The Hawk And His Boy

by Christopher Bunn

  Jute lay on his back, his heart hammering against his ribs. After a while, he noticed with horrified fascination that, far below the platform, the stairway was reappearing. The stairs shimmered into view, one by one, mounting higher and higher. The last stair materialized under his fingertips, and he snatched his hand away as if the cold stone would burn him.

  Severan was waiting in his room, perched on the wooden chest.

  “Have an apple,” he said, waving at a pile of withered specimens on the table. He took one for himself and bit into it. Jute picked up an apple and promptly dropped it on the floor. His hands were shaking.

  “Ah,” said Severan. “You found Bevan’s stairway. I felt it vanish. My colleagues also did. We figured it must have been a large and unlucky rat, though I had my suspicions. No one’s ever reached the bottom of those stairs. Alive, that is.”

  “I can’t just stay cooped up in here!” said Jute.

  “It’s either stay cooped up or have the wihht find you,” said the old man. “Or have your neck broken in any number of ways. The wards in this place are deadly. Can you get that through your thick skull?”

  “The stairs vanished right underneath me!”

  “You shouldn’t have been wandering around. I don’t doubt you’re bored, but, trust me, you were lucky. Those stairs killed a lot of people during the Midsummer War. Bevan was an unusually creative wizard. He was the one who figured out how to mask the warning buzz that wards give off. Once he’d discovered that, it wasn’t long before all the best wards in this place were woven for silence. Though—did you hear a tapping noise when you were on the staircase?”

  “Of course,” said Jute. He bit into an apple. “What do you expect me to do? Sit in here until I grow old and die?”

  “Most people would never have heard any tapping, which is how Bevan designed it. However, if you heard it that means you’d probably be able to recognize many of the wards in these ruins, one way or another. So I suppose it would be safe for you to see a bit of the place. Though,” he warned, as Jute’s face brightened, “you must use your wits, which you obviously didn’t do on the staircase.”

  “I’m alive, aren’t I?” said the boy.

  “Next time, if you hear noise, no matter how quiet, get away from that place as fast as possible. Furthermore, don’t go below the ground level and do not go outside, whatever you do. Some of the entrance wards are strong enough to reduce a house to rubble. The wards in this place are much more sophisticated than the variety people buy in the marketplace for their homes and whatnot. Any noise, any movement, changes in color or temperature, even a change in odor—treat them as signs of a ward listening to you.”

  “What if it’s just a mouse scurrying by?” said Jute.

  The old man sighed and reached for another apple.

  “A mouse,” he said. “How I wish the world was that simple. You obviously know nothing about the Midsummer War. If you did, even the mice in this place would give you cause for concern.” He settled back on the wooden chest and began to speak.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  SCUADIMNES AND THE MIDSUMMER WAR

  “Long ago,” said Severan, “all Tormay was united under a monarchy that ruled from the city of Hearne. The duchies of Dolan, Hull, and Thule in the north and those of Vo and Vomaro in the south all gave their allegiance to the king. Harlech, of course, far to the north, minded its own business, as it has always done and always will. The deserts of Harth, beyond Vomaro, gave their loyalty to no one, though the tribe of Oran was beginning to establish itself in those years by seizing control of the oasis trade routes. The duchy of Mizra did not exist in those days.”

  “What?” said Jute, blinking. “Mizra, where all the gold comes from?”

  “Mizra, where all the gold comes from. There’re more important things to know about Mizra than that. The Guild is obviously selective in what it teaches its budding criminals. Mizra, at the time, was a wilderness, east of the mountains of Morn. No one ever went to Mizra and no one ever came from Mizra. Anyway, at the time, the university in Hearne was a center for the study of history and certain other topics. It was a place of wonder, a repository of knowledge so vast that men have never known its like. Students came from every walk of life.”

  “To learn how to be wizards?” said Jute.

