Those at the table near him were silent, eyes fixed on him. They knew the best was yet to come. Levoreth finished her apple and thought morosely about the girl Giverny. The anger on her thin face. She would learn in time.
“The ogres’ hideaway was built into the face of a cliff. It could not be approached save by a wicker basket raised up and down on an iron chain. But Declan Farrow climbed the cliff in the night and then lowered the basket so that the other two might come up with him. The mouth of the lair yawned before them, stinking of ogre and darker than the night itself. They ventured in and found themselves looking down into an open hall. A long table was crowded about with ogres, tearing at their meal of mutton and who knows what else. Judging the brutes full of meat and ale and thus slow on their feet, Declan desired to fall on them immediately and try luck and their swords. But his two companions, being of more cautious mind, counseled biding their time until sleep had overtaken the ogres. In his pride, though, the youth scorned them and leapt down into the hall, sword drawn. Fired by his zeal, the two others followed and soon battle was joined. The crows heard the din for miles and came flying to sup on the blood and carnage thereafter.
“Keep to the facts, Dwaes,” someone hooted. “Some silkpants bard you’re not.”
“These are the facts,” said Dwaes coldly. “His two companions lived to tell the tale and they are beyond reproach, as I’m sure many of you know them or their families—Iord Werian, the second son of the house of Londweard, whose father is the warden of the Eastern Marches of Vo, and Flyg Galaestan, one of the grand-nephews of the duke of Thule.”
“A noble name does not guarantee noble blood,” said old Maernes. He inclined his head to Levoreth. “Though noble blood can bring about a noble name, as was evidenced in your own family’s ancestry, Lady Levoreth.”
“Tell the rest!”
“Aye—get to the good bits!”
The good bits. Levoreth frowned down at her plate. She could feel old Maernes’ gaze on her from across the table. She wasn’t sure, but she thought there had been a speculative gleam in his eyes. Older people. It was the older people that must be treated warily, and she was forgetting that. They were the ones who might have met her before and possibly held memories of a different Levoreth. Next to her, Dwaes droned on, his voice filled with lazy malice. And envy, she thought to herself. He’s envious of what Declan Farrow did, for he could never do such a thing. Not many could.
And then Levoreth almost forgot her headache and irritability in a memory that flooded into her mind. Maernes—a young Maernes—not yet the duke of Hull and visiting Andolan for a week of hunting in the hills. When she had been another Levoreth—which one had she been then?—oh yes, the former great-aunt of Hennen Callas. Maernes had chased her around the kitchen table in the castle, cornered her and kissed her for all of two seconds before she had crowned him with an iron pan. She grinned involuntarily and glanced up. Maernes was still looking at her, and she dropped her eyes.
“—of course,” Dwaes was saying, “Lady Devnes fainted with joy to be rescued from her cell. Not that the ogres had harmed in her any way. On the contrary, she maintained they’d been the best of hosts, outside of their deplorable cooking and the rather rough manner they’d had with the rest of her party.”
“More wine!”
“Get to the good part, you long-winded Vomaronish bit of twaddle!”
“Aye, you sainted donkey!”
Dwaes majestically forged ahead.
“On their journey back to Vomaro they reached an inn on the road leading through the pass from Mizra to the Rennet valley. It was a lonely place, far from any town. There, while his two exhausted companions lay in deep sleep, the scoundrel did his deed. Inflamed by the beauty of the girl and maddened, no doubt, by close proximity to one of such noble blood, he forced his way into her room that night and had his evil way.”
There were exclamations of horror around him and people leaned in closer.
“The next morning, the Lady Devnes kept her silence, for the black gaze of the false Declan Farrow was ever on her. She said not a word of what had happened, but bided her time as they journeyed on. The gates of Lura were flung open wide to greet them! The townsfolk cheered at the sight of her, for was she not their duke’s only daughter? Trumpets blared their brassy call from the duke’s castle. Her father hurried out to meet them, unable to contain his joy. And there, before that great assembly, with tears on her face, she brought her accusation against her rescuer. He said not a word in his defense, but stood as still as a statue. The soldiers took him and he gave no resistance, though he was dragged out into the courtyard, stretched from a post and flayed his back until the blood streamed on the white marble paving. Still, he spoke no word, as if struck dumb. They tossed the wretch into the dungeon to wait the judgment of Duke Elloran. For my lord is a careful, brooding type and he brings such same traits to his rulings—”
“Aye,” bawled the little fat man, “just as he broods over which dish to jab his fork into next!” To better demonstrate his point, the fat man plunged his own fork into a roast chicken and heaved it triumphantly back to his plate. He glanced up and caught Levoreth’s chilly gaze on him. This was a mistake on her part, for whenever she happened to again look his way, she found him winking lustfully at her.
“—but that next morning, when the guards unlocked the scoundrel’s cell to have him out for hanging. . .” Here, Dwaes paused and took a sip of wine.
“And then?” prompted someone further down the table. Faces leaned in, expectant.
“And then,” said Levoreth tonelessly, “they found an empty cell. He had escaped. The great iron sword had been stolen from the guardsroom. The duke put a reward on the lad’s head. The girl was found to be with child and her father married her off to some unknown third cousin who was witless enough to put up with raising another’s whelp. End of story.”
