“But they weren’t,” said the Silentman. “The box was opened.”
“What do you mean, my lord?” asked Ronan.
“The box was opened,” repeated the Silentman. His voice, diminished to a rough whisper by whatever magic masked him, was vicious. “It was the simplest of instructions. What am I to do if my most trusted thief, my ablest killer, doesn’t obey me?”
“I didn’t open the thing,” said Ronan, hating the shadowed figure in front of him. “Did I become the Knife to act like a child, to hear words and then forget them?”
“But the boy’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Beyond a doubt,” said Ronan. “He took enough lianol to kill all four of us. He would’ve been dead thirty seconds after I jabbed him. I’d stake my life on it.”
“I might have to take you up on that.”
The words fell into the silence of the room and lay there, heavy and immobile. Torchlight gleamed on Dreccan Gor’s face. His fat jowls glistened with sweat. A dispassionate part of Ronan’s mind observed this with interest. He’s afraid. This fat old man I thought as sturdy and as unmovable as the hill of Highneck Rise. The unshakable Gor fears something. Something that isn’t being said, behind these words and whatever is in the devious mind of our Silentman. Something stands in the shadows behind them.
I’m afraid too.
“My lord?” said Ronan.
His senses tingled raw, poised for sudden movement. He felt the weight of the knife slung around his neck. One second. That’s all it would take to draw and fling the knife. He could already see it buried in the Silentman’s throat. He never missed. But he didn’t know what kind of magic was guarding the man. His fingers twitched once and then were still.
“The box was opened before it reached this court. Of that I’m in no doubt.”
“How do you know this is true, my lord?” said Ronan.
The Silentman waved one hand in irritation. “It was opened. It contained an item of great power and now it’s gone. It was gone before you brought the box here.”
“But you have only the word of your client on this. Perhaps he’s merely—”
“Silence!”
The Silentman rose from his stone chair in fury. Shadow thickened around him, and the torches throughout the hall dimmed as if choked of air.
“You dare question me?” he said. “The box was opened.”
“Not by me,” said Ronan.
“Someone opened the accursed thing!”
Ronan’s thoughts rapidly filled in the answers, the options. There was only one. But it was impossible. The boy’s face, bewildered and frightened and knowing all at once, flashed through his mind. Vanishing down into the darkness of the chimney.
“That means,” said the Silentman, “one of two possibilities. Either the boy opened the box, or you opened it.”
“And,” said Dreccan, “if the boy opened the box, he might still be alive.”
“But the lianol—”
“The lianol would not have killed him if he had opened the box. Whatever was in the box might have—I’m not sure—protected him. Preserved him, perhaps.”
The Silentman pointed a long black arm at Ronan. “One of you opened the box.”
As quickly as the Silentman’s fury had flared, it was gone, damped down and invisible beneath the shadows wreathing his body. But Ronan could hear it vibrating below the surface of the Silentman’s words. Anger welled up within his own mind in answer. His mouth went dry with it and his hands trembled. The anger was tinged with fear. He hated the Silentman, then, as he never had, for having such an effect on him—the Knife, the dreaded enforcer of the Guild.
“There’s magic involved,” said the Silentman, speaking more to himself now than to the three assembled before him. He shifted restlessly on his chair. Shadow drifted around him. “We still don’t know what the box contained. Our client is proving unusually close-mouthed on the subject. There’s the possibility something unusual happened to the boy, as Dreccan said. If he opened the box. I won’t discount that. You’re convinced he’s dead, Ronan. But your certainty puts you in a bad spot. For if he’s dead, that leaves me with few options. You’re hereby stripped of the position of the Knife of the Guild. You’ll confine yourself within the city walls. Leave Hearne and your life is forfeit.”
“I’ll find him,” said Ronan, his voice hoarse. “His body, anything—”
“Get out of my sight,” said the Silentman. His voice was a monotone, as if his mind were already busy somewhere else.
