The Wicked Day

by Christopher Bunn

“Whassis? Whosis, eh?”

  “Looky here,” said another of the men. Moonlight glinted on a silver tooth in his sudden grin. “We got ourselves a fancy-lookin’ feller. Hey there, feller! Hi! We’re poor folkses an’ we’re takin’ up a collection, shee, for other poor folkses.”

  “Yesh,” hiccupped the third man. “We sez poor folkses cuz thash ush.” He attempted to bow and fell flat on his face.

  “Gettup,” said the first man. “Gettup, I sez! Yer an embarrash—an embarrashment to all us poor folkses! Gotta keep yer chin up afore these rich folkses.”

  “Which is you,” said the second man, swaying on his feet and addressing himself to Owain’s horse. “So hand over your purse, or I’ll stick ya, shee?”

  He produced a knife and waved it about in the air. The first man, who had almost succeeded in hoisting his fallen comrade to his feet, dropped his charge and plucked a club from his belt.

  “Yesh,” he said, sidling forward. “Or I’ll stick ya too!”

  “A club, you fool, is a blunt weapon,” said Owain coldly, “and thus incapable of sticking, as you so claim.” He kicked the man in the face and nudged his horse with his knee at the same time. The horse stepped forward and trampled the man with the knife. It was a warhorse and did not appreciate weapons being waved about under its muzzle.

  “Idiots,” said Owain to himself.

  But what the drunkards had been discussing stuck in his head. The Silentman. Someone had stolen a cargo of fish and attempted to sell it to the Silentman. To the Thieves Guild. His thoughts drifted back to Bordeall’s suggestion. Owain had been thinking of little else all day long. He had laughed off the suggestion at first, but he had been unable to get the idea out of his mind.

  The Thieves Guild would have plenty of gold. It was what they did. They stole it. And the regent had always decreed a lax hand as far as the Guild was concerned. Anything short of murder was his policy. Anything short of murder, my dear Owain, and you needn’t waste your time following it up. After all, it’s a safe assumption that the Guild’s spending their money in Hearne, and that’s good, isn’t it? What if a window or two gets broken? It gives more business to the glaziers, and more business is what we need.

  Owain scowled.

  He had never liked the regent’s reasoning. But the regent’s word was law.

  The lantern at the gate shone bright and clear in the night. He swung down from the horse. A servant took the horse’s reins and led it away. A few lights gleamed in the windows, but most of the house was dark. The front door swung open and he saw the silhouette of his wife in front of the light. He kissed her and she shut the door behind them, smiling.

  “Sibb,” he said, frowning, but she stopped him with a hand at his mouth.

  “Not until you get some food in you,” she said. “I know that look. Not a word more.”

  He ate at the kitchen table. The house was quiet around them. Sibb lit a candle and placed it in the middle of the table. She propped her chin in her hands and gazed at him as he ate.

  “Well,” said Owain, pushing the empty plate aside, “I didn’t marry you for your cooking, but I would’ve eloped sooner had I known about this stew.”

  “You forget,” said Sibb. “I was a dreadful cook then. My mother despaired of me. Don’t you remember the bread?”

  “I always thought we could’ve made our fortunes by selling them as bricks. Or we could’ve changed the tactics of siege warfare forever with the introduction of the catapultable loaf.”

  “Stop it!”

  A servant peeked in the kitchen and then tiptoed away, smiling. It was always good to see the master and mistress laughing.

  “Now,” said Sibb, “What’s on your mind?”

  Her husband frowned.

  “Gold is what’s on my mind.”

  “My jewels,” said Sibb promptly. “I could sell them. I never wear them, anyway, and none of the girls are likely to care about that sort of thing. They’re more interested in horses and swords.”

  Owain laughed. “I need a lot more than what your baubles could bring. The Guard’s in sad shape. We’re short of men, equipment, horses, but the regent won’t open his coffers for us. He’s adamant about it.”

  “And yet you have an idea. I can hear it in your voice.”

  “I do, though it’s not my idea. Bordeall suggested it, and even though my first inclination is to ignore his advice, I’m starting to think there might be something in it.”

