The Wicked Day (29 page)

“They were willing to pay our price. More than our price. And the Silentman said it was worth the risk. We needed the gold. We always needed the gold. All those feasts, the guests, the horses. And now he’s dead!” The steward ended his words with a wail.

“He’s dead,” repeated Owain. And then the meaning sank in. He stared at the steward. “The Silentman’s dead,” he said, nodding slowly. The steward nodded along with him, his eyes as wide as those of a child.

“Dead,” said the steward. He grabbed hold of Owain’s hand. “Dead, like we’re all going to be. We’re all going to die!”

Footsteps sounded on the polished marble floor behind them

“What’s this? Who’s going to die?”

Owain and Gor both turned as if one. There, standing before them, was the regent.

“Gawinn, my dear fellow. You look unwell. Is it you who are going to die? Gor, on the other hand, always looks unwell. It’s the diet, all in the diet. You are what you eat, don’t you know.” And Botrell smiled. It was a dreadful smile, all white and shining teeth. “Now, where is that boy? What was his name? I’ve already forgotten.”

“Jute,” said Owain. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Gor standing to one side. The little man’s mouth was opening and closing, opening and closing, but not a sound did he make.

“Ah, yes. Jute. How could I forget? Where is he? He seems to have vanished without even thanking me for my gracious hospitality. Rude, I’d say. Manners are a thing of the past. Where is he, Gawinn? I’d like to have a chat with him.”

The regent’s smile seemed strained now, the teeth bared and ready to snap shut. Cold unease bloomed in Owain’s stomach. He wanted nothing more than to be away from the regent, away from that place. And he knew that if he turned to walk away at that moment, it would be with trembling legs, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, and his ears straining to listen to whatever it was that might be walking up soundlessly behind him.

“I don’t know, my lord,” said Owain, striving to keep his voice steady. “I was given word that he left the city. Travelling north, I think. To Harlech.”

“To Harlech.” The regent’s face went blank. For a split second, something unutterably old and vicious seemed to look through his eyes. Owain took a step back. But then the moment was past. The regent smiled again. “Harlech! Ice and rock and snow. He’s a foolish boy to go to such a place. I’d like to see him again. He impressed me greatly. Notify me immediately, Gawinn, when you hear of his return. Do you hear me?”

This last command was delivered almost in a shout. Owain took another step back.

“Immediately! Do you hear me? Now, Gor, I need to have a word with you. A quick word about lunch. Come. We shall find some privacy in my council chamber.”

And Gor, shivering and silent, scuttled after the regent as he turned to walk away down the hall. The fat little man looked back once at Owain; his face was white and staring and hopeless.

The horse was lathered and winded by the time he had descended from the heights of Highneck Rise, but Owain drove him on mercilessly. The city was awake. The sun shone across the eastern sky, dulling the sharp cold edge of the night. Owain spurred his horse through the streets, ignoring the outraged shouts of tradesmen rolling their barrow carts along the crowded way. Someone cursed at him, but he did not hear, his mind intent on what must be done. The horse screamed and faltered in its stride.

“Shadows!” swore Owain, reining it in. “You! I had hoped to see you.”

The hawk perched on the horse’s neck, digging his claws into the poor beast’s neck to maintain balance, wings half-spread.

“There are shadows walking your city today,” said the bird. “Shadows in treaty with men, Gawinn. What did you find in the castle?”

“I saw something,” said Owain slowly. “I saw the regent, but I don’t think he’s Nimman Botrell any longer. You did well, all of you, to flee that place. He wants the boy.”

The hawk nodded. “He wants the boy’s death. He wants the power in the boy’s blood. We’ll meet you at the city gate. My friends make their way there now. The castle belongs to the Dark, but neither is this city safe.”

The hawk lifted off from his perch with one powerful beat of his wings. Owain spurred the horse on.

“So that’s it, then,” said Declan. “The regent is no longer just the regent anymore.”

