I’ll give you the word, boy, if you give me something.
“Give you what?” said Jute cautiously.
One little thing for one little word.
Jute crouched down. He stared at the shadows stretching down the passage. There. There it was. A tiny disturbance in the air, like a wisp of smoke on the breeze.
One little thing.
“What’s that?”
He stared, fascinated, at the eddy in the middle of the shadows. Certainly there was no wind down here within the stillness of the Silentman’s dungeon. Nonetheless, the shadow moved. He inched closer.
The little girl.
“What?”
Turn your back on her. Walk out. Alone.
The shadows thickened. The lamp further down the passage went out. There is no telling what Jute might have said then, but at that moment, right when his mouth opened, there came to his mind a memory of sky—a bright, cold, wide open space awash with light—and there, so far away that it was only a speck of movement, flew the hawk. Jute heard his angry shriek. And that same shriek burst from his lips.
“No!”
A wind sprang up. It blew down the passage in a mighty rush that swept the darkness away. Jute tasted cool, clean air in his mouth. As quickly as it had come, the wind was gone and there were only the normal, gloomy shadows filling the passage. With a quiet pop, the oil lamp sprang back to life. The flame wavered once, as if breathed upon, and then was still.
“Hawk?” said Jute.
There was no response.
Shivering, he hurried off down the passage. Lena peered between the bars of her cell.
“Jute,” she said, her eyes wide. “What was that? Something woke me up and then there was a terrible noise!”
“Nothing. You must’ve been dreaming.”
Jute wished he had been dreaming, but it hadn’t been a dream. He glanced back down the passage and then nearly jumped when Lena grabbed his hands through the bars. Her fingers were icy cold. He chafed them with his own and tried to think, but nothing came to mind.
“Jute?”
She looked at him anxiously. He managed to smile.
“Don’t worry.”
Lena curled back up in the corner of her cell, but only after he promised he would stay nearby. He settled into the corner of an arch across from her and tried to think. As far as he could tell, there were only two ways out of the Silentman’s dungeon. By key or by magic. Either he had to have the key on the jailer’s ring that opened the wooden door he had seen the man go through, or he had to know the magic that commanded the horrible head in the stairs past the stone door. Both of them were keys, despite one being made of iron and one being made of words.
One word.
An idea wormed itself into Jute’s thoughts. If all else failed, he could always go back up the passage, around the corner and past the row of empty cells, right to where the shadows seemed to gather against the wall. Perhaps the voice was still there? He hastily squashed down that idea. The trick, obviously, would be to get hold of the jailer’s key ring.
Key ring.
Ring.
Jute frowned. There was something he should be remembering, something important to do with rings, but—shadow take it—he couldn’t remember. There it was—he almost had it. One of those endless stories Severan had told him (though, if he was honest, he had to admit he had enjoyed all of them). It had been a story concerning the old archivist of the university from hundreds and hundreds of years ago, the evil Scuadimnes. He had a key of some sort.
No. That wasn’t it.
Light wavered in the passage and all thoughts of keys and rings fled from his mind. Jute sprang to his feet. Near the door of Lena’s cell, the oil lamp flame fluttered. He felt a faint breeze on his face. Someone, somewhere, had just opened a door.
He darted across to the cell.
“Someone’s coming!” he said.
“Jute!”
“Don’t panic!” He would have done well to heed his own advice, for his heart stuttered and sweat trickled down his back. “Just keep quiet. Pretend you’re asleep. Stay in the corner and don’t move unless they come in and drag you out.”
“Drag me out?” Her voice squeaked in dismay.
“Shush. Don’t worry.”
Lena scuttled back into the corner of her cell. The oil lamp flame fluttered again. The shadows in the passage swayed with it. He felt the breeze again. It was the gentlest touch on his skin, no more than old air shifting and then settling back into its familiar stone carapace of passageways. And what an odd smell!