  “And the idea?” she said patiently.

  “Bordeall wants to rob the Thieves Guild.”

  Night had arrived in completeness now, and nothing could be seen through the kitchen window other than a few splashes of moonlight on the rock wall in the garden. The candle on the table between them illumined the worn wood of the tabletop, the curve of the plate, and their faces. They stared at each other, both of them intent and frowning, for Sibb could scowl just as fiercely as her husband when her mind worried upon a matter.

  “The regent’s always discouraged the Guard from prosecuting the Guild. He seems to think they bring business to Hearne. Business enough to excuse their excesses.”

  “Business?” said Sibb angrily. “The Guild brings the business of mending broken windows, of buying stronger wards to keep them out, mastiffs for the garden, and higher prices in the shops. That’s not business.”

  “At least, it’s not the sort of business we should be proud of.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  Sibb pushed her chair back from the table. She returned with an apple and a knife. The fruit fell apart in neat sections under her hand.

  “Here, eat.”

  “At any other time,” said Owain, “I’d grumble and obey the regent’s wishes without another thought, but there’s something strange in the air these days. Something dark has come to Hearne, even to this house. Maybe it’s gone for now, which is well, but I fear it’ll return in some unforeseen form. The Guard’s woefully undermanned and I’d like to build them up into a force more akin to what my father had when he was in command. But I can’t do it without gold.”

  “Then steal it.”

  Sibb glared at him so fiercely that he had to smile.

  “In truth, my dear, I’d rather face a warrior on the field than you in your kitchen. A rolling-pin is a deadly weapon.”

  “I’m serious.” His wife leaned forward into the glow of the candle. Her eyes filled with light. “Steal it! I detest the regent. I loathe him. He’s a spineless shadow of a man. If he can’t rule, then the ruling must be done for him. Why, only last week, Marta, our old charwoman, told me her son was beaten at the docks by a couple of Guild enforcers. And for what? Because he refused to pay for protection.”

  “I wish you’d told me that sooner, Sibb.”

  “I only just remembered now. Our recent excitement made me forget.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  Sibb’s face softened and she smiled.

  “Better. I think her nightmares are fewer. She’s been playing with the girls lately, but she still won’t talk much.”

  “She’s our girl now,” said Owain.

  “Yes.”

  They sat for a while more in silence. Owain closed his eyes and listened to the house. Outside, the wind moaned about the eaves and peeked in the windows, but all the locks were latched and the curtains drawn against the night.

  “I’ll try my hand at thievery,” he said.

  Sibb nodded, but did not say anything.

  CHAPTER TWO

  OSTFALL

  “Tracking isn’t so difficult,” said Declan. “Once you know what to look for. Now, you see? Giverny stepped here, perhaps a day ago, I’d say.”

  He knelt down on one knee and touched a broken and withered blade of grass. Jute peered over his shoulder.

  “It doesn’t look like much of anything at all,” he said. “That could’ve been a rabbit. Or one of those hedgepigs.”

  “They’re called hedgehogs, and it wasn’t either.”

 
“If it’d been a rabbit, then we could’ve tracked it and had it for breakfast,” said Jute.

  He was not in a good mood that morning and, as far as he was concerned, he had reason. To begin with, he was still smarting over an incident that had occurred the evening before. Despite the hawk’s warning, he had ventured higher into the air than he ever had. Floating up, his feet had been higher than Declan’s head. But then he fell. It knocked the wind out of him and he could only lie there, wheezing in pain, while the other three laughed.

  To make matters worse, the ghost had sat up half the night, perched by his head and telling tales about people who had died of chest ailments. “Wheezed just like you did,” said the ghost. “It reminds me of old Booley’s death. An, airy, whistling sort of rasp. Not an unpleasant sound, mind you. Sometimes, there was a bit of a juicy gurgle in it, particularly right before he died.”

  And then, in the morning, there had been only some stale bread and an onion for breakfast. Jute could still taste the onion.

  Declan sighed. “If we hurry, we can hunt later in the day. Meat for dinner. But for now, we’re still too far behind on her trail.”

  “What’s that?”