They were sitting around the captain’s desk again in the Guard tower. Jute paced back and forth, unable to sit down. His hands were trembling. Declan slouched in a chair with his eyes half closed.

“A husk, perhaps,” said the hawk. “A creature of the Dark, perhaps the wihht himself now? Wihhts have the ability to take on the likeness of people they eat. They’re dreadful things, and this particular wihht is quite powerful. Your Botrell was a nasty sort of person, no doubt, but I don’t think he deserved the death he found.”

“Not only that, but he was the Silentman.” Owain shook his head in disbelief. “The Silentman. I always wondered whether someone from the Highneck Rise district was the Silentman. One of the lords of court, or one of the older families. But the regent? I never imagined such a thing. I can hardly believe it now.”

“Irrelevant,” said the hawk. “Except to prove the point that humans are capable of tremendous greed and folly. What’s important is the Dark’s attempts to capture Jute. Intrigue has failed them, and I daresay the Dark has been forced to realize this long before the wihht’s latest attempt. When intrigue fails, war is the next chapter to be played in the game. I fear, captain, that your Hearne will be the first battleground.”

“I don’t doubt you, master hawk,” said Owain. “I am the Captain of Hearne and my first priority is to defend this city. Let war come. We’ll be ready. I can’t foresee what’ll happen with the regent, though, with the thing wearing his face. I’ll have to keep a watch on him so that he doesn’t compromise Hearne’s safety.”

“Keep watch, but don’t get too near him,” said the hawk. “There are wihhts and there are wihhts. This one is full of dark magic. I’m sure there’s a key to his destruction, but I don’t know what it is. I wouldn’t want you dead at his hands. You must live, for you are the strength of Hearne now. This city must not fall. If Hearne falls, then the duchies will fall as well, one by one. Tormay will become a wasteland of darkness and death. Harlech might stand until the end, but then they will fall as well. Only Jute and the sea will be left. This cannot happen. There’s no strength apart, only together. The duchies must lend you their strength.”

“You’re a comforting sort, master hawk,” said Owain dryly. “I can’t leave this city now. Someone else will have to make my request to the dukes. But we have no writ of sovereignty.”

“When’s the last time anyone’s seen this writ thing you speak of?” asked Declan.

“About three hundred years ago.”

“Then forge the blasted thing. I reckon most of the dukes are smart enough to figure what’s what, without needing some fancy piece of paper with the regent’s signature on it. Well, maybe not Vomaro.”

The door flung open and Bordeall strode in.

“My pardon, gentlemen,” he said, nodding to them. “Captain, pardon my interruption, but the rat’s out of the trap.”

“What? The word’s out about the regent?”

“The regent? What do you mean? No, we broke the fellow young Bridd nabbed this morning. You were right. He’s Guild. That milksop Posle recognized him, turned whiter than a bucket of goat's milk. Varden batted the fellow about, has a knack for that sort of thing, and the man started talking. The Guild knows all about you and the theft. They’re figuring to take you today.”

“Let them try,” said Owain. “I’m in no mood to fool about with a mob of purse-cutters.”

“They’ve some good swordsmen in that lot,” said Declan mildly.

“I’d welcome the chance to test their skill.”

“All the more reason for you to stay in Hearne. Stay and keep a hand on things before the Guild complicates this mess.” It was Jute who had spoken, standing by the window and gazing down at the morning bustle in the street running alongside the wall. Traders urged their oxen in through the gate, whips cracking. Cartwheels creaked and clattered across the cobblestones.

“We’ll go,” he said. “Hawk, Declan, and I. We’ll go for you. To the duchies.”

The hawk tilted his head at the boy. It was difficult to tell, but it seemed as if the bird was smiling.

“We can travel fast,” said Jute. “Besides, we are responsible. For all of them.”

He whispered the last sentence so that no one heard except the hawk. He turned back to the window and looked down. The street was crowded and bright with sunlight, cheerful, busy with life. A cart full of apples rolled by, a boy not much older than himself perched on the seat and dangling a willow stick over the back of a pair of donkeys in the traces.

