The Shadow at the Gate

by Christopher Bunn

  I hope he’s not sensitive enough to realize what I just did.

  Apparently, he was not sensitive enough, for his brow was wrinkled in earnest thought at her question.

  “But obligation,” he said, “must be chosen afresh every day, particularly for those who rule, for the power of the ruler brings with it a temptation to order one’s world so that it no longer contains opposition and all the painful weights of duty.”

  She was about to frown at such a pompous utterance when he grinned and said, “At least that’s what my old tutor always used to say. He was fond of lecturing on duty. Bit of a bore, but now that he’s gone—he died last year—my castle in Ancalon is too quiet for my tastes. I miss his conversation.”

  He took a step closer. He looked even more earnest than before. Alarmed, Levoreth wondered if she might convince the weasel to make another appearance.

  “I’ve been thinking lately,” continued the duke of Mizra, “at least, that—”

  “My Lord Gifernes, I never did get a chance to thank you properly—Levoreth!—oh, how nice, my dear; I confess I thought you already off to bed.” The duchess of Dolan stepped out on the veranda.

  “Just going now, Aunt,” said the girl sweetly. “It’s been a long day. I’m rather tired. I bid you good night, my lord duke.”

  The duke bowed and she left them standing on the lawn in the darkness. Somewhere off in the bushes, she heard the tiny death rattle of a mouse. The weasel, she thought. Her headache had returned, but she could not remember when. She went to her room and fell asleep in bed. In the middle of the night she woke and lay staring up into the darkness.

  Strange. I have no memory of Mizra. I have no memory of that land. Perhaps I never have been there.

  She turned on her side, and fell asleep.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  SETTING TRAP FOR MUSKRAT

  Owain and his troop left the village early the next morning. The silence of the place was oppressive and the men had become more and more nervous as the night went by. The horses were uneasy and had to be picketed deep within the stand of pine trees, far from the walls and empty windows of the houses.

  They rode in a long curving loop that brought them up out of the valley into the rolling hills on the far side and then back down into the valley further to the east. At the end of the day they had completed a wide circuit around the vicinity of the village. Hoon had argued the exercise a waste of time, given the weather. Owain had insisted, but at the end of the day he conceded that the tracker had been right.

  “Now if I was a Farrow,” said Hoon gloomily, “mebbe then we’d have summat. Those folk are cannier’n foxes, but I ain’t a Farrow. I’m just Hoon.”

  Owain reined in his horse and sat for a while in thought. A hawk sailed by overhead, wings outstretched and motionless. It was heading south. Owain turned in the saddle.

  “All right, men,” he said. His voice carried cleanly in the cool evening air. “We’ll camp here for the night. In the morning, we’ll head south for Vomaro. There’ve been three reports there of such killings as in the village. A couple of days and then back to Hearne.”

  The guardsmen made camp with good heart on this news and soon a fire was burning, ringed about with saddles and equipment. The horses were hobbled and set to graze. Darkness crept up, but the fire kept it at bay. Long after the others had fallen asleep, Owain lay awake, staring up into the night. A purpled swath of stars stretched across the sky. The moon rose, full and pale yellow. Its eye did not close, but Owain’s did and he fell asleep.

  They made Vomaro the next day—though, truth be told, there are no real boundaries between the duchies of Tormay. It took a knowledge of old treaties and a good eye for certain hills and river bends and the like to know where one duchy began and another left off.

  As they reached the crest of a hill, a lovely view greeted their sight. A lake lay before them, wide and still and shining under the afternoon sun. The farthest shore was not visible. Trees grew along the banks and everywhere there were meadows of late summer flowers like the canvases of some eccentric artist who had daubed on every single color his palette boasted.

  “‘And to the lake she came to pick her springtime blooms,’” quoted Hoon. “‘With her maids not knowing their swift approaching doom.’”

  “I never liked that song,” said Owain. “Most minstrels are damned fools, writing such tunes to please other fools who happen to have gold. I daresay little of that song is true. Declan Farrow’s story will probably never be known. I’d give much to talk with him, if he still lives.”