  Declan looked where Jute was pointing. Far off on the horizon, a thin dark line was visible.

  “Your eyesight’s improving,” said Declan. “I can barely see that.”

  “Of course it is,” said the hawk.

  “What? I don’t see anything,” said the ghost.

  “It’s the forest.”

  As they hurried along, the dark line grew rapidly until Jute could see the trees. He had seen trees before, as there were some in Hearne, of course, behind the walls of the rich manors in Highneck Rise. And there had been trees on the coast when they had journeyed north, pines and little, twisted cypress. But the trees of this forest were different.

  “They’re enormous,” said Jute, forgetting for a moment that he was determined to be grumpy until he had a decent meal. “And the forest—does it go on forever? The sky, the sea, this plain, now the forest. Everything’s so big.”

  On his shoulder, the hawk chuckled.

  “There’re things in this world bigger than all of those.”

  The trail of the girl and the wolf drew them closer to the forest. The trees loomed higher, and beyond them, pale against the sky, were the snow-covered tops of the mountains.

  “Wait,” said the hawk. His head turned this way and that.

  “What is it?” said Declan.

  “I’m not sure what it is. Something strange. Something of the Dark, perhaps. Something that should not be.”

  Declan touched the hilt of his sword. He frowned. “My nose tells me nothing, master hawk, but if I’d have known if we crossed such a path. If an enemy’s in sight, then I fear we’ve already been seen. This plain is no place to hide, so let’s continue on our trail. Doubtless, it’ll lead into the forest and either the trees will hide us or something waits in its shadows.”

  “The Forest of Lome,” said the ghost. “Hmmph. I recall something distinctly unsavory about the place.”

  “What?” said Jute nervously. “What do you remember?”

  He was not sure whether he liked the look of the trees. The edge of the forest stretched away on either side further than he could see. Even though the sun was high in the sky, deep shadows lay beneath the treetops. It seemed to Jute as if they awaited the departure of the sun so that they could spill out from among the trees and join the night.

  “I don’t remember. At least, not precisely.”

  “Ogres? Bloodthirsty bears? Murder?”

  “Probably all those and much more. Undoubtedly.”

  “Must you be giving Jute notions?” said the hawk. “Kindly restrain yourself.”

  “Very well,” huffed the ghost. “As no one appreciates my conversation, I think I’ll take a nap. Wake me up when someone says something intelligent.” And with that, the ghost vanished. Jute felt a quick, cold breath against his neck and heard the ghost grumbling to itself inside his knapsack.

  Declan shook his head. “I’m afraid he’ll pipe up at the wrong moment when silence is our best defense. There must be some way of keeping our unfortunate friend quiet.”

  “I heard that,” said the ghost angrily.

  They reached the edge of the forest. Jute touched the trunk of a tree and gazed up. The trees were taller than he had thought. He could hear the wind murmuring in the tree tops. The shadows were cool and still. Dry leaves crunched underfoot.

  “The Dark was here,” said the hawk, his voice quiet. “Not so long ago. I’m sure of it now.”

  “I don’t have your nose for such things, master hawk,” said Declan, “but I trust your word. Walk in my footsteps, Jute, and keep your voice low. And ghost, for once, keep silent.”

  “I heard that,” said the ghost from inside Jute’s knapsack, but it whispered as if, for once, it understood what might be at stake.

  Declan loosened his sword in its sheath and then plunged deeper into the forest. He walked with his head forward, turning from side to side, eyes flicking down to the ground and then back up, searching through the gloom and the trees for whatever was there and whatever had been there. Jute hurried after him. Even though he was smaller and lighter than the man, he made more noise as he walked: twigs snapping, leaves crunching, and bushes rustling as he sought to thread his way through. Declan turned and frowned at him.

  “I’m trying!” said Jute. "Really, I am."

  “Try harder.”

  The trail led them deeper into the forest. The silence and the shadows grew as they went. Jute could hear the ghost mumbling to itself inside his knapsack. In front of him, Declan halted.

  “What is it?” said Jute. He sniffed the air. It smelled odd. Somehow wrong.

