“Please,” said Jute. “I’m tired.”
“I can’t pretend to understand why the duke of Mizra would keep a poor waif with him, unless—” The hawk fell silent.
“Careful, Jute,” said Declan quietly.
“What?” said Jute.
“Where ye from, strangers?”
It was one of the men from the table by the fireplace. He stood behind Jute’s chair, swaying slightly from side to side, a tankard clutched in one hand. He took a drink and wiped his mouth.
“Good evening,” said Declan.
“I asked ye a question now, didna? Where ye from?”
“Oh, no place in particular.” Declan bent his attention back to his supper.
“Well, I shorely dinna take that as a friendly answer. Seein’ how yer strangers an’ all, that ain’t right. But I’m a forgivin’ sort, so howsabout ye buy the house a round an’ we’ll be all right? Howsabout it?”
“Driveling idiot,” said a voice from under the table. It sounded like the ghost.
“Whassat?” said the man, glaring at Jute. “Ye talkin’ ta me, boy?”
“No sir,” said Jute. “I mean, yes, sir! I mean—”
The man clouted Jute on the back of his head. Declan tensed.
“I suggest you go back to your friends,” he said. There was a peculiar edge to his voice. To Jute, it did not even sound like a human voice anymore. It seemed as if he was listening to the scraping of steel being drawn from a sheath.
“An’ if I didna?” jeered the man. “Whatcher gonna do? Throw yer spoon at me?” The man raised his hand again, but the woman Esne jostled against him, a platter of tankards in her hands.
“On the house,” she said. “An’ that’s the last for ye, Ollic, or I’ll be talkin’ ta yer wife in the mornin’ next. Go on with ye.”
The man Ollic snarled and grabbed one of the tankards. He stumbled back to the table by the fireplace. The other two men laughed. The firelight gilded their faces and, when one of them turned his head, it seemed to Jute that his eyes glinted yellow like that of an animal. The man sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
“More ale?” said Esne. She offered the platter to Declan and Jute.
“Why’d you do that?” said Declan.
She looked at him for a moment, her face expressionless.
“I don’t know who you are, stranger,” she said, her voice quiet. “But I know a killer when I see one. Your dinner’s on me. Now, eat up and maybe ye should travel on.”
“The hospitality of Ostfall is unstinting and admirable,” said Declan dryly.
Esne scowled at him. “I have ta live here. Not ye. There’s more ta this town than meets the eye, an’ it ain’t all good. That old drunk Ollic is a pighead fool an’ he dinna like strangers. But he’s a neighbor, an’ I gotta get along with my neighbors, whether I like ‘em or not. Besides, everyone’s related here, one way or the other.”
“My apologies. We’re in your debt. And I think we must intrude even further on your patience. Is there a room for us here tonight?”
She took a deep breath and then nodded reluctantly.
“I wouldna turn a dog out on a night like this. But one night only, ye hear? And ye’ll be away first thing in the morning.”
Esne gave them a room at the end of the hallway on the third floor. She lingered at the door, as if she wanted to say something more. But, after a moment, she nodded good night to them and hurried away. A small window looked out through iron bars onto the roof of the inn’s stable below. The rain slashed down outside. Declan locked the door and then, after wrapping himself in his cloak, stretched out on the floor in front of the door. The hawk emerged from Jute’s knapsack and set about smoothing his feathers.
“Disgraceful,” he said, and then tucked his head beneath his wing and fell asleep.
“Yes, wasn’t it?” said the ghost, appearing.
“And you,” said Declan, levering himself on his elbow. “You’ll keep your mouth shut when I tell you, do you understand? You’d think you’d learn a thing or two after how many hundreds of years.”
“What?” said the ghost. “What did I do? Are you casting doubt on my intelligence, sir? Well, I’ll have you know that—”
“Oh, hush,” said Jute, who had curled up on the one bed in the room (it could hardly be called a bed, as it was only a lumpy pallet of straw) and could barely keep his eyes open by this time. “I’d like to get some sleep.”
“Very well,” said the ghost. “I, er, I’m sorry about your head, Jute.”
