The Wicked Day (24 page)

“Open the blasted gate!” said Declan.

“Can’t. It’s the law. You mustn’t break it. That’s why it’s the law. Go away, I say.”

The hawk flew up to the top of the wall and settled onto the parapet near the soldier. “Open the gate now, little man,” said the hawk. “Or I’ll gut you like a rabbit.” The man gaped at the bird and then abruptly disappeared.

“The mist is getting closer,” said Jute.

“Moving faster, too,” said the ghost. And with a strangled moan it dove into Jute’s knapsack and vanished. The mist had reached the bridge. It boiled up and reached out gray arms along the timbers. Tendrils of vapor crept along the planking of the bridge toward them. Jute’s horse tossed its head, prancing uneasily in place, foam dripping from its jaw. Its eyes rolled whitely.

“Keep your reins tight,” said Declan. “Ghost, you’ll stay out of sight and keep quiet. Do you hear me?”

“Why is it,” said the ghost, his voice muffled inside the knapsack, “that I’m the one who must always be staying out of sight? I feel like an unwanted child. The ugly stepchild kept locked up in the cellar with nothing to eat but stale crusts and water. I’m the toad of the party, that’s me.”

“Stop whining. You’re a secret asset. A hidden weapon. That’s why you have to stay concealed.”

“Ah,” said the ghost happily. “I knew it. I’m a hidden weapon.”

And then the gates swung open. They urged the horses through. Jute could not bear to look behind him. Torches flared around them. The gates boomed shut. Spears shone in the firelight and he was aware of faces staring at them. A young man strode forward, cloak swirling around him. He stopped in front of Declan. His eyes widened.

“The Knife!” he said. His face darkened and his hand dropped to his sword.

“Bridd,” said Declan coldly.

“I should have you thrown into jail, you murdering, double-crossing thief!”

More soldiers appeared out of the darkness, closing ranks behind the young man. A strange smell seemed to grow in the air—an odor of stagnant water, of mud and decaying things. The hawk settled onto Jute’s shoulder, wings outstretched to flex and then fold closed. The bird seemed bigger than usual, monstrous almost in the wavering shadows and light of the torches.

“Arodilac Bridd,” said the hawk, “son of Tenac Bridd and Dylas, sister of Nimman Botrell. The wind knew you when you were a child, stealing plum wine from the cellar of your father’s manor and so causing the dismissal of his steward. That was poorly done. Shall I remind you of other such matters?”

Arodilac’s mouth fell open. He stared at the hawk.

“Wh-who are you?” he stammered.

“Take us to your captain!” said the hawk.

“No need for that,” drawled a voice.

A man strolled out of the darkness and into the torchlight. The soldiers, Arodilac included, sprang to attention. The man was tall and lean, his black hair closely cropped to his head. His gaze rested for a moment on the hawk before settling on Declan.

“Owain Gawinn, at your service,” he said. “Though I’m afraid I can’t be at your service. Things are busy here. I’ll overlook your untimely entrance, as it’s a matter of Guard discipline, a lack thereof, rather than anything to do with you. Welcome to Hearne. Good evening.”

He made as if to go, but Declan stepped forward.

“My lord Gawinn,” he said. “Hear us out. We’ve journeyed all the way from the duchy of Mizra to see you.”

“Mizra, you say?” The captain nodded politely, as if to acknowledge the length and rarity of such a trip. “Come see me in the morning, then. I’d be pleased to hear any news you have of the eastern lands.”

He began walking away into the darkness. The strange smell in the air intensified and what little light there was from the torches was beginning to shrink, its edges damped and drowned by the growing mist.

The pearl inside Declan’s shirt warmed. A thought nudged at him, and then he knew what to say to gain the captain's interest.

“It’s been a long time since the Farrows have come trading horses to Hearne,” he called after the captain. “Has it not?”

Owain Gawinn paused in his tracks and turned.

“What’s it to you?”

“My name’s Declan Farrow,” said Declan.

They were shown into the captain’s study, a spartan room on the second floor of the gate tower. The door swung shut behind them, and Owain waved them to chairs. He sat down behind his desk. A fire burned cheerily on the grate.