  “Something evil’s come this way,” said Declan quietly. “You’re right, master hawk. The Dark has been here. Not so long ago. A strange track. This print here looks like a deer, yet the next step is something different. And the stride’s too long.”

  “The smell of it’s fading,” said the hawk. “A day ago, perhaps. How odd. It’s a mix of blood and darkness and something else. Stop quivering, Jute.”

  “Sorry.”

  Jute clamped his mouth shut. He was afraid his teeth were about to start chattering. He had the feeling that something was watching him. Something in the darkness, a shadow standing behind a tree. Something perched in the branches overhead and staring down through the leaves.

  “Did someone say blood and darkness?” said the ghost, popping its head out of Jute’s knapsack.

  “And look here,” said Declan, kneeling on the ground. “These are Giverny’s prints. I think this thing, whatever it is, was tracking my sister.”

  They made greater speed then. Declan ran, one hand steady on the hilt of his sword and the other keeping his cloak close about him. Jute was hard pressed to keep up. The hawk flung himself from the boy’s shoulder and flew through the darkness. Jute was sure the bird would crash into a branch at any moment, for the trees grew close together and their branches wove together with those of their neighbors into an impenetrable and continuous thicket. But the hawk flashed in and out of the branches and for periods of time vanished deeper into the forest, ranging far from them on either side, only to appear once again in a silent flurry of wings. They came to a clearing in the forest, wide enough so that the gloom was relieved by sunlight. Overhead, blue sky was visible. The hawk flapped his way up toward it and was gone. Declan stopped below an oak.

  “She was here. Up in this tree.” He stepped back, looking up into the branches. “Whatever’s tracking her was here too.”

  “There’s a broken branch on the ground,” said Jute.

  “And blood,” said the ghost. It reappeared and crouched down on the ground. “Ooh. Look at that—though, not much, I’m afraid.”

  “Where?” said Declan. “Move! You’ll disturb the mark.”

  “I’m a ghost. I don’t disturb anything.”


  “Human blood,” said Declan after a while. His face looked pale beneath his tan. The hawk landed on the ground and settled his wings.

  “There’s a storm advancing from the east,” said the hawk. “Dark clouds over the mountains. It’ll be on us before the evening and you’ll lose the trail, yes?”

  “Perhaps,” said Declan.

  “Let’s hurry, then.”

  And so they went on, following the trail through thickets and brambles and through the shadows beneath the treetops. It grew darker as they went. The hawk settled back onto Jute’s shoulder and swayed there as the boy hurried after Declan.

  “Can’t we stop to eat?” said Jute. “It’s past lunchtime. At least, that’s what my stomach says. There must be plenty of rabbits about here. You can have a nice, fresh one yourself. My legs are tired. It’s no fun being the wind. I’d much rather just be a thief back in Hearne.”

  “Must you always be interested in your stomach? I doubt there’s a rabbit within a mile of us.” The hawk shut his beak with an angry click and then took a deep breath. When he spoke again, his voice was measured and patient. “The presence of the Dark tends to drive animals mad. They lose their minds. The scent of whatever it was that passed this way probably sent the animals in the vicinity fleeing.”

  The ghost stuck its head out of Jute’s knapsack. “In my teaching days, I had the misfortune to teach some boys whose minds were perpetually lost. I remember one boy. He got hauled into the head professor’s study for various acts of skullduggery: transforming other boys’ pillows into piles of slugs while they slept, setting fire to the snow in the wintertime, convincing the tower mice that there were islands made out of cheese just over the horizon. The mice stole a fishing ketch one day and sailed away in great excitement. The cats were furious.”

  “You’re the most infuriating ghost I’ve ever met!” snapped the hawk.

  “Be quiet,” said Declan. “I don’t mind a snapped twig or a noise here and there, but we might as well give up now if you’re all going to continue bickering like this, do you understand?”

  The ghost vanished with an aggrieved snort, and the hawk took to his wings without a word. After a while, the trees thinned before them and Jute saw that they had reached the edge of the forest. The plain stretched away into a gathering gloom. The air was cold and Jute could smell the coming rain.