Fen looked up. Her vision was dizzy and muddled with white spots blooming in the darkness. Long, thin, curving spikes obscured most of what she saw. Red eyes glared down at her from high overhead. There was intelligence in them, assessing and weighing the situation.
She tried to get up, but the instant she moved her leg, she almost blacked out from the pain. One of the spikes sprouted from her thigh like the tendril of an obscene plant, transformed into steel and slick with blood. She had fallen between the spikes of the harrow. They rose up around her, protecting her, claiming her for their own, anointed with her blood like some strange, ancient altar of thorns.
Dimly, from far away, she heard a whistle. Darkness claimed her and she knew no more.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DARKNESS AND WATER
Jute woke to find himself alone in the room. A candle guttered on the table, melted down almost to its base. As there was no window, he was not sure how much time had passed. An hour? Another day? He tested his limbs. They ached, but no worse than a beating from the Juggler. He sat up and almost passed out. Dizzily, he forced himself to his feet.
Trust no one.
He glanced around, startled. But there was no one in the room, only the voice inside his head.
Trust no one.
“Even you?” he said. “Who are you?”
There was no answer. He tiptoed to the door, pressed his ear to the wood, and listened. Every house has its own sounds: the sigh of wood beams shifting slightly under the onslaught of wind and sunlight and time, the creak of a stone fireplace cooling around embers, the scrape of tree branches against a window, the stately tick of clocks. And then there are the human sounds: voices, footfalls on stairs and hall floorboards, the settle of a body’s weight into beds or chairs, and the whisper of knives in the kitchen, punctuated by clattering pots and pans.
But there was nothing at all. Jute strained to listen, but there was only silence. He was afraid, for the silence held an anticipation, not unlike a ward—a coiled expectancy seeking its moment of violent release. He touched the door handle, expecting the tremble of a ward spell infused through the iron. There was nothing. However, the door was locked.
He turned out his pockets, but he did not even have a bit of fluff, let alone a piece of wire. Someone had emptied them. He frowned at that, for he had a habit of keeping his pockets stuffed full of interesting things that he collected: perhaps a polished mouse skull, some walnuts if he felt hungry, a ball of string, the remains of an expired ward that Lena had proudly given him, and always a piece of wire. But his pockets were empty now.
He examined the bed, but it had been made by a craftsman with no love of metal, for there was not a single nail in its frame. The chair Severan had sat in and the table by the door were no better. They looked to have been built by the same hands—notched and grooved with wooden joints.
The candle. It sat on a copper plate. Wax had run down and built up on the metal in draperies. The candle would not come unstuck from the plate when he tried twisting it, and he ended up splashing hot wax on his fingers. The flame went out, plunging the room into darkness.
He did not mind darkness. He never had, even when the Juggler had locked him in the basement for the first time. That had been years ago. He had been smart enough then, as a young child, to pretend terror and tears for the Juggler’s satisfaction. Being locked in the dark had become the Juggler’s favorite punishment for him. That and beating him. He’d choose the darkness over a beating any day.
Never mind that now. The candle.
He froze, unsure if the voice was sounding within the room or from within his head. The skin prickled on the back of his neck.
“Who are you?” he said.
I told you before, boy. There’ll be time for that later.
The voice subsided into silence. Jute shivered, despite the stuffy air in the room. The candle came away from the plate in his hand in one wrench. His fingers found what he hoped for: a metal spike protruding from the center of the copper plate, ideal for impaling candles. Ideal for picking a lock. He bent the spike back and forth until it broke free from the plate.
It took him a while to pick the lock, for his hands were shaking so badly that he dropped the spike twice and had to fumble in the dark for it. But the tumblers of the lock were simple, and the door creaked open.
A glow flooded into the room. He peeked out into a gloomy hallway stretching into shadows on either side. High on the wall hung a lamp glimmering with pale light. The light flickered as if something moved behind the glass. A dark spot appeared on the lamp and then grew outward, no thicker than his finger, wavering toward Jute. He slammed the door shut.
