The lieutenant was pleased to have the watch for the night. He was young, just nineteen, and was rarely given the opportunity to command an entire watch. He would have never said it out loud, but he privately thought that he could command a troop just as well as someone like old Bordeall. He imagined Lord Gawinn riding in out of the night on his watch. A smile crossed his face as his men’s spears flashed inside his mind—a perfectly executed salute for the Lord Captain of the Guard, protector of Hearne and keeper of the regent’s word.
“Bar the gate!” he said. “Secure the city for the night!”
The older soldiers at the gate exchanged grins as they pushed the massive gate shut. The enormous weight of oak and iron groaned on its hinges as it swung around. The gate was easily the height of three tall men, and four horsemen could ride abreast through its stone arch. With a boom, the gate settled against its iron frame. The crossbeams were dropped into place. A couple of urchins watched, sheltering from the rain under the tower overhang.
“Gate’s barred, sir,” said one of the soldiers.
“Very good,” said the lieutenant, and he vanished up the tower steps.
“Go on with you,” said the soldier, making a half-hearted run at the urchins. “Get on home to your mothers. This ain’t a night to be out in.” The children scattered, jeering, lazily evading him and then returning to settle in the dry comfort of their spot.
The night grew deeper. Lightning flashed in the upper reaches of the Rennet valley. The rain fell so heavily that everything was reduced to an indistinguishable blur. The hard-edged shapes of the city—walls, roofs, towers, arches, spires—every corner and line and angle was reduced to impressions of darkness and depth. On the north side of Hearne, the city wall ended at a tower that stood on the heights of the cliffs plunging down to the sea below. A walk on top of the parapet from that tower to the tower beside the main gate at the eastern edge of the city took one hour. Proceeding along the parapet from the tower gate to the third wall tower standing at the southernmost edge of Hearne, looming over the sprawl of the Fishgate district and the outward curved arm of the bay, took another hour. That night, however, as a tribute to the miserable weather, the soldiers of the Guard walked each route in less than forty minutes, hurrying along, shoulders hunched against the rain and flinching at every lightning flash. They did not waste time to gaze out across the parapet’s edge. Even if they had bothered to look out across the valley toward the Rennet Gap, they would have seen nothing except darkness and rain.
It happened at the third hour after midnight. The parapet door of the gate tower opened and light spilled out into the darkness. It gleamed on the falling rain and the wet stone. The lieutenant, young Lucan, emerged and looked out. He was looking the wrong way, however, for he gazed out across the rooftops of the city. Smoke curled from his mouth as he puffed contentedly on a pipe. The door closed again behind him. Several lengths down the wall, something stirred in the darkness. The air grew even colder than it already was. It was a dark night, but the thing creeping over the parapet’s edge was darker still. If Lucan had remained at the door, if he had turned to look in that direction, he would have been hard pressed to see much beyond a blur of shadow standing on top of the wall. But he had gone inside, content that the city was in his capable hands—content with all the self-assuredness of youth. He was blissfully unaware he had cheated death by several seconds.
The thing on top of the wall stood motionless for a moment. It was the shape and size of a man, but no man could have climbed the outside wall, for it was forty feet in height and constructed of perfectly joined stones. Even the most accomplished thief in the Guild would have considered the city wall beyond his skill.
In one fluid movement, the form jumped off the wall. It fell through the air slowly. If it had been a huge bird with outstretched wings then the peculiar descent would have made sense. But the thing was not a bird and it did not have wings, only a black cloak that drifted about as it fell. The form landed silently on the cobblestones below. It drew the cloak about its shoulders and then strode away into the city, looking for all purposes like a man.
Inside the regent’s castle, Dreccan Gor hurried along a corridor. He was sweating and the torch he clutched seemed to dance and tremble with a life all of its own. A sleepy guard slouched outside a door came to startled attention at his approach.