Dwaes choked on his wine. The faces around them glared at Levoreth. The duke of Hull smiled at her from across the table. The little fat man winked at her again, mouth chewing vigorously on chicken. She pushed her chair back and left. Her headache was getting worse. Vaguely, she was aware of people rising behind her, of someone following for several steps, away from the long table and the lights and voices and merriment. Old Maernes, the duke of Hull, she thought. Pity, he’s remembering. There’s no place to hide from people’s memories. Except in death. But even then they remember for a time.
She returned to her room and stood for a while, irresolute, in front of a mirror.
“What would you do if you were me?” she said. The girl in the mirror regarded her gravely and said nothing. Levoreth attempted a smile and her counterpart seemed to wince painfully. They both sighed in unison.
“I worry about her. The young Farrow girl. Giverny. It won’t be easy for her.”
Her headache was diminishing. Perhaps being away from the noise and clutter of the banquet was healing enough. She put on a cloak and went out onto the balcony. The rain clouds had passed and the night sky stretched overhead, speckled with stars and the watchful moon. It was chilly, so she twitched the cloak closed at her neck.
She then climbed out onto the roof.
Her room was high up under the eaves. A buttress slanted down along her balcony, complete with a sad-looking stone gargoyle perched at its tip. She patted the gargoyle on the head and then walked up the buttress until she was up on the roof. From there, a few minutes’ climb brought her to the highest peak of the castle. She sat down and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And then frowned.
But then the first cat appeared, popping up over a peak further down the roof. It was a little gray thing with brilliant blue eyes. Just short of her foot, the cat stopped, plomped down on its haunches, and began to wash. She could not help smiling. The cat licked her hand once and then resumed its bath. Several other cats padded forward. They settled around her. Others appeared. A chorus of purring rose and fell.
“Well, cat,” she said, “where is your elder?”
The little gray cat stopped washing and looked up at her.
Drythen Malkin has seen near fifty years, Mistress of Mistresses. Think you he can run over roofs in haste?
She cuffed the cat for its impudence and then scratched behind its ears. It purred ecstatically.
A large black cat appeared, almost as if the shadows had woven themselves together to make his form. He padded across the roof peak, and the other cats drifted aside before him.
“Drythen Malkin.”
Mistress of Mistresses.
The cat sniffed at her hand and then settled down at her side. Even in the uncertain moonlight, age lay heavy on the animal. His whiskers were gray, and old battles had left their marks on notched ears and the weal of a scar arching across his nose.
Your presence brings us honor. Thrice have I seen you. Once as a kit, many years ago, when my sire held sway in Hearne. Then, at his passing. And now, near my life’s end.
“You are so sure of your own passing?”
The cat rumbled comfortably.
Death is no stranger, that I would not recognize his scent. Surely, you know him better than I with the few years I possess?
She said nothing to that. The cats around them attended in silence. Only their lord purred.
“I seek news of your city, Drythen Malkin.”
The cat inclined his head courteously and waited.
“My sleep has been troubled and my dreams reached blindly to Hearne. Has trouble come to this city? Is there anything in these streets that has gained your notice?”
There was a pause before the cat spoke.
One thing, Mistress. There is one thing that might give you pause, though I know nothing of your dreams. These humans live blindly. They cannot scent death and evil, where a month-old kit could readily mark the trail. Several weeks ago, a sceadu came traveling to Hearne.
“A sceadu?” she said sharply. “Are you certain of this?”
Aye. Our kind bears memory of one such from the old war that ruined this city. A fell creature that did traffic with the evil wizard Scuadimnes. My sire’s sire and his sire before him all bore the memory, and so now do I.
“Remember with care, Drythen Malkin, for this is no slight thing.”
Though our memory does not run the length of your years, Mistress of Mistresses, it is clear, for darkness does not dim the sight of cats and we do not easily forget.
“Then speak. I will listen.”
We caught his scent at the eastern gate and so followed him to a tavern within the city, where he vanished into the tunnels.
“The tunnels of the thieves,” Levoreth said. She petted the old cat and he purred.
Aye. This Guild that lusts for gold and ferrets out hidden things for gain. They are fools of the worst kind, for if the sceadu so easily gained the tunnels, then perhaps they do business with it in hope of profit. But I grieve, Mistress, that I cannot tell you what this business may be, for my kind never venture into the tunnels. Danger lurks there that is beyond our ken. The tunnels are woven with magic from centuries ago, when the true wizards still lived.
“And this creature then left the city,” she said. “You and yours saw this?”
Several hours after the sceadu descended, it emerged again, from this same tavern. It made its way back to the eastern gate and so away. Three of my blood kept pace with the thing until it left the city walls. We thought it the last of the creature, but—
The old cat paused, as if marshalling its words.
“Speak, Malkin.”
—it returned.
She knew, as soon as the cat spoke. The thought had been nagging at her mind.
“Two nights ago?”
Then you already know. It was when the strange storm passed over the city. A fear came on my subjects and none ventured out into the night, but in the morning the creature’s scent lingered in the streets and near the main gate. If a cat’s nose cannot be trusted then there is little left true in this world.
