The Wicked Day (5 page)

“The duke Mizra. I’ll be back w’ yer ale.” She nodded and left.

Declan tore the loaf of bread in two and handed half to Jute. The bread was hard, but it softened well enough when dunked in the stew.

“The duke of Mizra,” he said.

They ate in silence, bent over their bowls, which were replenished several times each from the tureen. Hot ale arrived in tankards. The room around them filled with more people as the evening went on. A potboy fed the fire with an armful of wood and the flames spat and crackled with pine pitch. Jute watched him as the boy tossed on one log after another. The fire roared up. The boy turned his head and, for a moment, his eyes met Jute’s. There was something wrong about the shape of his head. It seemed as if it had been crudely made out of clay and had dried misshapen. But perhaps it was only a trick of the flickering firelight. The boy’s eyes slid away, and he scuttled back into the kitchen.

Jute shivered. And then sneezed. He could feel his clothes drying out. His legs ached. He sneezed again.

“I think it wise we stay the night here,” said the hawk from beneath the table. “The health of my charge must be weighed against the concern of our hunt.”

“But we might lose them,” said Declan into his bowl.

“Perhaps. But we know what direction they’re going. We’ll be hard on their heels again in the morning.”

“Please,” said Jute. “I’m tired.”

“I can’t pretend to understand why the duke of Mizra would keep a poor waif with him, unless—” The hawk fell silent.

“Careful, Jute,” said Declan quietly.

“What?” said Jute.

“Where ye from, strangers?”

It was one of the men from the table by the fireplace. He stood behind Jute’s chair, swaying slightly from side to side, a tankard clutched in one hand. He took a drink and wiped his mouth.

“Good evening,” said Declan.

“I asked ye a question now, didna? Where ye from?”

“Oh, no place in particular.” Declan bent his attention back to his supper.

“Well, I shorely dinna take that as a friendly answer. Seein’ how yer strangers an’ all, that ain’t right. But I’m a forgivin’ sort, so howsabout ye buy the house a round an’ we’ll be all right? Howsabout it?”

“Driveling idiot,” said a voice from under the table. It sounded like the ghost.

“Whassat?” said the man, glaring at Jute. “Ye talkin’ ta me, boy?”

“No sir,” said Jute. “I mean, yes, sir! I mean—”

The man clouted Jute on the back of his head. Declan tensed.

“I suggest you go back to your friends,” he said. There was a peculiar edge to his voice. To Jute, it did not even sound like a human voice anymore. It seemed as if he was listening to the scraping of steel being drawn from a sheath.

“An’ if I didna?” jeered the man. “Whatcher gonna do? Throw yer spoon at me?” The man raised his hand again, but the woman Esne jostled against him, a platter of tankards in her hands.

“On the house,” she said. “An’ that’s the last for ye, Ollic, or I’ll be talkin’ ta yer wife in the mornin’ next. Go on with ye.”

The man Ollic snarled and grabbed one of the tankards. He stumbled back to the table by the fireplace. The other two men laughed. The firelight gilded their faces and, when one of them turned his head, it seemed to Jute that his eyes glinted yellow like that of an animal. The man sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

“More ale?” said Esne. She offered the platter to Declan and Jute.

“Why’d you do that?” said Declan.

She looked at him for a moment, her face expressionless.

“I don’t know who you are, stranger,” she said, her voice quiet. “But I know a killer when I see one. Your dinner’s on me. Now, eat up and maybe ye should travel on.”

“The hospitality of Ostfall is unstinting and admirable,” said Declan dryly.

Esne scowled at him. “I have ta live here. Not ye. There’s more ta this town than meets the eye, an’ it ain’t all good. That old drunk Ollic is a pighead fool an’ he dinna like strangers. But he’s a neighbor, an’ I gotta get along with my neighbors, whether I like ‘em or not. Besides, everyone’s related here, one way or the other.”

“My apologies. We’re in your debt. And I think we must intrude even further on your patience. Is there a room for us here tonight?”