  “Not just wizards,” said Severan. “It was a place for scholars as well. Besides, no one learns how to become a wizard. You either are or you aren’t. Wizardry is just a trait like any other trait. Some people are born with the knack of understanding animals or throwing the perfect clay pot or knowing just when to whisk a cake out of the oven. The university taught how to control and refine the trait of wizardry. The trait itself can’t be taught.”

  “But what about ward-weavers?” asked the boy. “Fat old Arcus in Mioja Square offered to take on Wrin as his apprentice, and Wrin’s stupid as a rock. I once gave him a piece of tin and he thought it silver.”

  Severan waved his hand in the air. “You can teach a dog to do tricks if you’re patient and have plenty of bones to keep the rascal happy. Anyone can learn a few bits of wizardry, but it doesn’t mean you’re a wizard. Most modern ward-weaving is tomfoolery and only fit for keeping out rats and mice. As I was saying, er, what was I saying? Oh, yes. The university! The university was a vibrant place, a marvelous mix of the best minds of Tormay. All dedicated—well, mostly all—to preserving knowledge of Tormay’s past and the study of the Dark. For if one does not know the past, one cannot guard against the future.”

  The day was darkening outside. Severan rummaged in the chest and found a candle. He lit it and set on the table. The light flickered on their faces. Shadows trembled on the wall. The old man settled back on his seat and continued.

  “But then an unfortunate thing happened. The old king died. His son, Dol Cynehad, ascended the throne, and the wizard Scuadimnes was appointed advisor to his new majesty. Scuadimnes was the senior archivist at the university, a quiet man of no distinction other than his remarkable memory. It was said that every word in every manuscript of the archive was held within his mind. One need only go to him and ask where might one find a treatise on cloud formations, or hedgetoads, or sicknesses caused by the touch of a lich, and he would select the pertinent work. Plucked, mind you, from thousands of scrolls and scripts and books. No one was sure where Scuadimnes came from originally. Some said Vomaro. Others said that he was a farmer’s son from Hull. Still others said that he came from Harlech, though that’s unlikely, as few wizards have ever come from that land.

  “Scuadimnes set about poisoning the young king’s mind against the university and the wizards. Any power not in the hands of those who rule is found suspect by them. This is a dangerous inclination to exploit. Slowly, Scuadimnes twisted the king’s thinking until he regarded the wizards with suspicion. And then enmity. And then fear. Edicts were proclaimed, limiting new students to only those approved by the king’s council. Taxes were levied on wizards and the practice of the arts on behalf of others. The council of the university did not suspect the involvement of Scuadimnes at the time, for he came to them in those days with honeyed words, protesting his lack of influence over the king and his dismay at the cruelty of the throne.”

  The old man stared at the candle flame.

  “They believed him,” he said. “Even though they must have known. They must have! But it’s easier to pretend all’s well than to awake and confront the Dark.”

  “What happened then?” said the boy.

  “What happened then?” echoed the old man. He sighed. “The Midsummer War is what happened then. It began with murder. The body of Volora Cynehad, the king’s grandmother, was found in her rooms. A harmless old woman who was only important by virtue of who her grandson was. Murdered in a hideous manner that pointed to wizardry of a dark and learned sort. The dean of the university was arrested and died in the royal dungeons under mysterious circumstances. Students were beaten in the streets of Hearne. Mobs tried to break into the univers
ity grounds. The wizards avoided confrontation at first, but the violence spiraled out of hand. It was only a matter of time before the royal army attacked. And attack they did.

  “The deceit of Scuadimnes was then revealed, for many of the younger wizards, students mostly, turned on their peers and masters. Bought long ago by promises of power, they aided the king’s soldiers and transformed the university into a raging battleground of sword and spear and the magic arts. The nights of Hearne were lit up by the eldritch glow of the struggle. Three times, the battered remnant within the university threw their attackers from the school. And in the evening after that last time, an awful sight was seen.”

  “What? What was it?” said the boy. He stared at Severan with wide eyes.

