Fly Up into the Night Air (13 page)

* * *

When Stilian and Harte arrived back at Walford House it was nearly half six bells, and fully dark. Amalia met them in the foyer. "Please change for supper. Gastir has asked that we eat together tonight. Stilian, he specifically asked that you join us. We'll eat at seven bells. Hurry now, or you'll be late!"

Harte looked a question at Stilian. Stilian gave a short nod in return. "I will join you shortly."

Harte's father was already seated at the table when Stilian entered the dining room. "Good evening, Judge Cast. Son."

"Father." Harte's tone offered nothing.

"Your mother tells me you were out for a walk. Is the snow very deep yet?"

Before Harte could answer, Amalia came in through the door to the kitchen. Councilman Walford rose and pulled out a chair for her. "Amalia, you know that's my favorite dress. Quite beautiful. Is there some occasion?"

"Why no, dear. I just wanted to look nice for dinner."

"Son, you were going to tell me about the snow," said Councilman Walford.

"I was?" said Harte. "It's nearing an inch, I should think. Coming down fast. Cook has the pantry well stocked I suppose, Mother?"

"Of course. We always stock up this time of year."

Are their words always so empty--and the spaces between so pregnant?
What purpose did it serve to talk of the weather, Stilian wondered. There was a pause while Theo poured the wine, then Councilman Walford turned his attention to Stilian. "Judge Cast, you are, of course, welcome to stay as long as you have need--indeed you might find it difficult to leave just now--but I must ask, is there a particular case that keeps you in Walford's Crossing? I don't recall the council authorizing payment of a judge veritor for any pending business."

It's the courtesy before the dance.
"No, I have not been asked to hear any cases here," said Stilian.

"I see. Then Harte has not asked you to involve yourself with his current ... project?"

Stilian was careful to keep his voice neutral. "No, he has not asked me to involve myself."

"Harte, what is your assessment of your project?"

Harte spoke dispassionately. "The case involves the beating and subsequent death of a citizen of Walford's Crossing. It appears there were a number of witnesses to the crime. We are currently interviewing them to find out what happened."

"You make it sound so routine, son. I am informed that the person who was beaten was a prostitute who was engaged in soliciting at the time he was beaten. The persons you have chosen to question are prominent members of this community. Moreover, I am not aware of the council voting to pay for this inquiry."

Harte put down the fork he had not yet used. "I have chosen to pursue this investigation on my own authority, and I have paid for it with my own coin, as Patrol Leader Tarren will attest. That is my privilege as a member of the court."

Councilman Walford rested his fingers on the edge of the table. "Judge Cast, I'm curious, what's your assessment of the probable outcome of this inquiry?"

"I could not say, Councilman. Surely that's the job of a presenter advocate such as your son to assess. We magistrates and judges must let them play their role first, must we not?"

The councilman leaned forward. "But we all have a role to play in seeing that our legal process
works
, and that the cases that are brought forward have some chance of succeeding?"

"True, but cases that are not brought to hearing have
no
chance of success. Is that not so? We must
engage
in a legal process, in order for the process to work, yes?"

Stilian was relieved when Theo arrived with the meat course. He took a bite from the roast. He had little chance to chew before the councilman spoke again. "What about the merits of this case? I understand the boy who was beaten was soliciting, when the attack occurred. Such behavior is not to be tolerated."

Harte's face tightened, but he spoke lightly. "You are quite right, Father. Such violence should not be tolerated."

"You misunderstand me, Son."

Harte spoke bitterly. "You understand me perfectly."

"You are impertinent," said the councilman.

"Our laws do not prohibit sexual advances," said Harte. "Their intent is to discourage prostitution."

Councilman Walford took a sip of wine. "That includes soliciting payment in return for sex."

"Yes, which leads me to another question, Father. Who told you that the boy was soliciting? The evidence I have suggests only that he made a rude suggestion. Perhaps I should be questioning
you
on the details of the attack?"

"You are intolerable!" Councilman Walford slammed his hand on the table.

"Gastir!" exclaimed Amalia.

"Never mind, Father. I can guess well enough to whom you have been speaking."

Stilian rose and took the wine bottle from the sideboard where Theo had left it. He poured himself another glass and returned the bottle.

"Perhaps, Harte, if you had gone to the family concerned, this matter could have been resolved in a less heavy-handed way."

"To what end?" said Harte.

"It might have gotten the boy better doctoring," Harte's mother pointed out.

"What about the next victim and the one after that?" Harte insisted.

"Are you saying there's a pattern of violence here?" The councilman's tone was dismissive.

Harte stared at his father. "I do not know if the man who beat Raf--for the boy's name was Raf--has ever done this sort of thing before. I do know that it happens all the time. The poor and the social outcasts who work on Dock Street--and it's their
work
, it's the way they
survive--
are victims time and time again. There is no justice for them, because they cannot pay for it. Councilmen fund justice only for their own kind. This boy Raf, Father, do you know what they did to him? He was beaten so badly they nearly knocked an eye out of his head. His torso was covered in boot prints, and his--manhood was torn."

"Harte!" pleaded Amalia.

"He was kicked repeatedly and stomped on with those damn hobnailed boots and left in the street for the crows to--"

"Harte! Stop!" said Stilian.

Harte ground to a halt. His was voice was rough. Stilian did not need to see his face to know that there were tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry. I cannot talk to you about this." Harte stood. "Good night, Mother." He strode rapidly from the dining room.

Councilman Walford slumped in his chair. "I don't know what to say to that boy. He'll throw away his career and his future in the council."