“That’s all right. I’ve been hit harder.”
After a while, the room was quiet, the silence disturbed only by the sound of breathing and the rain tapping on the window. The ghost drifted about the room.
“It’s not that I mean to talk all the time,” it said to the sleeping hawk.
“I just can’t help talking,” it said to Declan. “I just can’t.” The man’s hands twitched in his sleep, as if he were grasping a sword or someone’s neck.
The ghost wandered over to Jute’s bed. The boy was frowning as he slept.
“The thing is,” whispered the ghost, “I forget that I’m alive unless I’m talking. Otherwise, what am I? Just a wisp of nothing. Not that I’m alive now. But I was alive, wasn’t I? Sometimes I’m not sure.”
Jute turned uneasily on his bed. He pulled the blanket up to his neck. The ghost sighed.
“You have plenty enough to worry about without bothering over an old ghost.”
The ghost gazed out the window for a while, but there was nothing much to be seen in the dark and the rain. Outside, the wind whispered against the grimy glass, running its fingers through the thatch on the roof and along the cracked gutters.
“A broken heart, that’s what it was,” said the ghost sadly. “I remember now. At least, I think I do. Wars, wizards, kings and queens. The Dark hunting down my trail, desperate to get its hands on that blasted book. Why did I ever write the thing? Despite all of that, it was a broken heart that did for me. She bore him three daughters. My fault entirely, I suppose. I can’t remember her face anymore. Oh, well. No use drinking from empty cups.”
The ghost looked around the room, sighed, and then seeped out through the keyhole.
Declan awoke instantly but did not move. The room was dark. Something had woken him. A slight noise. Something out of the ordinary. He could hear the beat of rain on the roof and pattering against the window, but it had not been that noise. He could hear the rasp of the hawk breathing and, over on the bed, Jute stirring in his sleep, mumbling to himself. No. It had not been any of those sounds. Something else.
And then the sound came again. Right in his ear.
“Declan!”
It was the ghost.
“Blast you, ghost,” Declan said. “If you ever do that again, I swear I’ll—”
“There’re people coming up the stairs,” said the ghost. “Bad people. They don’t look nice. If I wasn’t dead already, I’d be worried.”
“How many?”
“At least three, four, maybe more. They’re on the first flight. I got scared and ran.”
“You’re dead. You shouldn’t be scared.”
“I was scared for you,” said the ghost with dignity.
Declan knelt by Jute’s bed and gently shook the boy’s arm.
“Jute. Wake up.”
The boy’s eyes opened wide.
“Quiet,” said Declan. “I think we have unwelcome visitors.”
“Who is it? Is it the wihht?” Jute grabbed for his knapsack and tied it shut with shaking fingers.
“I don’t know yet. Hurry. Get your coat on.”
“The wihht?” said the ghost. “I don’t think so. I hope not. Just men. I think. There was something strange about some of ‘em, though.”
“Men can be evil enough on their own,” said the hawk. He shook himself once, and then hopped down to the floor. He paused by the door, his head tilted to one side, listening. “A little time left,
I think,” said the hawk. “What’ll it be, Farrow? The door or the window?”
“The only one fitting through that window would be you, master hawk.”
“If you please. I don’t fancy trying my wings in these cramped walls.”
Declan pushed the casement out and the hawk hopped up onto the window ledge and was gone.
“Now,” said Declan.
He eased the door open and peered out. No one was there. They tiptoed down the hallway with the ghost drifting after them. The air was sour with years of slovenly housekeeping. When they came near the top of the stairs, Declan crouched down and sidled forward. He crept back to Jute and shook his head.
“They’re at the bottom of the stairs.”
“What do we do?” said Jute. “That’s the only way down.”
Declan did not answer. He tested the handle of the nearest door. It was locked. He produced a piece of wire from his pockets and stooped over the handle. The door eased open silently. He motioned Jute and the ghost inside. The smell of sleep and stale air filled the room. The door closed silently behind Declan, but not silently enough. Perhaps a shift in the air, perhaps the click of the latch locking again; whatever it was, it was enough to wake the sleeper in the bed. The man managed a gasp, which ended abruptly as Declan lunged across the room.