  “Probably happened ‘round here. More’n likely.”

  “The eastern lakeshore. Bad enough fighting ogres with good swordsmen, but with just a bevy of maids and some court fops?” Owain shrugged. “It must’ve ended quickly—look there. We’ll make for that hamlet further around the shore.”

  It was a small village—just a handful of houses built at the water’s edge. A dock reached out into the lake. Several fishing boats were drawn up on the rocky beach. A dog ran growling toward them, but a kick from one of the horses sent it shooting off, howling its dismay for any who might care. Children peeped from windows and their elders stood silent in doorways.

  Owain reined in his horse, and the troop behind him clattered to a halt. He raised his voice. “Is there anyone here who knows aught of certain strange killings? Where entire villages or crofts were wiped out?”

  An old man stepped forward.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I am Owain Gawinn, Lord Captain and Protector of Hearne. Word of these things has reached my city and I would seek what knowledge I can find.”

  “You’re far from Hearne, m’lord,” said the old man, but he tugged his forelock in respect.

  “Hearne must still concern itself with the affairs of Tormay.”

  “Better’n can be said of our own duke. If’n it’s true.” The old man spat on the ground. Other villagers nodded. Owain swung down from his horse.

  “Why say that, father?”

  The old man did not need much encouragement.

  “Near two months back now,” he said. “That’s when it happened. Nonn here, sailed over t’ Upper Wen—we’re Lower Wen, see? He sailed over ‘cause he be courtin’ Ganfrey’s daughter Gan.”

  “Aye,” said a young man, but that’s all he managed. He clamped his mouth shut and turned bright red.

  “He found t’whole village dead! Every last one. Man, woman, child. Even the poor dumb beasts. Nonn here, came back straight away an’ we all sailed over. It were a terrible sight. Still turns my stomach t’ think on it. Course, we sent word t’ the duke in Lura, but none came. Things ain’t right in Lura ever since she came back.”

  “Devnes Elloran?” said Owain.

  “Herself.” The man spat again. “The house of Elloran be cursed, but tain’t them that bear it but us poor folk. None to help us, there ain’t.”

  “Perhaps Hearne can be of help. Where is this village, old man, this Upper Wen?”

  “Oh, tain’t any Upper Wen,” said the old man.

  “But I thought you said—”

  “We burned it straight t’ the ground. Every stick of wood an’ thatch. Broke the stone walls down an’ threw ‘em in the lake. You go murderin’ folks like they did there an’ the spirits linger, you see? An’ ain’t a while afore they get real mean an’ angry that nothing been done about who murdered ‘em. We figger it better t’ get rid of their houses. Mebbe then they forget where they lived an’ just wander off.”

  “The whole village is gone?”

  “Ain’t a splinter left,” said the old man with some satisfaction.

  “Well,” said Owain coldly, “that certainly makes an impossible pursuit even more impossible. These killers are faceless and any scrap of evidence, no matter how small, would’ve been greatly valued. I commend your diligence but not your reasoning.”

  “Oh, they ain’t all that faceless,” said the old man.

  “What do you
mean?”

  “Binny here, done seen ‘em. Binny!”

  A boy shuffled forward, ducking his head in embarrassment.

  “Tell the lord what you seen, Binny. You can trust ‘em, m’lord. He’s my grandson an’ allus tells the truth else I take a stick t’ him.”

  “Setting trap for muskrat,” said Binny. He mumbled so quietly that Owain was forced to step closer. “Just along the shore near t’ the old willow.”

  “That’s close by Upper Wen,” broke in his grandfather. “Least, where used t’ be Upper Wen.”

  “Was this during the day?” asked Owain. He tried to keep the excitement from his voice. “Were you able to see clearly?”

