She knew, Ronan thought to himself in triumph. She knew what had happened. Poison. More than what could have been learned from spying from a neighboring rooftop that night. Between then and now, she must have talked with Jute.
“I had no other choice, Lena.” He kept his voice gentle. “As the Knife of the Guild, my will was never my own. I had to serve my master, just like you served the Juggler. You understand that, don’t you?”
She did not answer.
“You do understand, don’t you?” he repeated.
“Yes,” she said reluctantly, but he had her interest now. He could see it in the way her eyes studied his face.
“I’m no longer the Knife. The Guild cast me out. I don’t serve the Silentman anymore. Do you think I’m proud of what I did to your friend? But I’m free now, free to do what I will. I don’t lift my hand against children. I’d do anything in my power to take back what I did to Jute. Anything. But what’s done is done. Perhaps helping you escape from here will atone in some small way. How I wish I could do more.”
He paused to see what effect his words might be having. She scowled down at the floor.
“Anything?” she said.
“Anything. Anything at all.”
“Well,” she said slowly. “Do you know a man named Nio Secganon?”
“Yes—but not here.” Something uneasy turned over in his mind. He remembered the sound in the basement, the shambling figure. “We can’t waste any more time here. Your life’s already in danger from the Guild for asking questions about that man—that’s why you were locked up, isn’t it? We must leave now. Later, I’ll explain about Nio Secganon.”
The hallway was empty, but Lena could hear the sounds of the common room drifting up the stairs at the far end. Laughter, voices, the clink of trenchers and knives. Ronan closed the door behind them. The lock clicked.
“Come,” he said.
He walked down the hall and she followed in his footsteps. A lockpick gleamed in his hand and another door opened. It was the innkeeper’s own room. She had seen it once, peeking in through the open door while one of the serving girls had been gathering up an armful of bedding. The innkeeper’s wife had emerged at that moment from behind a cracked toilet screen, letting her skirts fall down around her skinny legs, and she had seen Lena peeping around the door. What a chase that had been!
“Through there,” said the man.
He pointed at the window at the far end of the room. She nodded, wondering if she could climb as well as the legendary Knife of the Guild, the shadow man who could not be stopped by walls or locks or wards. So they said. She scowled down at the fading carpet so that she would not shiver. Jute had taught her to climb, and he had been good enough to have done a chimney job for this man.
The window creaked open. He hoisted her up onto the sill.
“Up,” he said, his voice quiet. “Up and over the peak to the right and then lay down on the tiles, still as a mouse.”
Lena nodded, fitting her fingers into a promising crevice just above the casement, but he gripped her arm, easing the smart of it with a smile.
“Don’t be scampering off now. I’m much faster than you are, girl, and I know these rooftops like the back of my hand.”
She nodded again, flustered, for the thought had entered her mind.
He was fast, for as soon as she had hoisted herself up over the rise of the roof, he was there behind her. He swarmed up the wall like an enormous spider, all arms and legs and careless speed. For a moment she thought him faster than Jute, but then her old loyalties reasserted themselves and she only sniffed. The rooftops of the city spread out around them like a vast plain of sharply angled hills of red and brown and black. Slate and stone and thatch. Chimneys rose like trees, denuded of their branches and smoldering smoke from their tops.
“You’re lucky,” the man said quietly.
“No luckier than usual,” she said, sullen and unsure whether she should thank him, unsure whether that smile of his was trustworthy.
“Asking questions about Nio Secganon is certain to bring you to the attention of some unpleasant people. I overheard the conversation between your new master and the Silentman’s steward and I remembered your name.”
“The Silentman’s steward?” she gasped.
“I was sitting down the bar from them. They didn’t see me, but I heard them. People who get mixed up with Nio Secganon have a habit of coming to unfortunate ends.”
If Lena had glanced up at that moment, she would have noticed Ronan eyeing her, as if gauging her thoughts, but she was only concerned with her own misery. She nervously laced her fingers together and then unlaced them.