“You didn’t have to hit him that hard,” said Jute.
“Better once than twice,” said Declan.
He stood at the door, his ear pressed to the wood. They waited for what seemed like a horribly long time. Jute expected the door to be broken down, to hear the splintering of wood and shouts and blades glinting in the darkness.
“Stop grinding your teeth together,” said the ghost.
“Sorry.”
“I wish I had teeth,” said the ghost.
Declan turned and glared at both of them. He mouthed something, which was probably “Be quiet, you fools,” but to Jute’s nervous state of mind it looked more like “I’ll cut your throat if you don’t shut up.”
Out in the hallway, a board creaked. They heard a sniffing sound, as if made by someone whose nose was running. A soft sort of snuffle just outside the door. Declan’s hand drifted up to his shoulder, fingers closing around the hilt of his sword. But then there was another creak and the sound of footsteps receding away down the hall.
Declan nodded at Jute.
“All right,” he said. “Out the door and down the stairs. There’s something odd going on here. Odder than just a couple of night marauders. Get out of the inn as fast as you can. Don’t wait for me. If we get separated, I’ll meet you outside of town, at the foot of that waterfall we heard. Ghost, you stay with Jute and keep your mouth shut.”
Declan eased the door open. Further down the hallway, several figures were stealthily creeping toward the room at the end of the hallway. One of them carried a hooded lantern that cast a faint gleam on the floor. It was not much light at all, barely enough to relieve the darkness, but it was enough for Jute to see their knives. He tiptoed away, shoulders hunched and the back of his neck prickling.
Surely they would turn and see him. And the sound. He knew the sound that would happen: the whisper of a knife as it flipped end over end through the air. Surely he would hear it now. But there was only the drum of his own heart in his ears, and Jute slunk down the steps, down into the safety of deeper darkness. He stumbled at the bottom of the stairs, expecting another step, and reached out to steady himself on the wall.
“Careful,” said the ghost.
It was impossible to see. Jute had a vague memory of a landing at the second floor. Several doors on the right. Or were they on the left? Where was the staircase leading down into the inn’s common room? And where was Declan?
Jute crept along the wall. One door. A second door. Someone snoring behind it. A third door, and then an empty space. The stairs. Behind him, something creaked. He froze. The creak was unbearably loud in the silence. He strained his ears, listening to the inn. It was a quiet building, as far as buildings went. Houses built of wood tended to sigh and creak continuously, particularly at night, but stone buildings were mostly silent. The inn was built of stone with a slate roof.
Jute waited for the pounding of his heart to subside. The slight sounds of the inn came whispering to him. The sounds of sleep. Someone turning uneasily on their bed. The wind sighing in the eaves outside, sighing and waiting for whatever it was that would be coming that night. And then, right when he had breathed a sigh of relief, there came a sudden thump of running feet from upstairs, a thud and a shout, and then the ringing clash of steel against steel on the stairs. Jute turned and stumbled down through the darkness, feeling his way step by step.
“Watch out!” said the ghost.
“What?” said Jute, and then he tripped over something (a mop and bucket) and, with a tremendous clatter, fell flat on his face at the foot of the stairs. He jumped up. A dim light shone from the embers in the common room fireplace. A figure appeared in the kitchen door, wrapped in a dressing gown. Esne. She said something—her mouth opened and he saw her eyes filled with shadows and sleep—but he did not hear her, for he was already dodging around the tables and running for the door.
The handle whispered under his hand. He flung himself to one side as the ward in it quivered into life. There was a brief, soundless flash of light and heat and then the room was plunged back into shadow. Jute blinked and rubbed his eyes. Glaring white spots danced before his vision.
Something rolled thumping down the stairs and came to rest in a dark clump on the floor. Esne shrieked. A man leapt down the stairs with a sword in his hands. Declan. He whirled and beat back a wave of figures that dashed down the stairs after him. Iron shone in the dim light.
“Get the boy too!” shouted someone. “Esne! Get him, if ye know what’s good for ye!”
“Oh dear,” said the ghost.