White-faced, Ronan bowed. He turned and walked away. Smede scurried after him. The torches guttered in the hall as the door shut. The Silentman and his steward were alone.
“What are your thoughts, Dreccan?” said the Silentman. His voice was changing. The forced whisper relaxed to the even tones of a man well-bred. The shadows around his form retreated.
“I can’t sleep at night but I hear that thing’s voice whispering,” said Dreccan. “I jump at every shadow and twitch at the slightest noise, thinking that he—that it—will be standing there when I turn. I fear the Guild chose poorly. Magic’s a chancy matter at best, but this thing we’re dealing with is probably something from the distant past, something that was old even before the Midsummer War. I don’t doubt your pet wizard’s capabilities, but this thing is beyond him.”
“Maybe so,” said the Silentman. “But even he could scry the interior of the box and tell that it once contained great power.”
“I think we can assume our client didn’t lie. Whoever opened that box also opened a door that would’ve been best left shut. We don’t know what came crawling through. Our doom, perhaps.”
“The doom of Hearne,” said the Silentman. “It was too much gold to turn down, and you know how empty our coffers are.” He laughed sharply, a harsh bark devoid of mirth. “Perhaps my greed has gotten the better of us all.”
“I find it hard to believe Ronan had any hand in this. He’s been nothing but loyal for thirteen years, and he knows the penalty—as he should, seeing that he’s been the one meting it out.”
“But there are few options before us,” said the Silentman. His fist slammed down on the arm of his chair. “Two people handled that cursed box between the theft and its delivery to us: a boy who could be alive or dead, and a decidedly alive Ronan. What am I supposed to think?”
“We don’t have the boy. Alive or otherwise.”
“True.”
“If Ronan is doing any thinking on this—and I’d bet his entire mind will be grappling with the problem—then he’ll find the boy, if he is to be found. The Knife or not, he’s still the best the Guild has.”
“His salvation is the boy alive, so he must find him. But what will he find?”
“That’s the hinge upon which all else turns.”
“Have him watched.”
“Oh, he’ll be watched,” said the steward. “Never fear. The dogs are already on his scent.”
CHAPTER TWO
THE COUNTRY COMES TO THE CITY
The duke of Dolan’s party crested the rise on the southern edge of the Scarpe and began their descent down into the Rennet valley. The summer rains had been kind to the valley, and it was a lush vision of greenery. The river Rennet lay like a gleaming silver snake below them, sliding through the patchworked fields of corn, hay, and golden barley. To the west, the valley opened out into rolling hills. The city of Hearne rose there, shining in the afternoon sun. High stone walls, white towers proud against the sea beyond, spires threading the sky like so many slender needles. The river flowed past the city to meet the sea below the south wall. But though the city shone bright, the sea shone even brighter—a glittering expanse of blue light that blurred up into the sky.
The wind was hushed on the valley floor, for the heights on either side were greater than they seemed. Everywhere there was the damp scent of loam and the trill of birds. The music of the river drifted up to them in all of its liquid voice.
They made the gates just after
sunset. An officer led them by torchlight through the city streets, winding ever higher toward the Highneck Rise district and the regent’s castle towering over all on its cliff. Their horses clattered over the stone bridge that led into the courtyard of the regent’s castle. Grooms and footmen materialized around them to take possession of horses and baggage. The regent’s steward came bowing down the wide marble steps. Nimman Botrell stood at the top. Torchlight flared around him, pushing back the night.
“Hennen Callas!” the regent called out, smiling. “You and yours are welcome in my house.”
He was tall and had a soft and foolish-looking face, a somewhat stout man with delicate, white hands that would have seemed more fitting for a woman than the regent of Hearne. He was dressed exquisitely in silk and velvet. A fop at casual glance. But only those lacking sense would dismiss Botrell carelessly. Even though his appearance did not inspire confidence, he had ably ruled Hearne for more than three decades, strengthening trade and improving relationships with the duchies.