An understandable response, but too late.
“What was that?”
A very nasty spell. Run!
Jute flung the door open and darted out into the hall. He had one glimpse of rippling, black tendrils wriggling toward him, with the lamplight streaming from their midst. But then he was running down the hall and into the shadows. A flight of stairs. His foot slipped on the first step and he caught at the banister to steady himself.
The stairway descended down into a high-ceilinged chamber shrouded in shadows. There was no way to tell whether someone or something lurked below, but Jute didn’t care. He hurtled down the steps in panic. He turned at the bottom of the stairs and looked back up. A light shone at the top, and then a dark blotch spilled like fog over the highest stair. With a whimper, Jute plunged away into the darkness.
He tripped over a chair and fell. Bit his tongue and tasted blood in his mouth. He stumbled to his feet, disoriented. Felt the smooth wooden top of a table and skirted it. The shadows were thickening into almost discernable shapes. The moon bloomed through one water-streaked window. It was raining outside. Behind him, the sea of darkness flowed down from the last step and surged forward. Frantically, he looked around for a door.
“Dispel!” said a voice. The darkness vanished and ordinary shadow reclaimed the room. Two quick steps sounded and a hand grabbed Jute by the throat. He found himself staring up into Nio’s face.
“How’d you get out?” said the man.
Jute could not answer. Nio’s fingers tightened around his throat, choking him.
“I want answers,” Nio said. “Now. Tonight. If I have to flay them from your flesh, one by one. I can’t wait any longer on the qualms of my tiresome old friend.”
Nio dragged him down a flight of stairs into a cellar. Water dripped from the stone walls onto a floor of mud and broken flagstones. The man flung him to the ground.
“The wind blows us where it wills,” he said, his voice harsh. “There’s no stopping it, no matter how we duck and hide.”
He strode to the far end of the room, stooped over the ground, and levered up a grate set into the floor.
“Come here, boy,” he said.
Trembling, Jute crept closer. The man grabbed him, once he was within reach, and pulled him to the edge of the hole. It was rimmed in stone and revealed a well of darkness. The noise of rushing water echoed up from far below.
“What do you see?” said the man.
“Nothing,” said Jute, his voice shaking. “Darkness.”
“Aye,” Nio said. “Darkness. And there’s water as well. Both restless and both in abundance. A quick lesson in wizardry, boy. Much of it is only the manipulation of what already is, of naming things and calling their essence, their feorh, to heel. In air, water, earth, and fire are the four ancient feorh—the stuff of creation itself—though there is a fifth of an even more ancient sort in darkness. When any of the four mix with darkness, there is unrest and pain.”
The man spoke into the hole, three words of a strange language. The sound of rushing water stilled for a moment and then something rose up from the hole in the ground. It was the figure of a man, a grotesque parody with limbs that moved oddly, as if they had extra joints. It was formed out of water and darkness that swirled together. Gaps opened and closed in it with wet, sucking sounds
. A chill exuded from its dark substance.
The man spoke again, a sentence in the same strange-sounding language, and the thing moved. It shambled straight at Jute. The boy stumbled away, scrabbling against the mud and flagstones for balance. The thing did not seem to move quickly, but wherever he turned it was there, sprouting extra fingers and limbs to hedge him in. Nio watched, his face expressionless.
The thing cornered Jute against the wall and descended on him in a dark, watery wave. He screamed, but immediately choked on water. Ice crept into him, soaking into his body. His bones ached with the cold. He could hardly move, even though he frantically strained to thrash his arms and legs. He could not breathe. He was weighed down, drowning. Darkness welled into his mind.
Nio snapped a word, and Jute felt air on his face, as if he had surfaced from being deep under water. He gagged.
“You’ll talk, and talk freely,” said the man. “This thing is hungry and wishes to feed.”
“Yes, yes!” sobbed Jute. “Please take it away!”
“Not just yet.” The thing tightened its grip on Jute. It was as if an icy hand held his entire body and was constricting its fingers. His limbs were numb.