Esne strode across the room, her nightgown flowing out behind her. But her face was weary and she clutched at Jute in a half-hearted manner. He ducked under her hand and darted into the kitchen. The glowing coals on the hearth revealed the face of the potboy yawning on his bed of rags by the fire. His eyes widened at the sight of Jute, and he fumbled for the poker hanging on the hearth wall. Jute hurtled past him. The poker hissed through the air behind him.
Jute cringed as he grabbed the handle on the back door, but it wasn’t warded; it was only stiff with rust. He flung it open and shot out the door. Footsteps splashed toward him across the muddy yard behind the inn. He did not wait to see who it was (or what it was, a voice in his mind pointed out) and darted away through the night and the rain.
For a sickening moment he was disoriented. There was only the rain and the darkness and the muddy streets twisting in and out of the jumbled houses. A dog barked close by. But then Jute heard the rumble of the waterfall somewhere further away in the night. The footsteps pounding along behind him did not slow up. They sounded as if they were gaining on him. Jute ducked down an alley and then clambered up a stonewall and out onto a roof. He peered over the edge. A man ran along the alley. As he passed by Jute’s hiding place, he slowed. It was one of the men from the inn. Not the drunk Ollic, but one of the other men from his table. The one with yellow eyes. He crept down the alley, stopping every few steps to examine the ground. Not that there could be anything to see in the rain. The alley was practically a stream sluicing between the stone walls on either side. But still, the man bent his head low over the mud and water. He had a large, strangely shaped head. Long and stretched. And there was also something peculiar about how he moved. His stance was more like that of a dog sniffing for the scent of its prey.
Jute froze.
The man was sniffing!
Sniffing and snuffling, his head lower and lower until he was so bent over that he had to steady himself with one hand in the mud. After a moment, though, the man straightened up and hurried down the alley, disappearing into the night.
“Was he trying to smell you?” said the ghost from
inside Jute’s knapsack.
“I don’t know. Yes, I think so.”
“Wake me up when this is all over,” said the ghost. “My nerves can’t stand it anymore.”
“Ghost aren’t supposed to be afraid,” said Jute.
“Shows how much you know about ghosts.”
For some reason, this cheered Jute up. True, he was lying on top of a roof in a strange village in the cold rain in the middle of the night, and Declan and the hawk were nowhere to be seen. The day (rather, the night) was turning out badly. But the fact that the ghost was afraid was, oddly enough, an encouraging thought.
Jute wiped rain from his eyes and inspected his surroundings. He was on top of a stable behind a house. A muddy yard separated the two. Light glimmered in one of the windows of the house, but then vanished. Further on his right, past a rubbish pile, loomed the back of another house. From what he could see, squinting in the dark, he did not have much choice other than the alley, unless he wanted to start climbing over roofs. He scowled.
It would be much simpler if I could fly.
Hawk! Where are you?
But there was no answer. There was only the patter of the rain and the moan of the wind. Jute hitched his knapsack up more securely on his shoulders and then climbed back down the wall to the alley below. He slunk through the darkness. The moon was down. Not a single star could be seen. His senses felt raw, quivering, and desperate to hear and smell and feel danger before it found him. He sidled up the end of the alley and peered out.
Further down the street, visible only as a dark shape, walked the figure of a man. The man stopped at the first house he came to and tapped on the door. The door opened and Jute saw the blur of a face in the opening. He could not hear their conversation. They were too far away. The door shut again and the man went to the next house. Again, he knocked softly on the door. The scene was repeated. The door opened, and a face peered out and then disappeared again behind the door after their conversation.
The man moved onto the third house. This time, however, the house was uncomfortably near where Jute was hiding across the street. He could easily see the face peering out of the door, a candle clutched in one hand. The light illumined the face of an old man in a nightshirt, knuckling sleepily at his eyes. The first man quickly reached out and extinguished the candle, but not before Jute saw his face as well. It was the drunk from the inn. Ollic. And despite the wind sighing around the chimneys and through the eaves and the hiss of the rain around him, Jute could hear their conversation.
The Wicked Day Page 4