  “The gates of the royal castle were thrown open, and out marched the dead, in row upon row. Warriors and wizards alike, woven back to a strange half-life by the arts of Scuadimnes. Fathers and husbands, sons and brothers, brought back from the grave to fight again. Their wounds gaped, and they bled darkness instead of blood. They called to each other in strange, whistling voices as if the wind spoke through them instead of their own breath. Terror fell on the city. The inhabitants fled. They carried word of the horror through all of Tormay. The duchies mobilized in confusion, readying themselves to march on Hearne, but to what end? To save it from wizards, or to save it from the hand of the king?”

  “And the wizards here in the university?”

  “They died almost to a man,” said the old man sadly. “They died not understanding why. To be faced with the greatest puzzle of their lives and to not be allowed even a hint of the answer was a terrible thing. The genuine wizard is not as interested in the exercise of power as he is in discovering answers. Who was Scuadimnes? How was he able to command the dead? What was his intent?”

  “His intent?” Jute stirred. “Didn’t he gain control of the king?”

  “He did, but it didn’t seem to be his goal. Scuadimnes disappeared after the university was destroyed. The army of the dead wandered the city streets for days, witless and stumbling on limbs that slowed until they no longer moved. And when the armies of the duchies of Tormay arrived at the city gates, they found only the dead—the truly dead—within. Hearne was as a tomb, the silence broken only the harsh cries of the carrion fowl feeding in the streets. Thus it was that the monarchy of Tormay ended. The king’s body was found in the castle. None wasted grief on him, because the land bore a larger grief. A regency was installed in Hearne, and the duchies went their own ways, each seeing to their lands and no longer giving fealty to Hearne. And so the years have come to our times and our own regent, Nimman Botrell.”

  “But what does this mean for Mizra?” said the boy. “You said the duchy there had something to do with the Midsummer War.”

  “Excellent. Listening is the first step on a long road.”

  “The first step on a long road to what?” asked Jute.

  “Wherever it is you’re going, of course. Ah, Mizra! What a strange land it is! They say a traveler can, in a single day, traverse from icy crags to deep canyons where smoke rises from crevices in the ground and the earth is warmed by the fires smoldering far below the surface. As I said, no one lived there before the Midsummer War. It was considered a dangerous, inhospitable land. After the war, however, some of the king’s court found refuge there, and the duchy of Mizra was born. There was a sort of humor to the matter, for it was the king’s treasurer, Maom Gifernes, who found gold there in the spot where the city of Ancalon now stands. His family has held sway there ever since. Brond Gifernes rules today in Ancalon. He’s an able lord, despite his youth—so they say—but I’ve never been to his land.”

  “When I was in the basement,” said the boy, “that thing—was it something like the dead warriors of, of —”

  “Scuadimnes?” The old man paused, as if reluctant to answer.

  “Was it the same? He told me what he did as he fashioned it, calling down into the sewers. He told me it was darkness and water woven together and that anything fashioned with darkness would cause pain. Four things, he said. Any of four things with darkness. Fire and water, earth and air.”

  Severan nodded. “I don’t think Nio capable of the dark arts of Scuadimnes, but the shadow behind such men remains the same. It’s always the same. Forcing fire, earth, water, or air to join with darkness can only result in evil. Those four things are the materials of the four ancient anbeorun, the four stillpoints around which all life revolves. They were created to stand against the Dark, so how then can they be forced into union with their enemy? They are a bulwark against evil and have always been beyond the understanding of man. Even the wizards know little of the anbeorun, though certain small things have been discovered. It’s said there exists a book called the Gerecednes, that it contains knowledge of the anbeorun, but this is only what some believe. Legend says that the Gerecednes is a wonder, a book so fascinating that anyone would be content to sit and read it forever.” He sighed. “Finding that book is the main reason my fellow scholars and I came to these ruins.”

  “What about Nio? Does he search here as well?”

