silentman. Posle turned positively green whenever asked about the elusive leader of the Thieves Guild.

“Ready, my lord.”

“All right, Bridd. I’ll be at the castle, but back soon enough.”

Owain eyed him critically. The boy’s face was bright with anticipation, grinning with pleasure at the chance of something different from drills and Guard duty. Action. Even if it only meant collaring a quarry who might prove to be some innocent fellow out for a morning stroll. Bridd reminded him of himself at the same age. He'd do, given a few more years. Owain urged the horse around and clattered out of the gate, not bothering to glance down the street toward where his shadow had gone. There were more important things to pursue this morning. The writ of sovereignty. He would secure that from Botrell, even if it meant wringing it out of his cowardly neck. And then a frank discussion with Jute and the hawk. And Declan Farrow. If he had three of that man, he could whip the Guard into true fighting form and defend Hearne from any sort of enemy.

Owain knew something was wrong as soon as he rode in through the castle gates. Not just wrong, but dreadfully wrong. The guards sprang to attention, but their faces were white and staring and they glanced back at the castle in fear.

“What is it?” he said, reining his horse in. The mount’s withers quivered. The horse could feel it, too. Its ears pricked forward uneasily.

“My lord,” said one of the soldiers, grounding his spear. “Not sure, my lord. It’s just that, well—”

“Get on with it, man.”

“The screaming, my lord. Not a few minutes afore you rode up. Surprised you didn’t hear it, my lord. Ain’t heard nothing like it myself, other than once.”

“And that was?”

“The night of the regent’s ball, my lord. I was on duty then. When the—the thing ate all them people.”

Owain cursed under his breath and spurred the horse across the grounds to the castle steps. He kicked free from the stirrups and shouted at a page standing in frozen shock at the top of the steps.

“Hold my horse!”

The great hall was silent. Here and there, servants stood like statues, faces turned toward the majestic flight of stairs rising up toward the higher floors. Owain drew his sword and took the stairs at a run. It was not difficult to discern the way. He merely followed the horrified stares of the servants, peering out of doorways, standing motionless with arms full of linen, crouching over the shattered pottery they had just dropped. They gaped at him, cringed away from his face and the gleaming steel of his sword.

But the way was unmistakable. Up another flight of stairs. Along the grand hall of yellow marble to the east wing. Precisely where he had left Jute and Declan last night. He slowed, uncertain now. He knew himself a brave man, but he was not a fool either. He stopped and sniffed the air. There was a strange stink to it. A damp funk of rot. The hall was silent. No, that was not true. He could hear a faint, indistinct sound. A sort of bubbling sound. He advanced slowly, the sword held low and ready by his side. The door to the suite stood open. Cautiously, he stepped forward. The room was empty, but the smell was even stronger. A loose pile of rags lay on the floor. Wet rags. Wet with blood. He heard the sound again. Somewhere behind him. Back in the hall. He sidled back into the hall, his mouth dry. The sound was coming from the door across the way. A quiet, bubbling sort of cry. Like that of a child. He reached out with his left hand and eased the handle. The door swung open.

“Don’t kill me!” shrieked Gor. “Have mercy!”

The fat little man was curled up on the floor, hidden under a pile of blankets in a linen closet. His eyes were shut and one fist was half shoved in his mouth as if to stifle his distress.

“Shut up!” said Owain.

He grabbed the steward by the arm, yanked him to his feet, and hurried him down the hall. Fast. He did not look back. He knew that if he did, he might see something that he did not want to see. Something emerging from the door and following them. They did not speak until they reached the second floor. Their footsteps echoed after them. Gor breathed in quick gasps. Owain slammed his sword back into its sheath.

“What happened?” he said, tightening his grip on the steward’s arm.

“It ate him!” sobbed the little man.

“What?”

“The thing! It ate Botrell. Ate him like an egg. Sucked everything right out of the shell until it just collapsed. Skin and clothes. Caught him before we could get out the door.” The steward’s hands waved in the air, and he trembled, jerking, trying to wrench free from Owain’s hold.

“And you?”

“It just laughed at me. Laughed and said his master was coming to tear this city down. He’d find me then. He’d find me then! He’d find us all!” The steward was almost shrieking by now.

“What was it?”

“What?”

The steward stared at him blankly. Owain grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. Shook him hard.

“What was it? Why were you in the boy’s room? Tell me, blast you, or I’ll wring your wretched little neck!”

“It. . . it. . .”

Owain shook him again, rattling his head around back and forth. The words came fast then, babbling and gabbling like a bewildered child.

“We had a contract. We took gold to steal a knife. Steal it and deliver it. About a month ago. Just an old knife in a box. The Guild takes contracts from whoever has the gold to pay. And these people paid, oh, they paid! But the boy stole the knife. He stole the magic right out of it. Something worse than magic, I think. So we had to deliver the boy instead. We had him once, but he escaped during the regent’s ball. And when you walked in last night with him, why, it was the best of luck. But it didn’t work out.” The steward looked as if he were about to burst into tears again. “The boy escaped again. Right up the chimney.”

“The Guild?” Owain stared at him, his mind trying to make sense of what the steward was saying. Trying to make sense and yet refusing the implication. “Did you say the Guild?”