Aye. We are responsible for them.
The hawk’s voice sounded gentle in his mind.
I think the wind is waking more fully in you. You are becoming the anbeorun in truth.

“I agree,” said Declan. “We can ride fast. Give us letters of introduction. There’s no duke in Tormay that’ll easily ignore the demands of the Lord Captain of Hearne.”

Owain slammed his fist down on his desk. “Bordeall, saddle the fastest horses in the stables for them. Eight mounts. We’ll send some Guardsmen with you.”

“No,” said Declan. “Maybe with the boy, but I can ride faster alone.”

“One horse only.” The hawk hopped onto the desk and settled his wings. “One horse for Declan.”

“But what about Jute?”

“He’ll fly,” said the hawk.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

HULL AND THULE

They stood on the top of the tower at the gate. It was the highest structure in Hearne, other than the main tower in the university ruins, not counting the Highneck Rise district and the castle, which were higher merely by virtue of being built on the cliffs and slopes of the city’s north side. The trapdoor clanged shut behind them and they were alone: the hawk, the boy, and the ghost. The sky trembled with a pale blue light that spoke of the coming winter and the cold heights above the clouds. The ghost wandered about the top of the tower, muttering to itself.

“It’s not that I don’t want to fly,” said Jute. “I do. I don’t think there’s anything more I want in the whole world.”

He stared down at the ground. A hodgepodge of houses pushed up against the wall of the Guard compound. He could see down into a tiny yard shared by several of the houses. A woman stood at a clothesline, hanging up linens. They waved gently in the breeze. Several children ran about in the shelter of the yard. He could hear the sound of their laughter. He looked away, back to the sky and the north.

“It’s what I want,” said Jute. “But I’ve never flown before. All I can do is float a few inches above the ground and then fall flat on my face. Or I can fall off buildings and get caught by the wind. I don’t call either of those flying.”

“Chickens fly better,” said the ghost.

“You’re right,” said the hawk. “You haven’t flown yet. But becoming the anbeorun is not about flying, and I think you’ve finally begun to understand that.”

“How do you know the dukes will listen to me? They’re dukes.”

“You forget who you are, Jute. You’re no longer the street urchin, thieving to live. You’ve become something more. Someone who can see into the past, shape the future, and stand against the Dark. Any duke would gladly honor you.”

Jute moved restlessly, leaning on the parapet and staring down again at the children in the yard.

“I still feel as heavy as a body should,” he said.

“Regardless, you have changed. You’re no longer one of them.” The hawk nodded at the children far below. “But you’re responsible for them. That is the purpose of the anbeorun. That’s why they chose to stay, so long ago.”

“What did they give up?”

The hawk laughed at that, an odd, chirruping sound. “There are no words in this language to properly answer your question. They put aside the true heights for this sky. They turned their backs on the light for this humble sun. They gave up much, yet they gained much as well.” He sidestepped a few feet away on the parapet and spread his wings. “Come. Time does not wait, so we must fly.”

The hawk launched himself off the tower, beating his wings until he mounted higher into the sky. Jute put his hand up to shade his face. The hawk diminished to a dark speck against the blue.

I can’t fly.

You can. And must. And shall.

So Jute flung himself from the tower, because he was tired of waiting and wondering, tired of the weight of his body and looking to the sky. He wondered if the children in the yard near the foot of the tower were looking up at that moment, watching. But then he forgot all that, because when he flung himself from the tower, he flew. The wind chuckled, lifted him, and became something else. Became almost like a liquid that he could slide through. His mind caught hold of it and he hurtled forward. He sliced through the air, his hair rippling back from his forehead, with arms, hands, and fingers spread wide with the wind running through them like strands of water. He flew further and higher until the sky was as cold as ice around him and the earth was a distant patchwork of greens and browns and grays and the swath of the sea was a deep blue on his left that stretched away almost as far as the sky.