The Shadow at the Gate (69 page)

“No!” said the hawk, alarmed at these words. “I’m grieved by your misfortune, Farrow, but your sorrow and the death of your family truly mean little in light of what lies before us. I’d see all of Tormay dead to save this boy from the Dark. And you’re bound to this same purpose, are you not?”

“Yes,” said Declan, choking on the word. “I’m bound fast and my will isn’t my own. Jute, listen to me. I turned my back on my family years ago. I was a fool and gave them up for what I thought were better things. Fame and fortune won by my sword. But they’re worthless in comparison to what I once had. And now there’s only my sister. Would you have me turn my back on my family once again?”

“Er,” said Jute, thinking of Lena taking his place in the Silentman’s cell.

“You chose to leave your family,” said the hawk angrily. "Would you have us pay for that choice?"

“I only want one last chance.”

“We all want one last chance,” said the ghost. “All of us have regrets. I can’t remember mine, but I’m sure I’ve got ‘em.”

Declan’s hand went to his throat. Something lay there—a length of wire or fine chain gleaming against his dark skin. Light shone on a smooth round stone. A pearl. He pulled at the wire as if it choked him, but when he saw Jute’s eye on him, he twitched his cloak closed to hide what lay around his neck.

“Just one more chance,” Declan said. He spoke more to himself than to anyone else.

“Well, boy?” said the hawk harshly.

The wind blew this way and that, as if saying it would be happy going anywhere. Anywhere that Jute went.

“We aren’t far behind them, are we?” said the boy.

Declan looked up, hope in his eyes.

“No,” he said. “No, we aren’t.”

“This is a bad choice,” said the hawk. “The only thing that matters is preserving Jute’s life, the life of the anbeorun. If the Wind falls into the hands of the Dark, then Tormay will surely be lost.”

“What’s the difference between one or many?”

“If one falls, then so be it, if many shall be saved,” said the hawk.

The hawk spoke angrily and the words rang in the air and in Jute’s mind. But even as the boy considered this and the unpleasant thought of falling into the hands of the Dark, he felt the wind blow through his mind. It seemed pleased. Excited. And curious. As if it wished to see where the hunt would go.

The hawk snorted in annoyance.

“We shouldn’t waste any time, should we?” said Jute.

The rain eased then, subsiding to a drizzle and then a mist. Oddly enough, the wind shifted until it was blowing out of the southeast.

“Perfect,” said Declan. He tried to smile, but could not. “We’ll catch their scent and they’ll not have ours.”

“Hmmph,” said the hawk, and Jute could feel anger in the grip of the bird’s claws on his shoulders.

They headed southeast with the wind in their faces. Declan moved along with a fast loping stride and it was all Jute could do to keep up with him. His side ached and his lungs burned. He could hear the ghost nattering on about toads and other ingredients dictated by an ancient recipe for invisibility.

“Of course,” said the ghost, “with that combination of ingredients, if you get either the burdock or the toad juice out of ratio, you’re either dead or paralyzed.”

Jute, stop panting like that
, said the hawk.

It was the first thing the bird had said in over two hours.

I can’t help it.

Yes, you can.

I’m tired.

The shadow of the hawk slid across the ground in front of Jute, who looked up to see the bird sailing through the sky overhead.

Does the wind ever tire?

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

THE VINDICTIVENESS OF CATS

Smede shivered in the alley across the street from his house. It was raining again and he was cold. His teeth chattered. Something rustled behind him in the alley and he shrank back in the shadows. He groped in his pocket for his knife, but then relaxed. It was only a cat. A bedraggled little cat hurrying by, dodging raindrops and downspouts. The cat gave him a cross look as if to say it had no regard for humans stupid enough to be out on such a night. The cat trotted around a corner and was gone.

Smede gnawed his lip and stared across the street at his house. With the rain and the general state of disarray he was in, he looked like a shapeless lump of shadow. He blinked and then squinted. There. A hint of movement in the window across the street. The third-story window. It had been the merest of movements. Smede whimpered, thinking there in the dark. All that gold. Locked away in his strongbox. So close and so far away. He dared not go up to his rooms. Surely a blade and death waited for him there. The Silentman had put the word out. The Guild was on the lookout. Death stalked him on the streets of Hearne. His master was gone.

“Curse them all,” muttered Smede to himself. “Oh, what’ll I do? I’m all alone. Where shall I go?”

If he left the city, surely he could find safety in the south. Somewhere far away. Vomaro, perhaps. Harth. The Guild did hardly any business in Harth. But he couldn’t leave his gold. He couldn’t.

And then Smede’s thoughts turned to the house on Stalu Street. Where he had first met his master. His master was gone, but he could find solace there. Sanctuary from the Guild. The wards still held around that house, though the ancient spell was broken.

An idea sparked in his head.

Smede grinnned, his head bobbing up and down. A downspout trickled onto his head but he did not notice. He chuckled nastily to himself and then made his way down the alley, scurrying like an oversized rat. Behind him, the cat cautiously stuck its head around a corner and watched him go. It scrubbed at its nose with one paw as if it sought to rid itself of a bad odor. Then, with one last careful look around, the cat followed the little man.

There was a chill in the air that hinted of winter. The sleeting rain shivered as it fell, as if it were considering such matters as ice and snow. The inns were doing a roaring business. Light and laughter spilled out into the streets, escaping through quickly opened and shut doors and from behind windows steamed blind with the potent brew of conviviality, roaring fires, and hot ale. It was the perfect night in which not to be seen, particularly if one kept to dark alleys.

It was not long before Smede reached Stalu Street. He paused at a corner, hugging the wall. The one drawback of the house’s location was its proximity to the Goose and Gold tavern. Too many of the Thieves Guild in and out of that inn. But the drawback had always had a benefit as well. The Juggler’s children. There were always plenty of children in the vicinity.

