The Wicked Day (7 page)

“What’s that?” said the ghost, appearing next to him.

“What’s what?” said Jute. But then he heard it as well. A sniffing sound. It came from somewhere out in the dark. Somewhere in the rain, back toward the village. His blood ran cold.

“Oh, help!” said the ghost, sounding as if it were about to break into tears.

Jute didn’t bother answering. He hurried around the mill, his eyes staring every which way at once. Could wolves, or whatever that creature was, see in the dark? What if it found his footprints?

The door to the water mill was at the top of three stone steps. Rotting and blackened bushes grew on either side of the door. Water sheeted down from the mossy edges of the eaves. Across the yard from the door stood a barn with leaning walls and a collapsed roof. The barn doors gaped open, sagging on their hinges.

Jute slunk up the steps to the door of the mill and touched the handle, willing himself into silence and listening. But there was nothing there. Only a handle. No ward whispering on the edge of his mind and tightening into life within the iron and wood. He turned the handle, expecting it to be locked, but it was not. The door opened silently and he slipped inside.

It was dark and the place had a musty, sour smell of rotting milk and closed up, hidden things. Jute could hear the creak of the waterwheel turning outside; the sound was quieter now, but, at the same time, deeper. The noise trembled in the timbers of the floor as if the entire house was some strange musical instrument. Reaching out his hand against the wall, his fingers brushed against something cold and hard. A key. Hanging on the wall. He could not believe his good luck. He tried it in the door. The key turned grudgingly and then the lock shot home with a click.

“This isn’t a good idea,” said the ghost. “Aren’t we supposed to meet Declan near the waterfall? How’s he going to find us in here if you’ve locked the door? What if there’s something much worse inside than what’s outside?”

“Don’t be silly. In case you forgot, that thing, that shifter, is outside somewhere. What could be worse than that? We can wait for him in here.”

“Yes,” said the ghost unhappily, “I suppose you’re right.”

Moonlight slanted in through a window and Jute saw stars shining through the dirty glass. The rain must have stopped, he thought. The light, weak though it was, brought out the details of the room and deepened the shadows that lay in between. Stairs angled up along the back of the room. A table stood against the wall, piled with everything from dishes and dirty clothing to dismantled tools, old grain sacks, and an untidy coil of greasy rope. Beside it sat a chair with two broken legs that had been fixed by propping the stumps on stacked bricks. There were more grain sacks on the floor, empty and full. White dust coated everything, everywhere. Flour. Jute sneezed. The sound was appallingly loud.

“My nerves,” moaned the ghost. “I can’t take this.”

Jute tiptoed forward. The flour on the floor stirred in puffs with each step he took. His fingers twitched and he eyed a cupboard thoughtfully. Even in the shabbiest looking houses there was usually a thing or two of value to be found. He blinked and shook his head. This was no time to be thinking of such things. He should be keeping a sharp lookout for Declan.

Jute peeped out of the window. The moonlight was bright now. Far in the west, he could see a bank of clouds painted gray by the moon, but the rest of the sky was a velvety black, speckled with stars that looked brighter and harder and closer than they had looked in the night sky over Hearne. The river rushed past, shining and eager to be on its way. A field sloped toward the village. He could see chimney smoke rising in sluggish streams from roofs. The field was black with shadows and the few lonely stalks of corn left standing by the autumn’s harvest. Nothing moved.

Jute realized he had been holding his breath. He let it out in a sigh and sagged down against the wall. He closed his eyes. And opened them in time to see the handle on the front door turn. It turned slowly, to be sure, but it was turning. Jute stared at it, mesmerized. The handle turned the other way. It turned faster until it came to the end of its revolution with a jerk. It spun back the original way, turning faster yet, as if whoever was on the other end had come to the end of his patience.

And then the entire door shook under the impact of a blow. The wall vibrated with the force of it. Dust floated down from the ceiling. Again and again, the blows came. They made a deep booming noise and, in between the rhythm of that sound, Jute fancied he heard the snarl of the shifter. He scrambled to his feet, his heart hammering. The stairs creaked.