Jute backed away into the darkness of a corner arch. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. The air smelled of musty cold things, of damp darkness, dead dreams, and nights without stars. His vision blurred and he could suddenly see the night sky. It was studded with stars flung out across unfathomable distances. Far off, high in the sky, a tiny black spot swiftly grew in mass. As if from far away, he heard the hawk whisper in his mind.
This is the enemy, though only a servant of our ancient foe. Beware, it draws near.
“Hawk!”
The dark spot grew larger and larger, until the stars around it were blotted out. Light was extinguished. The night became blacker than night. Jute realized that the darkness was some sort of body, a creature rushing through the night toward him. The bulk of it was so great that it threatened to cover the whole sky. There was a noise of rushing wind and a howling that groaned through his bones until he could hardly stand up. The hawk shrieked in fury—a terrible, desperate cry—and the darkness abruptly veered away. Jute opened his eyes and he was standing in the passageway again, his back to the wall and his teeth clenched so tightly together his jaws ached.
You see an old memory from him who went before you. But, wait, the servant draws closer.
The hawk’s voice rustled in his mind like feathers.
“Hawk,” he said.
Hush. I cannot help you. There is too much stone and darkness between us. I am relieved to have found you alive, but you are on your own for a little while yet. Use your wits well, fledgling.
“Hawk!”
But there was no answer.
Footsteps echoed down the passageway. Hurrying footsteps. A jumble of conversation echoed against the stone walls until it sorted itself out into three voices. The first two spoke a lot. They finished each other’s sentences, began each other’s phrases, and muddled up whatever the other one was saying. Jute knew who the first two voices belonged to—the tall man and the shorter, fat man who had appeared in the dungeon earlier that day—had it only been earlier that day? The third voice hardly spoke at all. But when it did, there was a familiarity to it. A strange familiarity. Jute shivered. The peculiar scent in the air was growing stronger as well. He licked his lips, but his mouth had gone dry.
“Of course, we knew we’d nab the brat,” said the first voice. “Didn’t waste any time catching—”
“No time lost at all,” said the second voice. The shorter man, thought Jute. “So there’s no—er—no harm done, my lord. All safe and sound. Safe and sound.”
“Yes, yes! Safe and sound. The Guild’s never fallen down on a job before, never. And though we might’ve stumbled a bit on this one, handing over the wretched boy to you will be as good as the knife in the box, eh?”
“Er, you mean the untouched knife,” put in the second voice.
“Perhaps,” said the third voice. The voice was hardly more than a whisper, yet it seemed to Jute that the speaker stood by him in the shadows and was whispering into his ear. He turned, startled, but no one was there. “Perhaps,” the voice repeated. “But we are unhappy with the service you have rendered.”
“But all’s well now,” said the second voice anxiously.
“Exceedingly unhappy,” said the other.
“As I am,” said the first man. He spoke hurriedly and it seemed as if his footsteps quickened in order to complement the pace of his words. “You can’t believe how difficult it is to find re
liable help these days. Someone you can trust enough to get the job done, stick the knife in and do it right, mop up the stains afterward, and then show up the next morning with every piece of gold accounted for. Greedy little fingers. That’s the problem—everyone’s out for themselves.”
“I do my own killing,” said the third voice.
That seemed to end the conversation for the moment. The only sound left was the footsteps coming nearer, shuffling and echoing off the walls. The echo rustled in the stone corridor like the flapping of wings swooping down from the darkness, settling into a single word that murmured inside Jute’s mind.
Beware.
Beware.
Beware.
Three shadows wavered along the corridor floor and advanced up the bars of Lena’s cell. The lamp on the wall dimmed. The air grew cold. Three men appeared. Two of the men he recognized. He had been correct about their voices. The tall man and the short man. Yet this time they were both uncloaked and without hoods. Their faces were visible. Velvets and silks shone, even in the weak light. Jeweled rings on their fingers. The face of the taller man stirred Jute’s memory. A day at Mioja Square. Surely he had seen this man before.