  “Course not, m’lord,” said Binny in indignation. “You allus set trap for muskrat at night. But there was a full moon, so I seen enough.” He shuddered. “Lucky for me, I allus been fond of setting ‘em in deep water. Just past the bulrushes, up t’ my neck an’ moving slow an’ quiet—see, I was pulling a string of traps behind me.”

  Binny paused and his eyes seemed to go slightly out of focus, as if he was seeing something else. “You allus gotta be quiet around muskrats. Too much excitement, an’ they get t’ thinking about moving on t’ other parts. That’s what musta saved me. I just happen t’ look up an’ there they were, running along the shore. Heading on t’ Upper Wen.”

  “Who? Who was running?”

  “Were a man an’ two hounds—only they weren’t.”

  “What do you mean they weren’t?”

  “They weren’t. It looked like a man, but things weren’t right. His legs an’ arms were all wrong. Too long an’ bending too far. He was tall too, taller’n you, m’lord, an’ running faster’n a horse. Had him a long, thin face with sick-looking white skin like you’d ‘spect on a dead man. An’ the hounds weren’t dogs, least, no dog I seen. Both of ‘em size of a small cow. Big necks an’ heads an’ eyes all white an’ staring like boiled eggs. I thought my heart about t’ stop beating.”

  “But how did you see all this if they were running as fast as you say?”

  “Well, they stopped dead, m’lord. Right on the bank, an’ me that close. Only the bulrushes between me an ‘em. The dogs swinging their heads around. I could hear ‘em sniffing like there was a scent t’ be had. But water an’ mud an’ the stink of rotten rushes is a lot t’ sniff through. I didn’t twitch a muscle, that scared I was, not even t’ sink below the surface. You know how it is. Any small move’ll draw the eye, even at night.”

  “I think you came near your death,” said Owain. “I’m glad the night turned out in your favor, though it did not for the poor folk of Upper Wen. You are lucky.”

  “Aye, m’lord, an’ right do I know it. But there’s more t’ my story. The two dogs did their sniffing for a while more an’ then the man growled at them. Growled like he knew their tongue an’ was telling them something. It were a strange thing. His mouth opened wide, an’ it were filled with more teeth ‘n any two men have between em’. Made the hair stand up on my neck, it did.”

  “And then they just left?”

  “Aye, m’lord.”

  Owain nodded. It was a stroke of tremendous luck—luck the lad had survived and luck that had brought him and his men to the little village. Damn the duke of Vomaro. If the incident had been followed up when it had happened, then such details might have made their way to Hearne months ago. At any rate, at least it was known now.

  “One last thing, m’lord. I know this might sound strange—”

  “Nothing’s strange anymore, lad.”

  “After they were gone, an’ I was sitting there in the water, I realized something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’d been a nice, warm summer night, but everything’d gone cold. Real cold, like close on to ice, an’ my bones were chilled so they ached.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  AN UNEXPECTED ALLIANCE

  Lena kicked at the door, but it was locked and made of much harder material than her foot. She scowled. Her luck usually wasn’t this bad.

  True, the time she had tripped the bakery ward in Highneck Rise had been extremely unlucky—unlucky enough to mark her for life with the livid scar on her face—but that had been the exception. Wasn’t she the one who had lifted seven purses in a single afternoon in Mioja Square, one of which had contained a perfectly cut ruby as big as a quail’s egg and a second that had held a handful of unused guardian wards—wards woven by none other than Bredan Gow, the most expensive ward weaver in all of Hearne? The Juggler had been pleased at that.

  And hadn’t she beaten Taggity at dice just last week and won a whole jug of ale off of him? Him boasting there wasn’t a die in all of Hearne he couldn’t roll as crooked as a hanged man’s neck. She certainly had set that straight. A dozen rolls and three pairs of eyes. Served him right to boast, the smelly rotter.

  She went through her pockets for the third time. Two coppers left over from the swoop Jute had given her the other day, a hunk of stale bread, one handkerchief, and a rag doll she had stolen off a barrow months ago. Not that there was any value to the doll, as far as she knew, but it gave her an odd comfort to have it in her pocket.