“Declan Farrow, eh?” said Owain. In the bright light of the study, his face looked tired. Despite that, curiosity sparked in his eyes. “I’ve heard the stories. Who hasn’t?”

“Stories can sometimes be just that: stories. Badly told, half told—”

“I've got it,” interrupted Owain. He snapped his fingers. “You’re that Knife fellow. One of my soldiers with a bit of Guild connection described you, and it’s been bothering me ever since I clapped eyes on you. From Aum. Yes, that’s what it was.”

“And Aum in ruins for three hundred years,” said the hawk coldly. “A haunt of owls and jackals. We didn’t come here to discuss the Guild or the tales of Declan Farrow.”

Owain stared at the hawk. He opened his mouth and then shut it.

“I don’t work for the Guild anymore, my lord,” said Declan. “But, regardless of how I’ve been known, I’ve always been Declan Farrow. The last of the Farrows, save one, for the Farrows are all dead.”

“Dead? I was hoping you could tell me where they were. I need horses for the Guard. Dead, you say? That’s terrible news!”

Jute stirred nervously in his chair. He got up and went to the one window. There was nothing to be seen outside except the dark bulk of the wall angling away into the night. The glow of torchlight illuminated the span of the gate below. But mist was drifting over the top of the wall, and the light began to blur into pearly translucence with its approach. The skin on the back of Jute’s neck prickled uncomfortably.

“Murdered, every one of them.”

The pearl warmed against Declan’s skin. He blinked, no longer seeing the study. He could see the face of the creature from the top of the tower in Ancalon. The sceadu. The blade in its hand. The scene from his memory abruptly changed and he saw the regent’s ballroom. Crowded with fear. Screams and staring faces. The sceadu stalking across the floor. Candles and jewels shining in the darkness. The young woman standing alone in the middle of the ballroom.

“They were murdered by a man who isn’t a man. A thin-faced man who kills for the love of killing.”

A frown crossed Owain’s face. “This man, does he hunt with hounds? Massive beasts?”

“The same.”

Owain jumped to his feet and strode to the door. He yanked it open.

“You there, sergeant. Find Bordeall and send him up.”

He slammed the door shut and flung himself back down in his chair.

“What do you know of this creature?”

“He serves the Dark,” said the hawk. He fluttered up onto the back of Jute’s chair. “He is a sceadu—a shadow, you would say in your younger tongue. A thing of ancient evil who must murder in order to live. He feeds on death. But he himself is only the emissary of a much more dreadful being.”

Owain scowled at the hawk. “There are strange things in the world. A hawk that can speak is one of them. There are evil things, too; I’ll readily admit that. Things we don’t understand. Bears and ogres, wights and ghosts. I’ve heard stories of peculiar goings-on in the Morn Mountains and further north. Men themselves are capable of great evil. I’ve seen their handiwork. It’s my job. Murder? Men take to it easily. Too easily, I’m afraid. But the Dark? I’m not sure I believe in the Dark. An old wives’ tale, as far as I’m concerned. Scare the children into behaving. That’s what I’ve always thought.”

“I don’t care what you think,” said the hawk coldly. “And I doubt the Dark cares either. Things are what they are, regardless of what we believe or do not believe about them. Your opinion, pleasant as it may be, has no bearing on reality. The Dark has a purpose and an intent, and its servants walk this land. They have recently been within the walls of Hearne. Quite recently, captain, and this you know, if you are an honest man. Recall your memory to what occurred during the regent’s ball.”

The door opened and a burly, older man entered the room. “Ah, Bordeall,” said the captain. “These fellows have just arrived from the east. They’ve some news of our nighttime marauders, and—”

The hawk interrupted him.

“You believe what I say, Gawinn. I can see it in your eyes. Don’t waste words with me any longer. We’ve come to warn Hearne, to warn Tormay of the coming darkness. The sceadu and his hounds murdering in the night was only a herald of things to come. Behind him stands a much deadlier foe. His gaze has been on Tormay for many years and he’s gathering an army in the east, beyond the Morn Mountains. Only the winter snows hold them back. The passes are blocked, but come the thaw, his army will march. They’ll come to Hearne first, and Hearne will fall unless the duchies of Tormay stand with her.”