“Oh, shadows take them,” she groaned.
“Someday, perhaps,” said Ronan. “Just be thankful you still aren’t in that room, for you would’ve soon been down in the Silentman’s dungeons, locked up in the dark with the rats.”
She shuddered and furry little horrors with red eyes and twitching claws ran through her mind.
“Thank you,” she said.
“It was the only thing I could do,” said Ronan. “By helping you, I can repay my debt to Jute. I don’t forget my debts.” A smile flickered across his face, but she did not see it.
“Though,” he continued, “why were you asking about Nio Secganon? There are faster ways to get your throat cut in this city, but not many.”
She hesitated and the man held his breath. Far across the rooftops, the sun in the west burned with golden fire. It trailed light across the ocean and he could not see the horizon for the brilliance of it all. He idly wondered if there were other lands across the sea. Other countries and people. Or just waves and endless waves. The shadows lengthened on the rooftops.
“It was for Jute,” she said.
“For Jute?”
She told him the whole thing in a rush, relieved to speak and relieved to not have such a burden weighing on her small shoulders. Surely it was important if Jute had asked her, if he was so afraid of his life that he had hidden away. Perhaps the Knife would have an idea. Even if he wasn’t the Knife anymore, he still was the legend who had ruled the shadows and byways of Hearne. Why, some of the Guild thought him more powerful than the Silentman himself. More important, he had freed her from that room. He seemed like a pretty decent sort.
“Where’d you say he was?” asked Ronan, half disbelieving her.
“In the old university ruins,” she said again. “Jute went there because it was the only place folks don’t go to—”
“They sure don’t,” said the man.
“—all woven about with wards it is. He says there are some real dillies in there that’ll fair scare the life out of you, if they don’t kill you first. I wouldn’t set foot there to save my life, spit on it, but Jute’s quieter than a shadow and he knows how to move silent.”
“Those ruins are huge,” said Ronan. “They’re the perfect place to hide. Even if someone knew he was there, it wouldn’t help much. It would take a hundred men a month to search through properly.”
“He’s safe enough,” said Lena.
“Well, I think we’re safe as well. The sun’s going down and there won’t be much for people to see on these roofs.”
He stood and made his way across the tiles, motioning her to follow. Most of Hearne was built in a hodgepodge fashion, buildings jammed up against other buildings, sharing walls and angling roofs wedged onto and under the neighboring slants of other roofs. It was almost possible, if you were brave and skillful, or just plain stupid, to make your way from one end of the city to the other entirely on rooftops and, sometimes, on the tops of high courtyard walls. The one exception to this was the neighborhood of Highneck Rise and the manors of the wealthy and the nobility on the higher ground and cliffs in the northwest of the city. Dwellings such as those were invariably surrounded by gardens, which provided effective barriers against any person who thought to tour the city by rooftop.
The man and the girl flitted from roof to roof, scrambling
across peaks and ridges so as not to present profiles to any curious eyes that might glance up. It seemed to Lena, at the speed they went, that this was a quicker way to travel than the more conventional route of streets and alleyways. They were bearing south, for the red gash of the setting sun stayed on their right and its last light threw their shadows past them to lope along the sloping roofs, black and impossibly long-legged.
“Here,” said Ronan. “We go down to the street here.”
They were perched on top of a warehouse. The yard below was filled with stacks of roughly cut timber. One such stack reached a tremendous height that was almost on level with the bottom edge of the roof. Ronan jumped down and, even though he landed like a cat, the pile of logs creaked beneath him in protest.
“Come on,” he said.
Lena crouched on the edge of the roof, her toes in the gutter. A scowl crossed her face. She was tired and in the last few minutes had been starting to think of things like bed and sleep or perhaps merely a pile of hay in a stable somewhere. She wondered if the stack of logs would decide to tumble and roll if she added her small weight to the man’s.