But before he could pursue the thought any further, the third man turned. Turned into the illumination of the lamp. It was a strangely perfect face. But it was also a terrible face, hard and as implacable as stone. Light gleamed in his eye sockets and Jute realized to his horror that the glow had nothing to do with the lamp. He shivered, for just as the strange scent was familiar to him, so was the man’s face. A memory struggled up from within his mind. He knew this man. He had met him before. No. Not met. This man had—had. . .
This man had killed him.
Long ago.
Jute’s hand flew to his side. Pain blossomed there as sharp as a knife and hotter than fire. He felt wetness running through his fingers. His life was spilling out.
This man had killed him with a knife.
No.
This man had killed someone else. Someone before him.
His head ached. Feathers drifted through his mind. He could not remember.
“He is here,” said the man.
“Of course,” said the first man. He spoke with more assurance now. “Piled up there like a bundle of rags. You there! Boy! On your feet! The little brat—he’ll hop quick enough.”
A key gleamed in the man’s hand. The lock on the cell door groaned.
“Dreccan,” he said. “Get in there and haul him out.”
“My lord,” said the short stout man unhappily, but he swung the door open and stepped inside.
“I can smell him,” said the strange man again.
“There’s rather a stench in here, isn’t there? I can barely bring myself to breathe.”
At the back of the cell, the stout man bent down and hoisted Lena up by the collar. He marched her forward. She stumbled, her feet dragging on the stone. The cell door creaked and they were through. Light fell across her face, twisted, eyes squinting. One hand fluttered up as if to block out the glow of the lamp, the three faces staring at her, as if to ward away whatever was to come next.
The strange man pounced. He towered over her, his hands gripping her face. He stared down and then, with a snarl, flung her away. She collided with the cell door and then crumpled into a heap, her arms wrapped around her head.
“This is not him!” he spat.
“What?” said the tall man stupidly.
The other’s head swung around. His eyes gleamed.
“Near. He’s very near.”
A knife appeared in his hand. The two other men stepped backwards.
“By the hand of darkness,” the man said. His voice was quiet. “By the dream of darkness. By the hunger of darkness I call thee.”
The oil lamp on the wall winked out. All light was gone except for the glitter of the man’s eyes and the gleam of his knife. His eyes shone like pale stars, and the knife was a gash in the darkness that widened and bled an awful radiance that did nothing to relieve the gloom.
“By the hand of stone. By the dream of stone.”
Jute.
“By the hunger of stone I call thee.”
Jute. The hawk’s voice whispered inside his mind. You must flee before he finishes the summoning.
“By the hand of shadow.”
He is about to hear my voice. One such as he cannot be guarded against easily. There now! Look—his ring.
His ring?
“By the dream of shadow.”
Frantically, Jute strained his eyes in the darkness, trying to see. The man had no rings on his fingers. Not a man—part of his mind whispered—something other, something much older. He heard a rustling in his ears that quickly grew into a hum as if of bees approaching.
“By the hunger of shadow.”
The knife in the man’s hand was no longer a knife. It was as big as a sword, bigger than a sword, growing up toward the ceiling as if it would split the stones like a tree root. And to Jute’s horror, that’s what happened. The blade heaved and rippled with its hideous light, struggling to contain something that sought release, and then, finally, it shot up against the ceiling. With a snap, the stone cracked. Fissures zigzagged in every direction. The light crept along the fissures like pale worms that grew longer and longer as they forced their way toward the end of each crack. The ceiling bulged downward, as if something grew within its stone.
The taller of the other two men gave an inarticulate howl.
“Stop, you fool!” he said, his voice shaking. “You’ll bring the castle down on our heads! Don’t you know where we are?”