"Perhaps," said Amalia, "he wants a different future."

"I fear it does not matter what he wants now."

Stilian rose unsteadily to his feet. "Councilman Walford. I do not want to impose, but ... but I know you love your son. I wish you would tell him that. Good night, Mrs. Walford." Stilian followed Harte out. As he left the dining room, he heard Amalia's insistent voice.

"Gastir, you must let him go."

"I'm afraid he wants a future without his father."

Stilian paused on the stairs to hear the quiet answer. "I know. But a bird will peck even the hand that feeds it, if it be through the bars of a cage."

* * *

"Harte, may I come in?"

Harte stared into the fire. "Go away, Stilian."

"I will not," said Stilian, knocking again. "Please let me in."

"For God's sake, quit yelling through the door. It's not locked. What do you want?"

Stilian came in and stood swaying above the couch where Harte's flood had laid him rest. "I want to tell you something."

"What is it?" Harte placed a fresh log on the grate.

"Your father loves you."

"I do not need you to tell me that. Are you drunk? Sit down." Harte resumed his contemplation of the grasping fingers of fire that twisted upwards from the hearth.

"Probably." Stilian was not finished. "You could not know the boy would become ill."

Stilian's aim was better the second time. Harte's mind returned to the thought he'd sought to ignore since running from his parents. There had been no catch in Raf's breathing on his first visit. If he had approached the Greer family and asked for recompense in the form of medical treatment as soon as he had suspected Brin, would Raf still be alive? "Shit! Sit down, before you fall down. What do you want from me?"

"I want you out of my head," said Stilian.

"I could say the same!" Harte pointed to the wine glass that Stilian had carried from the dining room. "I thought the wine helps."

Stilian lurched into motion. He glanced at the wine glass as if surprised to find it in his hand, then shrugged. Dropping awkwardly onto the couch, he leaned over and placed the glass on the floor. "The others are gone." He wiggled fingers above his head. "Now there is only you."

"What am I to do?"

"Let me hold you."

"I have never--"

"Stop talking." Stilian took Harte's chin and pulled it towards him. Then, looking into Harte's eyes, he pulled Harte's head to his lips and kissed him gently.

It was the softness of his lips that surprised Harte.

* * *

Dear Hugh,

I'm mired in Winter's sluggish grip, awaiting a trial that may not take place, and maybe, the start of something new. I'm in Walford's Crossing, living in luxury in the house of one of the town's oldest families, where I've made strange alliance with a scion of the town council, local presenter advocate, and budding radical. I exaggerate not. This beautiful man seems to want to replace our creaking gears of justice with burnished new ones that do not require the grease of influence. He insists on prosecuting a case involving the beating--and subsequent death in hospital--of a boy prostitute who appears to have made the unfortunate mistake of propositioning a councilman's son. Can you imagine a more quixotic enterprise? Yet on he trudges, even as the winter sludge freezes around him. Will the thaw beget new life from this weird alchemy? I cannot think of leaving until I see the first green tips break loose of the earth. I'm laughing, but at the same time afraid you will take this merely as evidence of too much drink. I am besotted, not entirely with wine.

Don't judge me too harshly,

Stilian

P.S. Send this on to Thalia. She's used to my feverish embarrassments. SC

* * *

Dear Thalia,

I enclose the latest from our wandering child. He seems to be experiencing some fever. He admits that he's drinking again.

In haste, as we prepare for exams,

Hugh

* * *

Idiot Hugh!

You have been too long away from your love. Has the freeze so shriveled your sex and dried your juices that you cannot recognize the cause of Stilian's fevered state? Our boy seems seems to found the end of his long grieving in Walford's Crossing--with a lawyer!

I don't know whether to laugh or cry, so I'm trying both.

Thalia

P.S. Get here for a visit soon.
Retire
this endless separation!

Interviews

Harte and Griff were at their usual places in the Ragged Crow. Harte's elbows rested on the bar. Griff had his back to the bar so he could observe the room. "Who will you bring in next, my friend?" asked Harte.

"We will have Caleb Stowe and Miles Groat tomorrow. Ten bells and two. You will come?"

"Yes. We must find a crack at which to pry. Griff, if I were to ..." Harte turned. Examining his friend's face for unusual luminosity or shading he wished, not for the first time, that he was canny. But his friend's appearance showed no lighting effects he could not attribute to the flickering lanterns that hung over the bar.

"What?" said Griff.

"What do you think of Judge Cast?"

Griff lifted the mug he had balanced on his knee and took a swig of beer. "You are the one who has been sheltering him."

"Yes. But you must have formed some impression."

"He is grave for a man of his years and rather blunt of speech." Griff wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Have you considered that it might not be a gift to be canny?"

"I am certain that it is not, however much I might wish for the talent at times--like this."

"He is well formed," Griff said, judiciously.

"You have noticed this, particularly?" Harte could not bring himself to look directly at Griff.

"I have noticed you noticing it, particularly."

"Oh." Harte had difficulty forming the words. But he had heard the smile in Griff's response. "You don't mind--" He swallowed. "--that I prefer men?"

Griff turned to face Harte. "Is your head made of wood?"

"It seems rather hollow at the moment."

"Harte. I have worked with you now for more than a season. If I cared what you are, don't you think I would have shown some sign?"

"Am to understand that you have known this thing about me for ... some time?"

"It's not a mole on your nose, if that's your worry. It is there, for those who would look. But it's no concern to me."

"
I feel as a bird, lightened, and with a wild heart,"
Harte quoted.

Griff grunted. "Well then, play raptor for me. We have men to harry today."