  Severan nodded reluctantly. “He’s a man of letters, a scholar of history and things lost. I can’t bar him from this place, for he was one of our original company when we struck our deal with Nimman Botrell, the regent of your city, five years ago. He has the right to enter here. But the university grounds are huge. None of my peers know of this room here and this area of halls. I really wouldn’t worry about Nio. The air here is jumbled with the memories and currents of magic. It would be impossible to find the one faint thread that is you in this vast place.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  THE GOOSE AND GOLD

  Nio, of course, did not find Jute down by the docks. It had been a foolish idea. In his haste, he had not considered the fact that it took a good half hour to hurry from the university to the docks. By the time he reached the wharf, there was no sign of Jute. This sent him into a rage, and he spent the rest of the day cursing and stamping about his house. It was only later that he recalled what the wihht had told him. There were other avenues to investigate. What had the wihht said? Something about an inn the Thieves Guild patronized. The Goose and Gold. He hurried downstairs, shrugged on his cloak, and slammed out the door.

  It took Nio a vexing amount of time to find the inn, for as with Fishgate it also was in an area of the city where he rarely went. He should have had the wihht explain the location with more detail. The inn was situated on a street called Stalu, which was ironic, as the word referred to the business of robbery. Not in one of the ancient languages, of course, but in an old trade language fallen into disuse about two hundred years ago. A wooden sign hung above the inn’s door. It showed a golden goose on a black field. The paint was faded and peeling.

  How interesting. He could sense the usual confusion of ward spells around him. Weak and badly woven—fitting quality for such a neighborhood. Spelled into doors, windows, gates, and walls. About as sturdy as spider webs and just as easy to brush away. The curious thing was that there was a very powerful ward in one place, hidden behind shabbier wards. Intrigued, Nio let his mind drift out, feathering past the layer of cheaper wards. He ran a mental finger over the closest loop of the ward. Impressive. Old, subtle, and so cunningly woven that he could not find any loose ends in the weaving. It wasn’t work he recognized. Not many wizards would be capable of such a thing. He withdrew his mind as soon as the ward woke to his presence—woke—wards weren’t sentient the way a man is, but the better wards did seem alive.

  He looked about to see where the ward was situated. It was a shabby house, a three-story affair several doors down from the Goose and Gold and on the opposite side of the street. Broken shutters, stone walls grayed and pitted by the years gone by, and a slate roof pocked with missing tiles. Not the sort of place one would think necessary to guard. But someone obviously did and had the money to do so. Nio had been many times to the Highneck Rise district—dinne
rs or soirees put on by bored nobility who thought to amuse themselves with the scholars grubbing about in the university ruins. But even there, in the richest neighborhood of the city, one would not find a ward like the one guarding the old house.

  He would return to investigate on another day. He was always hungry to learn. He wondered what demanded such protection. But not today. There was a box and a boy to hunt, a fat man and a master thief to find, and the trail of the Guild to sniff along until it led him to whoever—or a whatever—had commissioned the theft.

  A whatever.

  Where had that thought come from? The histories mentioned other beings who once lived in these lands—Tormay, and the older countries lost in the east centuries ago. Beings other than the ogres and giants and dragons and such that existed uneasily on the fringes of man’s civilization. For some reason, the image of the sceadu staring from the mosaic sprang into his mind.

  Nio muttered a few words under his breath, and then opened the door of the Goose and Gold. He had an impression of shadow and odors of food and ale and tobacco, but then his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Men sat around tables, busy at their lunch and busier at their ale. A fire crackled on the hearth. Stairs rose up on one side to a second floor. Lodging available for travelers, no doubt. Grime blackened the timbers in the ceiling. The rumble of conversation lulled when he entered, but it picked up again. He nodded to himself, satisfied. The obscuring worked. It was a minor weaving, but one he had never tested before.

  He sat down at a small table in one corner and looked around. From the looks of the clientele, the inn was favored by the rank and file of the Thieves Guild, and not their masters. To Nio’s eye, everyone seemed on the oafish side. Pig-eyed, thick-necked dolts with fat hands and small heads. He had trouble imagining anyone in the room burgling a house successfully, let alone stealing their grandmother’s eggs.