“Always an honor to have you and your husband, m’lady,” he said, bowing over Melanor Callas’ hand. “It’s been too long. The ladies of Hearne fade in the presence of northern roses such as yourself.”
“I declare, Nimman,” said the duchess. “You do go on.”
“Yes, you do,” said Levoreth, as the regent transferred his attention to her. His lips brushed against the back of her hand like the flutter of a butterfly.
“Ah, Lady Levoreth. You’ll turn the heads of our young noblemen as never before.”
“Perhaps their heads will turn right around until they fall off. An improvement for them all, no doubt.”
“Such beauty. Such fire.” The regent turned to the duke and duchess. “You must be proud of your niece.”
“Oh, rather,” blinked the duke. His wife mouthed something unintelligible and reproving at Levoreth, who scowled at her from behind the regent.
“My steward will show to your rooms,” said the regent. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve some matters to attend to. Details and whatnot for the great ball, you know. So delighted to see you after so long. Hennen, we must talk horses in the morning. I’ve a young colt you should see.”
The castle was magnificent. Even Levoreth, who was never fond of buildings in general, was impressed despite herself. It had been a long time since she had been to Hearne, and she had forgotten. From within a vast anteroom vaulted with stone arches curving overhead, hallways and staircases stretched away in every possible direction, all fashioned of white marble polished to a brilliance glimmering with the light of countless lamps. Servants flitted by on silent feet. Somewhere, an unseen fountain splashed. The steward showed them into a suite of chambers that seemed to extend on forever—door after door opening up into more rooms, a solarium with its glassed-in roof revealing the starry sky, and a kitchen where three servants bowed and smiled and bowed again.
“They will see to your needs,” said the steward.
The three servants smiled, bowed again, and murmured polite noises.
In no time at all, a fire was crackling on the hearth, candles gleamed, and one of the servants whisked in with a platter of bread, cheese, and fruits.
“Perhaps an omelet?” said the duke, but his wife frowned at him.
“It’s much too late,” she said. “Your stomach will rumble all night.”
“A nice, light omelet—”
“Have an apple.”
Levoreth took an apple as well. Her bedroom had a balcony that looked out across the city below. She leaned on the railing and bit into the apple. Lights twinkled in the darkness, past the castle wall. Something trembled in the air, a slight heat and the hush of the wind holding its breath. A storm was coming. She could smell the promise of rain. She closed her eyes. Her thoughts flew far and fast, but there was nothing but darkness and cold and a mist that pressed against her mind.
Something is there. Something evil. Near the mountains. The wolves must hunt alone for a while more. A storm is coming.
Far in the east, thunder rumbled. She went inside and locked the balcony doors.
CHAPTER THREE
THE SHADOW AT THE GATE
Lightning fell far in the east. Whips of white flame lashed out of the gloom of clouds and darkness. The sky was scarred with traceries of fire that burned on a man’s sight for minutes afterward. The air was thick with heat and the taste of metal and the promise of rain. Thunder muttered. It was the only sound in the sky, for there was no wind. The thunder sounded like the growl of some strange beast stalking through the stars and darkness of the sky.
The city of Hearne was oddly deserted that evening, despite the beginning of the Autumn Fair. A few stalls and carts still stood on the cobbles of Mioja Square, but there was no heart in the vendors as they hawked their wares. No one was buying onions or yarns or pottery or any of the other goods. Thunder rumbled, growing in volume as it neared. The last of the barrows trundled away. Along the streets, the shops were shuttered against the night. Only the inns were impervious to the approaching storm, being more crowded than usual as if there was safety in mirth and wine and numbers.
The animals of the city were behaving strangely. The head groom at the regent’s castle walked through the stables, perplexed at the sight of horses stamping nervously in their stalls. One placid old hunter lunged at him over the bars with bared teeth. Down in the Fishgate district, a child’s kitten scratched her and then ran yowling from the house. Dogs crept under beds and refused to come out. Cats disappeared into cellars and attics.