Smede was about to cross the street when a sudden clamor made him shrink back. The noise grew louder, and then its source came into view. A group of men staggering up the street. Drunk, bellowing out a song about a goatherder from Vomaro. The men slipped and splashed through the puddles, oblivious to the cold rain. Smede recognized one of them. A dock enforcer. From memory, Smede summoned up a page from his accounting book. Cod Harston. Twenty coppers a month from the Guild. And, no doubt, whatever else Harston could skim from his work.

“One more!” bellowed Harston, interrupting the song. “One more. My throat ain’t up to all this singing. I’m dried out somethin’ terrible.”

“M’woman’ll be waiting up, see,” said another man.

“An’ a heavy hand she has.”

“Aye. S’another round t’ bolster you. Take yer medicine afore, that's what I say.”

“Aye. Back t’ the Goose!”

“Good ol’ Goose.”

Cheering this idea, the men turned and staggered back down the street.

Smede sneered as he watched them go. Fools, all of them. Like every poor soul that lived in the city. From the regent on his throne down to the lowliest beggar in the gutters of Fishgate. All fools. None of them knew of the strings that trailed from their lives down into the darkness. Strings ready to be twitched. Or snapped in two.

Smede skulked along in the men’s wake. Behind him, unseen, crept the cat. The door of the Goose and Gold was flung open with a crash. Light and noise spilled out into the street. Smede froze, shrinking back against a wall. Something in him yearned toward the light and the warmth and the friendly cheer of that place, but then he scowled. He knew something even better. The group of men crowded through the door, which then slammed shut. The street was quiet again except for the rain and the wind moaning in the rooftops. Smede scurried past the inn. The house came awake at his approach. It knew him. Had known him for many years. The warding spells came to life, but they quieted at his whisper and coiled themselves back into sleep. The door eased open and closed behind him.

The little cat stopped on the threshold of the neighboring house. Its fur was plastered flat against its scrawny body by the rain. To all appearances, the cat should have been the most miserable cat in all of Hearne, particularly in view of all the wonderfully dry and warm cellars, basements, and attics that were accessible through drains, broken windows, and the kindness of people. But the cat’s eyes were bright with interest and it studied the house that Smede had entered. After a moment, it hurried away into the night.

Smede paused inside the entrance hall of the house to wring out his cloak. He sneezed and wiped his nose on his arm. Shadows, he was cold. But he’d show them, yes he would. He’d show them. He was an accountant. He remembered things. He remembered numbers and figures and letters. He wrote them down. And if he saw them, he could write them again. It might not be one of those things that was pleasant to remember. But sometimes a little unpleasantness was necessary.

Smede took a deep breath and hurried down the hall. And up the long stairs. So many stairs. He opened the door at the end of the long hall on the third story. There was only silence inside. The ancient spell was gone. Its voice was no more. The parchment that had sat on the table for so many hundreds of years was only dust now.

“But perhaps I can write you again,” Smede said out loud. “And then some fresh blood. That’ll do the trick.”

The table was covered with dust. He delved into one pocket and came up with a quill. A sharp, iron-nibbed quill. He brushed the dust off the table. He could almost see the words in his mind. There had not been many of them. But they had been perfect. The script had been an elegant scrawl. The writing of a learned man. Smede frowned, trying to concentrate. Surely he knew them. He had read them aloud countless times over the years.

“Darkness below,” he said. “Are my wits lost?”

And with that, the first word came to him.

Smede wrote it on the table. The next word appeared in his mind, and then the next. The iron nib bore down heavily and scored the wood. His writing was cramped and neat, not like the old elegant scrawl. But the words were the same. He wrote faster and faster. His eyes shone. The sentences formed on the table, one after the other. The old sounds of them formed in his mind. His lips shaped them silently. Four more words left. Three more. Only two more. He giggled out loud. The last word floated into his thoughts and he bent back to the table, his face triumphant. But then there was a sound behind him. It was a quiet sound, but even a quiet sound can be loud if heard in a silent house. Smede turned. There, within the doorway, stood a little cat. A gray cat with bright blue eyes. The cat did not move but regarded him steadily.

“Well now,” said Smede. “By the shadows above and below, I don’t know how you got in, but what a stroke of fortune. You’ll do nicely.”

He took a step forward to grab up the cat. But then he stopped, astonished. A second cat strolled into view and stood next to the little gray. They both stared at Smede.

“Upon my soul,” said Smede.

A third cat appeared. And then another. And another. In no time at all, the open hallway beyond the door was crowded with cats. They stood in silence and stared at Smede.

“Here now,” said Smede, clutching his pen and wishing he had a cudgel or a burning torch. “Shoo. Scat! Go on with you!”

He stamped on the floor to encourage the cats, but this had no effect. They continued staring at him. It was disconcerting. Smede tried another method. He bent down and stretched out his hand to the little gray cat.

“Here, kitty,” he said. “Here, kitty-kitty. Nice kitty.”

The cat hissed.

Smede snatched his hand back.

The cat snarled, revealing sharp teeth. The two cats on either side of it snarled as well. Other cats began snarling. Their eyes shone in the shadows.

“Nice kitty,” said Smede, beginning to tremble.

The cats leapt forward as one.

Outside, it was still raining. Across the street, muffled merriment could be heard from inside the Goose and Gold. Smoke drifted up from the inn’s chimney, gilded here and there by stray moonlight and riddled with rain. The moon, drifting overhead on her bed of clouds, peered down through the darkness.

Some time later, if a passerby had glanced to one side as he walked down Stalu Street, he might have noticed a strange thing. But there were no passersby, so what happened next was seen by no one except the moon and several foraging rats, who ran off as fast they could in the opposite direction.