“Here now!” called a voice.

Jute shrank back into the corner beside the cupboard. The door shook under another blow.

“Here now!” bawled the voice. “Stop yer blasted racket! I’m coming, d’ya hear?”

Footsteps shuffled on the stairs. Light wavered into life through the banisters. An old man teetered down the stairs, breathing heavily and looking as if he would topple over at any moment. He carried a lantern in one hand and leaned on a knobby stick in the other. The door shook again. More flour dust drifted down from the ceiling.

“Hold yer horses, ya durn fools!” hollered the old man. And then he said to himself, “Addled, I tell ya. Roustin’ out a man from his bed this time o’ night. T’ain’t right, I tell ya. T’ain’t right.”

Jute sneezed. He couldn’t help it. The sneeze had been gathering force for several minutes, assisted by the flour dust and his damp and chilled state.

“Who’s there?” shouted the old man, stumbling back. He glared around the room, holding his lantern high. “Come out, I tell ya, or by all, I’ll brain ya, I will!”

He shook his walking stick in the air in a threatening manner, but the effect was ruined by the fact that he was frail and the stick was heavy. He toppled over and only managed to save himself by dropping the stick and grabbing hold of the table. Jute peered at the old man over the top of the table.

“Who’s that? Who’re ya? Don’t come any closer!” The old man grabbed at his fallen stick.

“Please sir,” said Jute, trying to keep his voice low, but not succeeding on account of his terror. “There’s something chasing me. It’s a wolf! Not a wolf, it’s a man who turned into a wolf!”

“You don’t say,” said the old man, clutching his stick even closer. “One o’ them manwolfs? Or a wolfman? I heard tell of ‘em. Turrible creatures!”

“It’s right outside your door!”

As if to emphasize this point, the door shook again under a heavy blow. The old man jumped and almost dropped his stick again. Jute crept closer to him.

“Please, sir,” he said, his voice shaking. “What’ll we do?”

“What’ll we do?” echoed the old man. The door shook again.

“Turrible creatures,” he said. “An’ the worst thing is, lemme tell ya, boy.”

The old man turned, and the light from the lantern wavered in his eyes.

“They shed all over the place. It’s turrible!”

Jute stared at him, not understanding. But then he did understand when the old man’s stick whipped through the air. It moved much faster than it should have. Much faster than a doddering old man should have been capable of. There was no time to duck.

Pain burst in his head. Vicious and complete, and he felt the floorboards slam up underneath him. Jute saw the old man’s face above him fading into darkness, peering down. Then, there was only darkness. Right before he went unconscious, however, he heard the old man cackle, “But they ain’t so bad if ya don’t mind the shedding.”

CHAPTER THREE

A SATISFACTORY THEFT

“Several of the lads heard Posle talking to a fellow,” said Bordeall. “A Thieves Guild enforcer. Posle’d had a bit too much to drink and they were at a table nearby.”

Owain and Bordeall were walking along the top of the city wall. The morning sun was edging up over the eastern horizon. Shadows stretched long on the ground, and all the houses huddled close by the wall were still deep in its shadow. The stone walk was dappled with puddles, for it had rained heavily that last night. The scent of the damp earth filled the air, temporarily overpowering the more pungent smells of the city. There was a cold, crisp look to the sky.

“An old friend?” said Owain.

“Perhaps.” Bordeall shrugged. “Lucan heard him. Him and two of the sergeants. They were in the Fallow Field having some ale after the evening shift. It’s dark in there, darker than most inns on account of how the windows face right into the—”

“I’ve been to the Fallow Field. A guildsman, eh?”

They walked along in silence, Owain frowning and considering, and Bordeall gazing out over the parapets at the beauty of the morning. The dew on the grasses below the wall shone like silver under the sun’s eye.

“Have Posle brought to the armory,” said Owain suddenly. “Let’s have a chat with him. He might be the thin edge of the wedge we need.”