“I would learn of you, boy.”
Through a haze of pain, Jute heard himself begin to speak. Words tumbled out, one after another. Disjointed phrases gasped. Hissed through clenched teeth. Sobbed. His life was ripped from him, word by word.
Early faded memories of Hearne. The face of a woman who he himself had not even remembered. He clutched at the memory, frantic to examine her face for a second more, but the memory was gone, washed away by the pull of Nio’s will. A summer sky with a hawk circling far overhead. The jumble of city streets and alleyways, mapped in his mind into impressions of angles, distance, time. This wall was climbable, this one was not. This door here never locked properly. Shops, taverns, and houses. The passing gilt carriages of the titled and wealthy. Faces of children. Lena and the twins. Dirty, tearful, laughing, cringing in fear. Hungry. Always hungry. Shadows.
Dimly, he was aware of Nio sorting through his memories, pausing on some but discarding most as quickly as they came up. An image of the Juggler floated to the surface—the first time he had met him, running down an alleyway from an irate shopkeeper. Nio seized on the memory. Questions came quickly, and Jute heard himself begin to speak of recent years.
The Juggler. Hunched over his kidney and onions every morning in the Goose and Gold. Stinking like a brewery. Malevolently eyeing his children—his imps if in a good mood, the shadowspawn if in a bad mood, blows and curses if drunk—as they slunk past him for another day of lifting purses in Highneck Rise. Another day in the markets and streets of the city.
The Thieves Guild. A grimace crossed Nio’s face.
Careful.
Just as quickly as it had come, the voice was gone.
“The Juggler works for the Thieves Guild?”
Jute could not help himself. His voice continued, numb with hopelessness and the cold. The Thieves Guild. The little man named Smede who came every Sunday afternoon and drank a mug of ale with the Juggler and then took away a pouch of gold and silver. The fear on the Juggler’s face. Whispers among the children. Memories of the older ones who left the Juggler’s ranks to work for the smashers or the men who ran the docks. Or the few who went higher on the hill. Highneck Rise. Somewhere, it was rumored, somewhere higher on the hill of Hearne, there lived the Silentman, the head of the Thieves Guild. He ruled from a court hidden beneath the city streets. The Court of the Guild.
“Was this job for the Silentman?”
Yes.
Nio’s eyes glittered in triumph.
“How do you know that?”
Ronan of Aum. The Knife. The hand of the Silentman. Walking through the door of the Goose and Gold. Silence falling over the room, followed by nervous chatter, glances flicking at the man dressed in black. The Knife. The Juggler’s face slack with fear. Sitting at a table with morning sunlight slanting down. The Juggler’s hand on his shoulder, forcing him forward. The Knife staring at him, leaning forward. A plate of bread and cheese going stale on the table between them. The details. Gone over again and again. The manor. Up a wall, down a chimney, into a sleeping house guarded by ward spells.
No matter, the Juggler had said. Jute can handle wards. He’s silent.
“He knew the house,” said Nio, grinding his teeth together. “How could that be?”
Once inside the hall, the door at the far end. Up the stairs and into a small room. That’s where the box is. Somewhere in that room. It isn’t a large place so it shouldn’t be difficult to find the thing. Somewhere inside, a box the length of a forearm, made of black mahogany as hard as stone and fastened with catch and hinges of silver. A hawk’s head carved on top, with the moon and the sun rising and setting behind. And if you open the thing, it’ll be my knife in your gullet. Just stow it in your bag and back up the chimney with you.
Careful.
Nio hissed and spun away from the boy. “By the Dark!” he said. “Who has undone me?!” He turned back to Jute, his face twisted with anger. “Did you open the box!?”
Careful.
No. He told me he would kill me if I did. Kill me. He did kill me.
“Did he tell you what was inside the box?”
No.
“What did you do after you found the box?”
Back down the stairs. Step by step by step. Back through the sleeping house. Tiptoeing silent as a mouse. Up the chimney toward the man waiting on the roof. But he wouldn’t let me up. Darkness was creeping up the chimney after me. He made me hand the box up first. He took it away from me. And then the poisoned needle. And darkness. I fell.