“Shadows!” burst out Owain. “Yes, maybe I do believe in the Dark, or whatever you want to call it. But you’re spinning quite a yarn. I suppose I’m to mobilize the Guard and warn the duchies just on the strength of a story from a talking bird.” He snorted in disgust. “The regent’ll laugh me out of the castle. And yet, hang it all. You’ve got me.”

“Something’s at the gate,” said Jute nervously. He was still standing by the window, peering out into the night.

“Traders, most likely,” rumbled Bordeall. “Queuing up for the morning.”

Jute shot him a withering look.

“If there are any traders at the gate, then they’re probably dead by now.”

“And who are you?” asked Bordeall mildly.

“He’s the reason why we’re here,” said the hawk. “He’s the anbeorun Windan, the stillpoint of the wind, the lord of the sky, and one of the four guardians of Tormay.”

There was a brief silence in the room, broken only by the crackling of the fire on the hearth. Owain slammed his fist down on the table.

“The stillpoint of the wind,” he said, his face reddening. “Yet another old wives’ tale. Where am I? Back on my mother’s knee, dribbling porridge? That’s even sillier than the Dark. The guardian of the wind, my dead aunt. Huffing and puffing about the sky like a magic watchdog. You had me believing before, but now, Farrow or not, I’ve a mind to throw you out on your ears.”

And at that point, the wind gusted down the chimney in a roar. The fire went out, showering sparks and coals through the darkness. The wind howled about the room. It hurled Owain’s desk against one wall with a splintering crash and knocked him flying into a heap against another. Bordeall went tumbling, head over heels, hollering and cursing. A knife that had been lying on the desk whipped through the air and plunged into the wall planking with a quivering, belling note. Through it all, however, Jute, Declan, and the hawk remained where they were, with not a hair or a feather out of place. As abruptly as it begun, the wind died down. The room was silent. A few coals smoldered on the floor.

“You appear to be bleeding from your forehead,” said the hawk politely. “What was that you were saying?”

Owain Gawinn took them straight to the regent’s castle without any further ado. Guardsmen brought out horses for them, clattering across the stable yards beside the tower. Torchlight gleamed on bits and bridle iron. The horses stamped and tossed their manes, peevish at being rousted out of their warm stalls into the cold night.

“What did you mention about the gate?” said Owain, frowning at Jute. “Someone—something outside?”

“It’s not there anymore.” Jute could only smell the usual and familiar odors of Hearne: the thick scent of the horses, hay, manure, woodsmoke cooling in the air, and all the mixing stink of countless dinners that had recently been cooked and eaten in the surrounding neighborhood. His stomach mumbled in reminder that it had not had its dinner. “At least, I don’t think it is.”

“Not there?” said the hawk. “Then it—whatever it is—is somewhere else.”

“Obviously,” said the ghost from inside Jute’s knapsack. “Aren’t we a genius?”

“What did you say?” asked Owain.

“Nothing. Just, er, coughing.” Jute coughed a few times. “Cold night air.”

“Bordeall, double the watch on the wall.” Owain swung up on top of his horse. “Send a patrol through the streets. Check the docks. Down through Fishgate and up to Highneck Rise. Every two hours. Better safe than not. Right. We’re off to see the regent.”

They clattered off through the dark streets of the city. Jute’s horse proved to have an even bonier back than the farmer’s old gray he had been riding. He hung on grimly and tried not to think unkindly of the creature. Happily enough, he was diverted as he looked about, his eyes falling on old and familiar places. Houses he had burgled. Walls he had climbed. Roofs he had clambered across. Streets and alleys he had wandered through with the other children of the Juggler’s gang. With Lena, the twins, Wrin bumbling along with a smile on his fat, good-natured face. If only the children could see him now. It was good to be home.

Home.

As if he even knew what a home was like. Perhaps he could visit Severan at his house someday? The cottage on the coast. A fireplace and a view of the sea. A bench out in the garden, drenched in sunlight. It sounded restful. Peaceful and quiet. The attractiveness of the thought startled him.