“Aye, he might.”

Posle trotted into the armory behind the young lieutenant Lucan.

“Here he is, my lord,” said Lucan, saluting.

“Thank you. You may go.”

Posle stood at attention before them—at least, in what he obviously thought was the proper stance. His eyes wandered about the room, examining the spears stacked in their sheaves, the shields hanging on the walls, the oak chests black with age, and the oil that had slowly seeped out over the years from the swords stored inside. He looked with interest at the stone steps leading down to the forge below, at the old flags hanging from the ceiling overhead, and the iron chandelier of candles chained up high over all, shrouded in dust and cobwebs. His gaze returned to Owain and Bordeall. He grinned in a friendly way, revealing several gaps in his teeth.

“Attention!” said Bordeall.

The smile vanished. The little man’s chin shot up and he stared in the air somewhere above Owain’s head.

“Yes! I mean, yes, sir!”

“Posle, isn’t it?” said Owain. “That’s a Vomarone name, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Er, yes, my lord.”

“Well, Posle, as commander of the Guard, I always like to get to know the new recruits. I like to know where they’ve come from. I like to know of any talents or associations they have that might benefit the Guard. Sensible, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, my lord.”

A slight sheen of sweat shone on Posle’s forehead.

“Now, what was it you did before joining the Guard? I don’t recall being told. Perhaps I’ve forgotten.”

“I was a dockhand, my lord,” said Posle. And then, unwisely, he decided to add to his story: “Sixteen years on the docks.”

“Sixteen years? That’s a long time. Your hands don’t look like they’ve done sixteen years on the docks. Yes, you’ve calluses enough, Posle, but a dockhand has hands made of leather. Smashed fingers, scars, rope burns. What do you have to say, man? Speak up.”

“I, er, well, my lord, um. . .”

“A little rat told me you worked for the Thieves Guild. No, don’t deny it, man. The question is, do you still belong to the Guild? If you do, then we have a problem. Divided loyalties is what I’d call it. On the other hand, if you don’t work for the Guild anymore, how am I supposed to believe that?”

It was surprisingly simple from there. Posle turned as white as a lady’s handkerchief. His mouth opened and closed without making a sound. When he was able to speak, his words came out in an incoherent, gabbling rush.

“It weren’t my idea, my lord! Honest! They made me do it. Said if I didn’t, they’d break my woman’s legs. Just wanted to keep an eye on the Guard. Interested in what you were up to. Oh please, my lord! No harm done in it, no harm! I won’t tell ‘em anything. There’s nothing to be told. Just marching around and drilling.”

Posle attempted to smile, but he only managed to look sick.

“A thief and a spy. Well, Bordeall, what’ll we do?”

“Hang him, my lord,” rumbled the older man. “There’s nothing like a good hanging to put the iron in a man’s spine. It’ll do our lads good to see.”

“Mercy!” bawled Posle, falling to his knees. Tears sprang from his eyes. “No! No! Have mercy, my lord!”

“Shall I go see about a rope, my lord?”

“Mercy!” shrieked Posle.

“Yes, Bordeall. Thick hemp. I don’t want it breaking like last time.”

“No! Please don’t kill me!”

“Very good, my lord.” And Bordeall strode from the room.

Owain regarded the little man groveling on the floor. A spy. He wondered what his father would have done if he had found himself in such a situation. His father had been a more decisive man in certain ways. More impatient. The older Gawinn probably would have drawn his sword and killed the man on the spot. Oh well. Such things were frowned on these days. The regent would be outraged, and the nobility would twitter like pea-brained hens behind their scented handkerchiefs and their manicured hands. Not that he cared what they thought.

“Posle.”

The man was wailing so loudly that he did not hear Owain.

“Posle! Stop that. Get a hold of yourself, man. Maybe I won’t have you killed. At least, not today.”

Posle left off his wailing and looked up. He scrubbed at his nose.

“My lord?” he quavered.

“I have a job that needs doing. It needs just the right man to lead it, and I think you’re the man.”