She took a deep breath and then nodded reluctantly.

“I wouldna turn a dog out on a night like this. But one night only, ye hear? And ye’ll be away first thing in the morning.”

Esne gave them a room at the end of the hallway on the third floor. She lingered at the door, as if she wanted to say something more. But, after a moment, she nodded good night to them and hurried away. A small window looked out through iron bars onto the roof of the inn’s stable below. The rain slashed down outside. Declan locked the door and then, after wrapping himself in his cloak, stretched out on the floor in front of the door. The hawk emerged from Jute’s knapsack and set about smoothing his feathers.

“Disgraceful,” he said, and then tucked his head beneath his wing and fell asleep.

“Yes, wasn’t it?” said the ghost, appearing.

“And you,” said Declan, levering himself on his elbow. “You’ll keep your mouth shut when I tell you, do you understand? You’d think you’d learn a thing or two after how many hundreds of years.”

“What?” said the ghost. “What did I do? Are you casting doubt on my intelligence, sir? Well, I’ll have you know that—”

“Oh, hush,” said Jute, who had curled up on the one bed in the room (it could hardly be called a bed, as it was only a lumpy pallet of straw) and could barely keep his eyes open by this time. “I’d like to get some sleep.”

“Very well,” said the ghost. “I, er, I’m sorry about your head, Jute.”

“That’s all right. I’ve been hit harder.”

After a while, the room was quiet, the silence disturbed only by the sound of breathing and the rain tapping on the window. The ghost drifted about the room.

“It’s not that I mean to talk all the time,” it said to the sleeping hawk.

“I just can’t help talking,” it said to Declan. “I just can’t.” The man’s hands twitched in his sleep, as if he were grasping a sword or someone’s neck.

The ghost wandered over to Jute’s bed. The boy was frowning as he slept.

“The thing is,” whispered the ghost, “I forget that I’m alive unless I’m talking. Otherwise, what am I? Just a wisp of nothing. Not that I’m alive now. But I was alive, wasn’t I? Sometimes I’m not sure.”

Jute turned uneasily on his bed. He pulled the blanket up to his neck. The ghost sighed.

“You have plenty enough to worry about without bothering over an old ghost.”

The ghost gazed out the window for a while, but there was nothing much to be seen in the dark and the rain. Outside, the wind whispered against the grimy glass, running its fingers through the thatch on the roof and along the cracked gutters.

“A broken heart, that’s what it was,” said the ghost sadly. “I remember now. At least, I think I do. Wars, wizards, kings and queens. The Dark hunting down my trail, desperate to get its hands on that blasted book. Why did I ever write the thing? Despite all of that, it was a broken heart that did for me. She bore him three daughters. My fault entirely, I suppose. I can’t remember her face anymore. Oh, well. No use drinking from empty cups.”

The ghost looked around the room, sighed, and then seeped out through the keyhole.

Declan awoke instantly but did not move. The room was dark. Something had woken him. A slight noise. Something out of the ordinary. He could hear the beat of rain on the roof and pattering against the window, but it had not been that noise. He could hear the rasp of the hawk breathing and, over on the bed, Jute stirring in his sleep, mumbling to himself. No. It had not been any of those sounds. Something else.

And then the sound came again. Right in his ear.

“Declan!”

It was the ghost.

“Blast you, ghost,” Declan said. “If you ever do that again, I swear I’ll—”

“There’re people coming up the stairs,” said the ghost. “Bad people. They don’t look nice. If I wasn’t dead already, I’d be worried.”

“How many?”

“At least three, four, maybe more. They’re on the first flight. I got scared and ran.”

“You’re dead. You shouldn’t be scared.”

“I was scared for you,” said the ghost with dignity.

Declan knelt by Jute’s bed and gently shook the boy’s arm.

“Jute. Wake up.”

The boy’s eyes opened wide.

“Quiet,” said Declan. “I think we have unwelcome visitors.”

“Who is it? Is it the wihht?” Jute grabbed for his knapsack and tied it shut with shaking fingers.