In Nio’s house, the wihht stood up straight in the silence and darkness of the basement. It turned its head ever so slightly from side to side, nostrils flaring as if it were trying to smell something. Its eyes gleamed with a cold, hungry light. Three stories above the wihht, in the comfort of his library, Nio sat reading by candlelight. He stirred uneasily, but it cannot be said whether this was because of what he was reading or something else. In the university ruins, the old scholars did not notice anything unusual. This was understandable, for the magic was so thick about that place that any outside influence would have had a difficult time making itself known.
There were two people in that city, however, who felt the change in the air and knew it for what it was. Levoreth was right in the middle of tightening the stays of her aunt’s dress when she inhaled sharply. For a moment she stood frozen, staring fixedly over her aunt’s head. The girl in the mirror on the wall stared back at her. She did not recognize the face. The skin was pale and the mouth was set in a white-lipped gash. For an instant, the eyes had a blank, startled look to them. But it was only an instant, and then the eyes flickered—they flashed with animal savagery and the skin of her face felt tight and stretched, as if a wolf’s head was emerging up from the planes of her face and gazing through her sockets.
“My dear,” protested the duchess, squirming on the seat in front of her, “that’s much too tight.”
“Sorry,” said Levoreth, and then it was only herself in the mirror on the wall—a tired-looking girl of seventeen.
In the house of Cypmann Galnes, a window was flung open. Liss stared out toward the sea. Far on the horizon, the last sunlight shone, hemmed in by the growing night. Liss turned and went downstairs. Dishes clattered from the kitchen. She opened the door and walked into the warm light and the scent of fresh bread. A fire burned on the hearth. Sanna looked up from the sink.
“It’s going to be a fury of a night,” said the old woman.
“Aye,” said Liss.
She went outside into the garden. It was nearly true night now. The light in the west had faded to a bloody smear of sky. As she watched, it darkened through reds and purples into deep blue-black. Thunder muttered. She stared up at the sky. A frown crossed her face. Her hands curled into fists at her side. The thunder rumbled, nearer and nearer. Abruptly, she flung one arm out, her fingers fluttering open in the air. Then she disappeared back into the house.
It began to rain.
<
br /> The city seemed to sigh in relief as the rain started to fall, as if it had been holding its breath. The thunder still growled, and lightning flickered, but the menace had subsided. In the inns, the laughter grew more genuine and the ale flowed more freely. Throughout the city, dogs crept out from under beds, looking ashamed. The horses in the regent’s stable dropped their heads contentedly to their oats, and in one shabby house in Fishgate, a kitten strolled in through the door, at which point she was promptly scooped up by a small girl, who hugged her tight.
But in Nio’s house, the wihht still stood patiently in the cellar, its head moving from side to side, sniffing at the darkness. Up in the regent’s castle, Levoreth frowned down at her dinner plate. The talk of a glittering assortment of nobles tinkled around her, but she heard none of it. And in the house of Cypmann Galnes, Liss sat motionless at a window. Rain slashed down against the glass and she pressed her hand flat against it. She stared out at the sea.
Old Bordeall stamped down the steps of the gate tower. The rain fell on his shoulders and his white hair. Torchlight bloomed out of the open doorway behind him.
“I’ll leave you to it, Lucan,” he rumbled. “Don’t know what got into me. Sitting down for a good roast and then I felt my bones go cold. Getting old, I guess.” He spat in the mud. “I’ll pay for it when I get back home—cold dinner and no doubt my woman will dose me against the flu.”
“The men’ll be on the walls, sir,” said the young lieutenant. “Rain or not.”
“Keep them on the lookout. Some foolish noble might come straggling out of the night for bed and board at the castle. Wouldn’t do to have them locked out in weather like this.”
“Perhaps Lord Gawinn will return tonight,” said the lieutenant.
“Perhaps.” Bordeall turned and strode away into the rain.
The Shadow at the Gate Page 2