“Jump,” he said. His voice was patient, and that was enough for her. She jumped and he caught her around the waist and set her down as lightly as a bit of fluff. The logs underneath them groaned and she could feel a slight tremble vibrating up through the soles of her shoes.
“They’re going to roll,” she said.
“No, they won’t. I’ve done this plenty of times and it’s always been safe.”
“Not with another person, I bet.” She scowled at him, but he was already stepping down the logs like he was walking down a staircase.
“Child, you don’t weigh more’n a handful of shadow.”
She hadn’t been in this area of the city much before, but she figured they were near the south gate. It was a rough area with numerous warehouses and places of trade given over to the simpler needs of mercantile: wax and lumber and iron, the quartz sand from Harth used by glassblowers for their window-making, hemp and pitch, and the streets of the tanners stinking with grease and rotten fat and acrid lye. The dwellings there were jammed in between the hulking warehouses and among the inns and way houses dedicated to the various guilds.
If she hadn’t been so tired at that point, Lena might have tried to run away. Clambering up and down endless roofs was exhausting. Much more exhausting than a day trolling the crowds and having an occasional sprint with a fat merchant in furious pursuit.
But he isn’t half bad. Good of him to winkle me out of that wretched room. And he ain’t the Knife anymore. He helped me. He wants to help Jute.
And then Lena felt sorry for what she and the other children had done to him. She trotted by his side, feet hurrying to keep up with his stride. Scary face on him, she thought, despite him being rather nice. All hard and thin like an axe head. I wonder how many throats he’s cut with that knife of his. She could see the haft tucked away at the side of his belt whenever his cloak billowed out. A thrill shuddered through her.
I’m walking around with the Knife! Wish the other cullies could see me now!
He led her down an alley that zigzagged between high houses crammed so closely together that it seemed the alley was a tunnel, roofed over with the angled walls of the houses and the strip of purple evening sky barely visible past the gutters. Two cats hissed at them from a pile of garbage.
“In through here,” he said.
She wouldn’t have seen the door if she had been by herself, so perfectly was it fitted within the surrounding wall. It swung open to reveal a modest courtyard and the back of an old house—three stories of dirty gray stone. A rickety wood staircase climbed to a tiny landing clinging to the third story. The Knife paused at the foot of the staircase and muttered something under his breath. The stairs creaked under her steps, and at one point she clutched the railing in panic as the plank beneath her feet shifted.
“It’s safe enough,” said Ronan. “Though I wouldn’t advise trying these stairs when the ward is awake. You’d end up in a nasty fall and, if you somehow jumped and made it past that, there’d be a nice fire at the top to finish you off.”
Behind him, she flinched, but he did not see. At the top of the landing there was a door set under the eaves. The Knife mumbled something under his breath and then he opened the door. She saw past him into a room bare of any furnishing except for a bed, a table and chair, and a large chest.
“My castle, milady,” he said, bowing slightly.
“What about a chat?” she asked. “Weren’t you going to tell me about—?”
“The bed’s yours,” he said, interrupting as if she hadn’t spoken at all.
It wouldn’t have been much to many folks, just a cot heaped with threadbare blankets, but it was much nicer than anything Lena had ever had.
“Now see here,” she said, trying to sound as severe and as determined as her young years and diminutive height would allow. She looked nervously at the door, wondering if it would have been wiser to have run away while she had had a chance. Some of the older girls had been called to the Juggler’s room occasionally during the night, not just the Juggler, but several of the Guildsmen who hung around the Goose and Gold. She remembered the faces of the girls in those mornings after. They hadn’t said much, but Lena’s imagination was active enough.
But the Knife didn’t seem to have heard her, for he wrapped himself in his cloak, lay down on the floor and closed his eyes. Relieved, Lena blew out the candle on the table. She kicked off her shoes and stretched out on the bed. She wiggled her toes from the sheer pleasure of a real mattress under her and a blanket snug under chin.
“Meant to tell you,” she said. “I’ll be seeing Jute tomorrow—just at dusk. Mebbe. . . mebbe you could help him some. Like you helped me.”