  But nothing suited for picking locks.

  She thought it would have been safe. Surely there wouldn’t be harm in asking the other children. After all, they had grown up together, playing and fighting and stealing together on the streets of Hearne. So she had asked. Had they ever heard the name Nio before? Did they know anything about the old manor down on Losian Street, the one with the tall garden wall and the stone tower? They had all said no—no, never heard the name—no, never been near that house. Why would any of us go there? High walls and wards. No. Never heard the name.

  But someone had gone and spoken to their new master. The old man. Someone had whispered. They had been pitching pebbles at the blackbirds perched on top of the stable roofs behind the Goose and Gold when she had heard him call through an open window on the second floor.

  “Lena!”

  The old man had smiled all fatherlike—at least, that’s how she imagined fathers would smile like—and she had trotted inside without a second thought. Down the hallway at the top of the stairs. He had held the door open for her, and she had assumed she was going to hear about a job. Perhaps a certain someone to be followed. Someone’s pockets to be swooped. But all she had heard was the door slamming behind her and the key turning in the lock. She had yelled and kicked the door until her toes ached. The only response was a whisper from the keyhole.

  “Some questions shouldn’t be asked.”

  The room had one window set high in the wall. It was barred, and she grabbed hold of the bottom railing and hoisted herself up. She had enough strength in her skinny arms to hold herself there for a while. The sun was going down and there were afternoon shadows slanting across the yard behind the inn. The rest of the children were gone. She growled in frustration to herself, wondering who had told the old man. The ostler slouched across the yard and disappeared into the stable. Her grip was weakening on the railing and she let go. She would teach them a lesson or two when she found out who squealed.

  Her hands balled into sharp little fists, but then she slumped in the corner and cried. Some questions shouldn’t be asked. She wished Jute weren’t gone. It would’ve been all right if he hadn’t gone and gotten himself nabbed. There was no one else she could trust. Certainly not any of the other children. Not even the twins. If only Jute were here.

  Don’t be silly. He can’t help now. You’re trying to help him, so pull yourself together.

  She wiped her nose on her sleeve and investigated her pockets yet again. Stone and blasted shadow! Next time, she would be sure to carry some wire. But then she remembered she didn’t know how to pick locks in the first place.

  Jute had promised to teach me.

  A slight noise came to her ears. The noise was so quiet she half thought she had imagined it. Perhaps a mouse trotting between the walls. She listened, trying t
o throw her senses wide—push them out, Jute had always said; let them expand like your cheeks expand when you hold your breath. The explanation had always seemed silly to her. It made no sense at all.

  She heard the noise again. It was coming from the door. She tiptoed over and stared at the lock. Dust drifted out of it and she heard metal grating. The handle turned. The door opened and she found herself staring into the face of the man from the alley. The Knife.

  She blinked, shocked into silence.

  The man from the alley alongside the Goose and Gold. The man who had been bruised and bleeding and face down in the mud when she had left him. Ronan of Aum. The Knife of the Guild.

  She opened her mouth to scream, and he instantly clamped it shut with his hand. He nudged the door closed behind him with his foot.

  “Not a sound,” he said. “Do you understand me?”

  She nodded. Felt her heart fluttering faster. Tried to swallow. She nodded again, trying not to cry.

  “Good. I’m going to release you and you’re not going to make a sound. Is that clear?”

  He stepped back from her. She drew a long, shaky breath.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, Lena, even though I have good cause. The Guild’s a harsh master and it often demands harsh things—things we might not choose to do on our own. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice shaking.

  “I didn’t want to hurt your friend Jute. I was only acting under orders, for I was the Knife and the Knife cannot disobey the word of the Silentman. I’ve done terrible things, working for the Silentman, things that are shameful even to speak of. But of all of them, nothing was worse than what I was forced to do to Jute. I was forced to do it, Lena, for the Knife must carry out every command of the Silentman. But I’m not the Knife anymore.”

  “You poisoned him! He did his job and you pushed him back down the chimney!”