“Aye,” she said slowly. “I felt something strange that night but was not certain of its cause, for it has been many years since I’ve had the misfortune to encounter a sceadu.”
The little gray cat inched forward cautiously and spoke.
The thing felt cold, Mistress.
Instantly, the black cat raised a massive paw, but Levoreth touched him.
“Nay. I would hear this.”
The old cat sank back and rumbled.
This scamp takes after his dam. Both are quick with their tongues.
“What do you mean, little one? Were you near enough to touch the thing?”
Avert! The small cat shivered. I would not touch such a thing, for it smelled of an evil worse than death. Only, when it came the first time to the city, it passed down a street before me. I ventured near to know its scent better. A chill like winter’s ice breathed from the thing, and I came away sick and trembling.
“You were foolish to venture so close,” she said sternly. “A single touch would have killed a small one such as you.” She scratched its ears. “But brave too. Your sire’s mark is on you.”
The old cat cuffed the little gray fondly. I beat this litter soundly in their first year, for they all proved scamps and scoundrels, every one.
The little gray spoke again, emboldened by the praise.
Perhaps one other thing, Mistress.
The old black unsheathed a pair of claws and tapped them impatiently on the tile.
“Speak, little one, before I turn you over to your sire’s graces.”
I saw a boy climb up into the ruins of the university, said the little cat. A great height he scaled, up sheer walls that would trouble even a cat. There was something odd about him. No one enters the ruins, Mistress, besides the old humans that work within its confines. They dig and seek for lost things.
A swift cuff to the head sent the little cat sprawling among the others watching. It yowled once and then shot off into the shadows.
The boy was probably just some witless thief. There are humans looking for that which was lost years ago. Scholars from the Stone Tower. They seek knowledge, not gold. A lost book. They would have no hand in whatever disturbed your dreams, for I myself have hunted the ruins there and scented them. There was no evil in them. Forgive my foolish son.
Levoreth smiled. “Boys and sons are capable of great mischief, but they are not sceadus.”
They sat for a while without speaking, she and the old black, with all the other cats in polite silence around them. The little gray crept back into the circle and lowered its head meekly.
“I thank you, Drythen Malkin,” she said, “for your attendance on me. You have given me much to think on. A sceadu within the gates can only mean the Darkness has bent its thoughts to Hearne. Be certain, though, that you and yours rest within my protection.”
The old black rose stiffly and nosed her hand.
We are honored, Mistress of Mistresses.
The cats vanished across the roof and into the shadows. She called after the old black just before it disappeared.
“And the name of the tavern the sceadu entered to gain the tunnels?”
The humans call it the Goose and Gold.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A CONVERSATION OF STARS
After the incident on the roof, Severan tried to be more attentive to Jute. He popped up without warning. Jute would be prowling through a hall, and around a corner would come Severan, trying to appear nonchalant and just as surprised to see Jute as the boy was to see him (though after a while, Jute was no longer surprised to see him). He turned up in the evening without fail, as well as in the morning for breakfast.
“It’s rather odd,” said the boy,
“that you turn up everywhere. I thought you were hard at work with the others, digging things up.”
Severan looked somewhat embarrassed. “Well, things have been slow. We struck a bad spot in the lower level. There’s a ward proving a vexing puzzle. It’s taken days to understand the first thing about it and we’re still far from unraveling the cursed thing. The others are down there now, arguing over how to beat it. I decided to take a breather. Besides, I know you could do with some company.”
“Rubbish,” said Jute. “You’ve been prowling about just to keep an eye on me.”
“If you weren’t such a nitwit,” said Severan. “Climbing out windows and swanning about the city as if you didn’t have a care in the world! You have no idea—”
“I’m bored!”
They glared at each other. The sky outside the window was deepening into purple, flecked with stars emerging at first as suggestions and then, as the purple darkened into velvety blue, gleaming in earnest. It had grown dark in the room. Severan sighed and fumbled in his pocket for a flint and tinder. The candle flickered into life under his hands.
“Why can’t you just say something,” said Jute. “Say whatever the name is for fire and light it like that? I thought you were a wizard.”
“A wizard?” Severan sighed. “No, I’m just a scholar. Besides, there’s just as much magic in how a flint works as there is in the true name of fire. A different kind of magic, yes, but magic nonetheless. Look here. You strike a flint and a spark is produced. This can be done with some stones but not with others. If the candle is lit by uttering the true name of fire or by the sparking of flints, a question is revealed behind both actions. How was it ordained that there are two paths to fire, that two disparate means result in the same end? Questions like this are more interesting than using so-called magic or not.”
Jute shrugged. “They both work. There’s allus more than one way to rob the duchess.”
“A dangerous attitude. Just because something works doesn’t mean it should be done. If you start thinking like that then, sooner or later, you end up doing all sorts of horrible things to achieve your goal. Nio was not always the man you had the misfortune to meet. Once, he was a good man, but somewhere along the way he must have decided that what he desired outweighed the constraints of what should and should not be done.”
The Shadow at the Gate Page 10