There was no response except for the slow, even sound of the man breathing from across the room. He was already asleep, and then she herself was fast asleep.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE FIFTH NAME OF DARKNESS
The book wasn’t there.
Nio was sure he had not taken the little book of Lascol from the library. Yet, it was not in the library.
He stood in the middle of the room, frowning. An ache was developing behind his eyes. No one had been in the house since Severan and Ablendan had been there several nights before to tell him about the mosaic below the university. At least, as far as he knew, no one had been in the house. Logic forced him to admit there was always the possibility of an intruder. Someone with enough skill to evade the wards set about the place, someone with enough skill to leave no trace of their passing.
But that was not likely.
For the past several nights, Nio’s sleep had been broken numerous times. The odd thing was that it always happened right at the third hour after midnight. He would wake and the hands of the copper clock pointed to three. He would fall back asleep for what seemed like hours and yet, when he woke again, the minute hand on the clock would have crept forward only a few paltry minutes. He wasn’t sure what was waking him: some slight noise that immediately ceased as soon as he woke, the wind rattling at the window and then tiptoeing away at the first sight of his eyes opening, the shadows slinking by the foot of the bed? His bedroom was so woven about with wards that even the quietest mouse would have had difficulty crossing the threshold. Every night he tested the wards before he went to bed. He was beginning to dread sleeping.
Could the wihht have taken the book?
The thought made him go cold. Obviously, there was more to wihhts than what he had learned from the writings of Fynden Fram and others. The strange, sullen defiance of the thing and the way it seemed to mature in form and intelligence were not explained by what he knew. Perhaps making off with books was another unknown peculiarity of wihhts?
Ridiculous.
But he had to know for sure.
Nio made his way down through the house, down the long hallways, down the staircase into the gloomy parlor with i
ts fine furniture and the fireplace yawning with its cold, ashen mouth. These days, there was never occasion to use the parlor, for the other scholars hunting in the ruins rarely came to the house anymore.
The kitchen door seemed to creak even before he pushed it open. Light sprang into life at a muttered word, and he was grateful for the warmth emanating from the small globe of fire. It floated over his shoulder as he walked down the stairs into the cellar. Shadows, but the place stank. It was much worse than before. A sweet, cloying taste of rotting flesh hung in the air, so strong that he could almost feel the greasiness of it on his tongue. He did not step down onto the muddy stone floor but remained on the bottom stair. The cellar looked empty, but the shadows gathered in the corners seemed to be hiding something.
“Hie,” he said. The cellar remained lifeless and there was only silence except for the water murmuring from the ugly black hole leading down into the storm sewers of the city.
“Hie sona,” he said, gritting his teeth and channeling the rush of anger into a focus of power. “Sona!”
And there, where nothing had been before, stood the wihht. It gazed at him expressionlessly. Moisture gleamed on the wihht’s skin, and the clothes it wore were damp with water. Nio wondered if the creature climbed down into the sewer and so crept about the city, shambling through the passageways and emerging to walk among the unsuspecting inhabitants of Hearne.
“I’ve a question for you,” said the man. “There’s a book in the library on the top floor of this house. A small book bound in brown leather, worn and cracked with age. On the front is an inscription in characters from no language known by man. The book’s missing. Did you take it?”
The wihht said nothing, but merely stared at him.
“Cweoan,” said the man.
The force in his command lashed at the creature and it blinked, shifting on its feet.
“I did not take this book,” said the wihht in its hoarse voice.
“You speak truth?” the man said.
“I did not take this book,” repeated the wihht. It paused and then opened its mouth as if to speak again, but nothing emerged except for a wet, gurgling sort of sound. For a moment, Nio thought that the creature was speaking in some horrible language peculiar to wihhts—yet another detail unknown to Fynden Fram and all the so-called learned scholars of the past. But then he realized the wihht was laughing, and that was even more horrible.
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