“Sir,” said the guard, half in question, half in respect. Gor brushed past him without a word, and opened the door. He locked it behind him and then stood in the darkness, trying to assemble his scattered thoughts and catch his breath.
“Who’s there?”
On his best nights, the Silentman slept poorly. He sat up in bed and the torchlight fell across his face, pooling shadow in his eyes.
“Gor, my lord,” said the steward.
“I trust there’s some reason for this?” A candle flared to life in the Silentman’s hands, revealing the hands of an ivory clock on a stand next to his bed. The hands pointed to four hours past midnight. The steward came and stood by the edge of the bed. His face was drawn.
“We have a visitor.”
“Oh?” said the Silentman. He did not think much of visitors at four in the morning.
“It’s him.”
“Stone and shadow,” muttered the Silentman. “I was hoping he’d never return. That he’d become another bad memory. Stupid, I know. How did we get into this accursed mess?”
“We took the job,” said Gor wretchedly. “We took his gold.”
“Aye, we did.”
“He seems to be in a bad mood. Worse than last time.”
The Silentman dressed hurriedly. He wore a silver chain around his neck, engraved with interwoven whorls. He rubbed the necklace between his fingers and muttered a few words under his breath. The light around him dimmed until a shadow wreathed around his face, hiding his features.
“Send for the Knife,” said the Silentman. His voice was roughened to a deep whisper by the concealment ward. “Immediately. If our guest is upset, then I want a scapegoat. Send Ronan word and then join me in the court.”
“Very well, my lord,” said the steward. His voice was unhappy.
The Silentman walked over to a tapestry hanging on the wall and placed his hand on it. The cloth depicted a hunt—horsemen with spears and bows pursuing a menagerie of beasts. Wolves, bears, and stag ran alongside griffins and unicorns. A dragon encircled the scene with his long tail, threatening both beast and man alike. The hanging quivered, and the depiction writhed into a hideous nonsense of lines. Only the dragon’s tail remained, curving and sliding endlessly over itself. The Silentman walked into the swirling cloth and disappeared.
He swallowed hard to dispel the nausea the transfer always induced. The job had been so straightforward. A simple theft from a house that was virtually unguarded. It could not have been easier. And yet the Knife, the ablest man he had in the entire Guild, had fumbled the job. Everything had gone wrong. But who was at fault? Ronan, or the boy, whatever his name was. Whatever his name had been. The Juggler would know, but he had heard the fat man had disappeared.
The Silentman hurried down a flight of stairs. Halfway down, he paused. A door built into the wall swung open at his touch. It opened into a chamber crowded with chests of all sizes. Shelves sagged under the weight of bags bulging with coins and jewels, stacks of old books, and ingots of gold. On the top shelf was the wooden box. The door at the bottom of the stairs opened to reveal torches burning along a passage. His shadow wavered along like an elongated, grotesque caricature. He swallowed. He wished he had a drink. A good, stiff gulp of brandy.
When the Silentman entered his courtroom, he thought for a moment that he was alone. The torches high on the walls burned with their blue fire. Shadow stretched away from the rows of pillars running the length of the hall. The place was silent. But then he knew, somehow, that someone was there. The back of his neck pricked. The air felt colder than usual. He stepped up onto the dais and tried to still the tremble in h
is hands. The box was heavy in his arms.
“Hello?” he said, his voice shaking. He sat down on the stone throne. The room was silent. “Welcome to the court of the Silentman,” he said.
Still, there was only silence. He furtively looked at the door at the far end of the hall. Perhaps Dreccan would walk through at that moment. He’d even be glad to see Ronan, and his fist curled convulsively at the thought. The Knife would pay for this.
“Your court?”
The air in front of him shimmered. Before he could even blink, the figure stood before him—short and stooped, shrouded in a cloak. The torches burning beside the throne threw a long shadow that stretched out behind the figure. The shadow trembled as the torches flickered, but the figure did not move. The Silentman tried to lick his lips but his mouth was too dry.