“I don’t know yet. Hurry. Get your coat on.”

“The wihht?” said the ghost. “I don’t think so. I hope not. Just men. I think. There was something strange about some of ‘em, though.”

“Men can be evil enough on their own,” said the hawk. He shook himself once, and then hopped down to the floor. He paused by the door, his head tilted to one side, listening. “A little time left, I think,” said the hawk. “What’ll it be, Farrow? The door or the window?”

“The only one fitting through that window would be you, master hawk.”

“If you please. I don’t fancy trying my wings in these cramped walls.”

Declan pushed the casement out and the hawk hopped up onto the window ledge and was gone.

“Now,” said Declan.

He eased the door open and peered out. No one was there. They tiptoed down the hallway with the ghost drifting after them. The air was sour with years of slovenly housekeeping. When they came near the top of the stairs, Declan crouched down and sidled forward. He crept back to Jute and shook his head.

“They’re at the bottom of the stairs.”

“What do we do?” said Jute. “That’s the only way down.”

Declan did not answer. He tested the handle of the nearest door. It was locked. He produced a piece of wire from his pockets and stooped over the handle. The door eased open silently. He motioned Jute and the ghost inside. The smell of sleep and stale air filled the room. The door closed silently behind Declan, but not silently enough. Perhaps a shift in the air, perhaps the click of the latch locking again; whatever it was, it was enough to wake the sleeper in the bed. The man managed a gasp, which ended abruptly as Declan lunged across the room.

“You didn’t have to hit him that hard,” said Jute.

“Better once than twice,” said Declan.

He stood at the door, his ear pressed to the wood. They waited for what seemed like a horribly long time. Jute expected the door to be broken down, to hear the splintering of wood and shouts and blades glinting in the darkness.

“Stop grinding your teeth together,” said the ghost.

“Sorry.”

“I wish I had teeth,” said the ghost.

Declan turned and glared at both of them. He mouthed something, which was probably “Be quiet, you fools,” but to Jute’s nervous state of mind it looked more like “I’ll cut your throat if you don’t shut up.”

Out in the hallway, a board creaked. They heard a sniffing sound, as if made by someone whose nose was running. A soft sort of snuffle just outside the door. Declan’s hand drifted up to his shoulder, fingers closing around the hilt of his sword. But then there was another creak and the sound of footsteps receding away down the hall.

Declan nodded at Jute.

“All right,” he said. “Out the door and down the stairs. There’s something odd going on here. Odder than just a couple of night marauders. Get out of the inn as fast as you can. Don’t wait for me. If we get separated, I’ll meet you outside of town, at the foot of that waterfall we heard. Ghost, you stay with Jute and keep your mouth shut.”

Declan eased the door open. Further down the hallway, several figures were stealthily creeping toward the room at the end of the hallway. One of them carried a hooded lantern that cast a faint gleam on the floor. It was not much light at all, barely enough to relieve the darkness, but it was enough for Jute to see their knives. He tiptoed away, shoulders hunched and the back of his neck prickling.

Surely they would turn and see him. And the sound. He knew the sound that would happen: the whisper of a knife as it flipped end over end through the air. Surely he would hear it now. But there was only the drum of his own heart in his ears, and Jute slunk down the steps, down into the safety of deeper darkness. He stumbled at the bottom of the stairs, expecting another step, and reached out to steady himself on the wall.

“Careful,” said the ghost.

It was impossible to see. Jute had a vague memory of a landing at the second floor. Several doors on the right. Or were they on the left? Where was the staircase leading down into the inn’s common room? And where was Declan?

Jute crept along the wall. One door. A second door. Someone snoring behind it. A third door, and then an empty space. The stairs. Behind him, something creaked. He froze. The creak was unbearably loud in the silence. He strained his ears, listening to the inn. It was a quiet building, as far as buildings went. Houses built of wood tended to sigh and creak continuously, particularly at night, but stone buildings were mostly silent. The inn was built of stone with a slate roof.