“Greater you the fool,” said the other, turning on him. “You opened your door to the Dark and we have come. I would rend your castle into ruin to find what my master seeks. I would tear Hearne down, stone by stone and soul by soul, to grasp what we seek. One life, two lives, three lives now, have stood in the gap for this city. You unwitting fool. Your miserable life and your city have been spared so far for the sake of these three meddlers. Sea, wind, and earth—may they all die in the darkness. Now, silence!”
The taller man staggered back and flung up one hand as if to protect his face. Something gleamed on his hand. A ring. The hum pulsed in Jute’s ears. It was as if a hundred wards had sprung awake at the same time, all quivering in alarm and waiting for whatever sought to intrude. The ring on the tall man’s hand flashed even brighter. Jute’s head began to ache from the hum.
Wards!
Your castle.
Wards were coming alive in the stone far above his head. Powerful wards. In the castle. There was only one castle in Hearne. A castle that none of the Thieves Guild ever approached because of the countless wards spelled into its walls. Worse than hopeless to attempt a burglary. Unless you somehow got your hands on one of the ward rings given to visitors. Best of all would be the regent’s own ring, which commanded every single ward in the castle.
Jute didn’t need any more time to think about it. He darted forward on silent feet. Even though he made no noise, the strange man whirled. The knife in his hand was once more just a knife, but one that whistled through the air at Jute’s neck. He slid under it, skidded on the stones, and deliberately collided with the regent’s knees. The man exclaimed in surprise and flung his arms out to steady himself.
The regent! That’s who the taller man was! The memory of the man’s face now made sense to Jute, but that meant. . .
No time to think.
Lena grabbed onto his hand with all the frantic determination of a drowning cat. Behind them, the strange man gave a furious shout. The regent toppled over. His hands reached down, to break his fall or to catch hold of Jute, and it was as easy as that. Jute’s one free hand flashed out. A thought crossed his mind and was gone as quickly as it had come. Surely he, of all people, would know better than that.
Never shake hands with a thief, cully.
Jute yanked Lena to her feet and they were off, ducking around the fat man and sprinting down th
e corridor into the dark. Angry voices sounded behind them. A terrible droning noise filled the air. The ground beneath them shook as if someone—something— impossibly heavy had stamped his foot.
“Jute! Jute!” sobbed Lena.
“Shut up. Just run!”
They ran. Down the passageways twisting and turning through the shadows. One left, the second right, and then straight on to the last turn. Stone and sky! Where was that last turn? It seemed such a dreadful long time in coming. Once, just once, Jute dared to look back and glimpsed a terrifying sight. Pounding around the corner was an immense figure. Something like a man but taller and broader and made of stone and darkness and stray threads of light that wriggled up to the surface of its skin and then sank back again. It had strangely jointed limbs that hinged in more places than could possibly be normal. The thing was awkward looking, but it came at a terrible pace. Behind it ran the man, his eyes shining like lamps in the dark.
“Run, Lena!”
She said nothing, but he could hear her gasping for air. They turned the last corner. It was the right corridor. He had remembered correctly. The walls were lined with lamps. The stones were swept clean of spiderwebs. At the far end of the passage was the door.
“Jute!”
“Don’t worry, cully,” said Jute. “It ain’t locked. Besides, I swooped his ring. Going to be all right.”
That, or we’re going to be dead.
Jute risked a look at the ring in his hand. A worn gold band, carved into the shape of a hawk’s head. Tiny red stones gleamed in the eye sockets. A hawk. He grinned, feeling better. He slipped the ring on his finger.
Then they were at the door. The handle turned. He flung it open and held his breath, but there were only stone steps rising before them. Stone steps that remained stone steps. Lena darted up. Jute glanced back and wished he hadn’t. It seemed as if a wall of stone and darkness surged toward him and, in its midst, a pair of eyes shone. He slammed the door shut—there was a key in the hole on the other side! He locked it and dashed up the steps four at a time. Lena stood at the top of the steps, looking bewildered. A gray wall shimmered before her. He grabbed her arm.
“No time to waste,” he said. “We have to go. Now!”
The Shadow at the Gate Page 27