“You’ll rule dust and ruin,” said the figure, “if you haven’t found the person who opened the box. Where is he? It will go poorly for you if he isn’t here.”
“He’s just coming now,” said the Silentman. “Almost here, I’m sure.”
“It would be better for you if the wretch were already here. My master has come, and it isn’t wise to keep him waiting.” The little figure gave a horrible laugh that somehow ended up more as a gasp of pain.
“Oh, he’s arrived?” The Silentman could not suppress a shiver. “Is this his first time to Hearne? The weather’s been unseasonable lately. Quite a lot of rain. Still, it’s a pleasant city. Will he be joining us?”
The figure did not say anything.
“I’m sorry about the wait,” said the Silentman, but then he stopped speaking.
The shadow behind the little figure was growing. The shadow stretched and thickened and gained form. It stood up. It was tall, taller than most men. Torchlight fell across thin features that emerged out of the shadow like a corpse surfacing from water. A hand like a pale spider materialized and drifted up to the face. The fingers briefly played across the white skin of its features as if to check if they were all there. The jaws opened in the parody of a smile. They opened much too wide for any man.
“So.”
The creature spoke in a hoarse whisper, so quiet that the Silentman could barely hear it. He could not stop his teeth from chattering. The air was cold.
“So, this is the thief lord.”
The thing moved forward. It seemed to drift rather than walk.
“Give me the box.”
“It was opened,” said the Silentman. He could barely speak the words. “It was opened, my lord.”
“I know, thief. Even so, give me the box.”
The Silentman could not hand the box down to the creature. His limbs ached with the cold. The blue flames of the torches in the hall seemed frozen into strange, sapphire gems carved into the impossible shape of fire. The box fell from his hands onto the dais. The creature did not move, but suddenly the box was in its hands.
“No weight to it,” said the creature. “It was opened and the weight inside is gone. But your debt is heavy, thief. Heavier than you will ever know.”
Behind the creature, the little cloaked figure stood motionless. Its hood was tilted toward the Silentman but he could see no face within, only darkness. The creature held the box delicately. The Silentman could feel his heart thudding against his ribs. Slowly, the fingers crept across the carving of the hawk. The latch clicked open and light gleamed on the knife resting within. The cracked gemstone set in the handle shone dully. One finger caressed the blade.
“Old iron,” said the creature. “Old iron, but an even older stone. Once it was so very old and precious beyond compare. But someone touched it. Someone stole the weight right out of it.”
The hall, already cold, grew colder still. The Silentman could not feel his hands or his feet. The box fell to the floor and shattered. The creature turned the knife over in its hands. It looked up at the Silentman.
“This blade drew blood,” it said. “Several days ago. I can still smell it.”
“W-we have the man,” stammered the Silentman.
“There are worse things than death, thief.”
To his horror, the Silentman realized the creature’s eyes were not like the eyes of a man. They were pits of shadow, as if the sockets of a skull. A red light flickered in the center of each. The Silentman could not look away from that awful stare. At that moment, the door at the end of the hall opened. The creature turned at the sound. Dreccan Gor and Ronan stood there. The Silentman was pathetically grateful for the interruption—abjectly grateful to be out from under those eyes, even for a moment. Ronan’s face was a study in bewilderment and suspicion, while Gor looked terrified.
As terrified as I am, thought the Silentman.
The pair’s steps lagged as they came closer. The thing waited at the foot of the dais. Darkness deepened in the hall, thickening until it was a presence—a vapor drifting through the air like smoke. It was difficult to breathe. The two men stopped.
“Come closer,” said the thing.
Neither of the men moved. The creature raised a hand and beckoned. Both men staggered forward, taking awkward, jerky steps as if they no longer had control over their limbs. Ronan’s face was twisted in hopeless effort.
“Closer.”
They stumbled to within a step of him and then halted.
“The fat one is nothing, master,” said the little figure. “A puppet of the thief lord.”