“You’ve told me everything, boy?” Nio’s face was inches away from his own.
Yes.
Yes.
The man snapped a word and the horrible, cold grip released him. Jute collapsed on the ground and sobbed with relief. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the darkness of the thing subside beside him. Jute crawled forward. His body ached. The thing beside him kept pace. He could hear Nio stalking back and forth, muttering to himself and sometimes addressing the boy.
“What shall I do with you now?” said the man.
Jute heard his footsteps crunching this way and that on the broken flagstones.
“I realize you were just a tool, but you pose a problem for me. But how could they have known? No one else knew except for my fellow scholars, and it’s unthinkable they would consort with the Thieves Guild. Unthinkable! What would the Guild want with it except for money? They must have been hired—but by whom? You know too much, boy, whether you realize that or not. We can’t have that. Besides, I think our friend here is hungry, in his own peculiar way. Perhaps that will be best for all involved.”
A wet tendril of darkness wavered out from the thing next to Jute and licked at him. He shied away from it, crawling forward mindlessly. His bones ached. A memory of sky faded through his mind. The summer sky of long ago, when he was a small child. His first memory. A hawk floated far overhead, black and remote against the expanse.
“The problem with the Guild,” said Nio, “is they consider themselves free of any obligation to Tormay. To any of the lands of Tormay. Do you understand the repellence of that? Those who live in Tormay are obligated to Tormay, and this—this box that you stole—involves obligation of the highest sort. If the Guild was hired, they could’ve been hired by anyone. Anyone with enough gold to satisfy the Silentman. The fool! But who could have known? A secret uncovered at the cost of many years! Who is my enemy? Is my shadow conspiring against me?”
Jute felt a different sort of stone underneath his fingertips. He inched forward. The darkness in the cellar seemed to be growing thicker. He could not see. The thing shambling next to him muttered damply.
“Our friend grows impatient.” The footsteps turned and Nio’s voice sharpened. “Boy!”
Jute’s fingers reached into space. The hole in the floor. A s
tench of rotting sewage filled his nostrils. Nio called out a phrase—words that flung themselves through the air. The thing of water and darkness reached out a dripping hand toward Jute. And the boy threw himself forward, down into the hole. Behind him, he heard a wet gibbering and the furious shout of the man.
He splashed down into swiftly coursing water and was swept under. Tumbling around, he banged his head against stone. He bobbed up to the surface, choking and spitting. The roar of the torrent was in his ears. It was all he could do to keep his head above water. The rains, he thought dazedly. All the early rains. Summer has barely ended. Such strange weather.
He almost blacked out when the current slammed him into a stone bulwark that split the flow into two channels. His body spun off into the left-hand channel. The course angled down sharply, and he found himself careening along at a tremendous speed. Years of flow had worn the stonework of the sewers smooth and, even though he tried to slow himself, he could not gain any purchase on the sides of the channel. The current swept him under again.
I’m going to die, he thought.
No. For once, the voice sounded anxious.
Hold on.
Why?
Faster and faster now. There was no time for thought anymore. He fought his way to the surface for a gulp of air, and then the last of his strength was gone. Resigned, he curled himself into a ball, face tucked between his knees and hands laced around his ankles. Lights flared in his head—blots of scarlet and white pulsing with the beat of his heart. His lungs burned.
Hold on.
I can’t.
You can.
It’s always been like this.
What has?
Life.
Not anymore.
All at once, the sounds changed. Another sort of roar presented itself. The rhythmic surge of the surf. Growing louder. His mind groped to understand. The sea? And then he was tumbling through the air. Air. Rushing around him. His mouth flew open from sheer surprise and he sucked in cool air. He had one instant of a spinning view of the night sky, speckled with stars and ribboned with clouds. The moon stared down, her light gleaming on the sea and trailing off toward a horizon where dark sky and even darker sea met.
The Hawk And His Boy Page 4