The thin face tilted to one side, examining Gor and then discarded him as unworthy of attention. The strange eyes flicked to Ronan. A hand rose and drifted through the air in front of Ronan’s face.
“This one,” said the creature.
The cold knifed through Ronan. It felt as if an iron band was constricting around his chest. Surely his heart was about to burst with the pain and pressure. The pulse in his temple slammed like a hammer on an anvil. All he could see was the white hand hanging in the air in front of his face and, beyond it, two wells of darkness staring at him. Reddish gleams glowed deep within that darkness.
A small voice somewhere inside his mind, hidden away from that terrible scrutiny, whispered to him. This door is not intended for you. Death is a heartbeat away. Listen—hear the latch close—you cannot return now to who you once were. This city shall never be the same again. The face of the girl Liss floated through his mind, gazing back at him with her eyes like the sea, and he felt reassured somehow.
“No,” said the creature. “This one did not open the box, but he came close to the one who did. I can smell the taint on him.” The clamp around Ronan’s chest vanished and he could breathe again. He stumbled backward, coughing and wheezing. Tears streamed from his eyes.
“The boy, then!” said the Silentman.
The thing turned to him.
“What boy?”
“The boy who stole the box. He gave it to this man.” The Silentman gestured at Ronan.
“Ah.” The reddish light in the creature’s eyes gleamed brighter. “The bargain still stands, thief. You have taken my gold. You will find this boy. One week. One week and I shall return.”
“And if we don’t find the boy by that time?” said the Silentman.
The red eyes flared.
“Then I shall destroy this city,” said the creature. “One day. I will destroy it stone by stone. Hearne shall become a memory, a curse, a haunt of jackals and owls. I will bury my sword in your heart and feed on your death. This city is not worth what was in that box. One week, thief.”
Without another word, it turned and strode down the hall. The little cloaked figure hurried after it. The cold and the darkness retreated with their passage, swept along until the door at the far end of the pillars closed behind them. The torches on the walls struggled back into life.
“What in the name of stone and shadow was that?!” said Ronan.
Neither of the two other men said anything. Gor tottered to the dais and sank down on it, his head in his hands.
“What was that thing?” repeated Ronan. His head ached.
“That—that,” said the Silentman. He shrugged helplessly.
“We shouldn’t have taken the job,” said Gor. His voice was low and quiet, ashamed. “It’s too late now, but we shouldn’t have taken the job. The strange little fellow in the cloak came first, a month ago. By himself, understand. We thought there was something odd about him then, but we knew nothing about his master.”
“The gold was good,” said the Silentman. “It was more than should have been paid for a year of jobs and we thought him a fool. We were the fools. But, by the stones of Hearne, the bargain shall be kept. The boy shall be found. You’ll find him, Ronan, if it’s the last thing you do. Every cutpurse and climber and tosser in this Guild will be looking under every stone in this city. I want every door opened, every lock picked, every chimney plunged. If you find the boy, then I’ll reinstate you as the Knife. One last chance, do you understand me?”
“What if—”
“Is that clear?!”
“Yes,” muttered Ronan, not trusting himself to say more.
“I don’t know what either of those two are,” said Dreccan. “I think the small one might be a human of some sort, but the other?” He shuddered. “That was no human.”
“One week,” said the Silentman.
“Stone by stone,” said Ronan. His headache was fading and malice stirred inside of him, viciously glad at the sight of the Silentman terrified on his throne. “How long does it take to destroy a city that’s stood for a thousand years?”
“It’ll stand for another thousand,” growled the Silentman.
“Oh—aye—it will,” said the steward, but he did not sound convinced.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE LIES OF THE WIHHT
Nio hurried down the stairs and across the hall to the front door. It was his plan to go to the university ruins and try his luck again with the scrying mosaic hidden away in the lower level. He grasped the doorknob and then stopped, puzzled. There was a trace of the wihht on the metal, as if the creature had been through the door recently. He concentrated on the doorknob.
The Shadow at the Gate Page 3
