“What better way to spend your youthful years than in service to Hearne and our glorious regent?” said the herald.
“Oh, stow your gab!” hollered the tavern keeper from behind his bar. “Have a pint of ale and let decent folks get back to drinking!”
The herald opened and closed his mouth like a gasping fish, momentarily discomfited by this attack from an unexpected quarter, but then he rallied. “Ale? Of course!” he hollered back. “A round for the house on the purse of the Guard!”
A roar of approval went up, and the herald’s back was slapped by many a callused hand as he made his way up to the bar. He ensconced himself there with a foaming tankard of ale in each fist. As the evening wore on, a succession of farmers’ sons sidled up to him to talk in whispered tones.
And so it went in those days, while the skies grew colder and the days shorter. The heralds rode their horses from village to village along the Rennet Valley east of Hearne, as well as among the fishing villages up and down the coast. They spun their stories well, their pitches and pleas, and, if they judged their audience meek enough, their browbeatings and stern hectoring. They spoke glowingly of the regent, of Hearne’s tall towers and majestic walls; they confided over glasses of wine about that most awesome of figures, Owain Gawinn, the Lord Captain of the Guard, even though in reality they had probably never themselves had the privilege to speak much with such an august personage, unless it had been things such as “No, sir!” and “Yes, sir!” and “Right away, sir!”
“Forty-seven,” said Bordeall.
“Forty-seven?” Owain frowned and leaned back in his chair. “I’d been hoping for closer to a hundred. Two hundred. Bah.”
“I’m pleased enough with forty-seven,” said the other. “It’s forty-seven more than we had before, and that’s nothing to sneeze at. Even one man can be enough to turn the tide of battle. You know that.”
“You’re right, you’re right.”
Outside the window on the practice ground, the air rang with the shouts of the sergeants and the gasps of the recruits as they panted for air. Sword clanged on sword, or more dully against the rows of battered wooden posts standing in the center of the grounds. As always, several neighborhood children were perched on top of the stonewall rimming the practice ground, yelling advice and shouting insults. The autumn sun shone down, not providing any heat to the proceedings, but that was fine as the recruits were sweating due to their exertions.
“Not too bad,” said Owain grudgingly. “They’ll be dreaming of swords rather than plows and fishing nets soon enough. Now, tell me, old friend, is there any gossip on the street about our recent exploits?”
“Nothing as of yet.”
“Knowing nothing makes me nervous. I’d much rather know my enemy was out stalking me than know nothing at all. Frankly, I’m disappointed with the Guild. I thought them capable of more than this inaction. Don’t they have a dread enforcer, some cold-blooded killer from Aum—”
“Aum’s a ruin,” said Bordeall mildly. “Has been for over two hundred years.”
“I know. But the idea of coming from a ruined city lends mystique to the legend, doesn’t it? A murdering ghost of a man from a dead city? That’s probably enough to put the fear of the Dark into any self-respecting thief.”
“They call him the Knife, is what I’ve heard. An assassin. A man conversant with any weapon at hand.”
“Just the sort who should be in the Guard.”
“No.” Bordeall shook his head. “Not such a man. He wouldn't bend easy to orders. If he did, men as him are the sort who go off and do horrible, needful things that no one else can do. And then, when the danger has been defeated and men live in more peaceful times, such a man is shunned, an embarrassment to his country and to his fellow man. Times of peace don’t care to remember the times of blood.”
Owain laughed. “I didn’t take you for a philosopher, Bordeall. Have a care. Otherwise you might end up in the salons of Highneck Rise, entertaining the lords and ladies with fine words.”
The afternoon afforded Owain a certain amount of irritation. After two hours of inspecting a string of horses from Vomaro and arguing prices with the trader, Owain was left with the nagging suspicion that the blackguard had bested him. True, the horses were of good stock and well-broken, but surely he should not have paid so much gold.
“An’ another herd to be finished breaking next month,” said the trader. He patted his fat stomach and eyed Owain blandly. “Any interest, my lord?”
“Interest enough,” growled Owain.
He had always prided himself on his well-shuttered face, but somehow the trader had discerned that the Guard needed the horses. Needed them badly. And there was something dishonest in the man’s eyes. Smiling, the trader bowed himself out of Owain’s presence, and Owain stomped off, up the stone steps behind the armory to the top of the wall, where he strode back and forth and contented himself with the thought that it was the Guild’s gold he was spending and not his own. Still, he did not like being made a fool of. Curse the man. Curse all Vomarone swine with their fawning, foppish ways. But the horses were well-broken. They would take easily to the drill.
Owain stared out across the green slopes of the Rennet Valley and frowned.
The Farrows.
They trained the best horses in all of the duchies of Tormay. Even the regent would admit that. But it had been a long time since the Farrows had come to Hearne. He had heard no word of them. Cullan Farrow was fair in trading. He drove a shrewd bargain, but he was an honest man. All of Owain’s favorite steeds in the Guard stables had come from Farrow stock.
It began to rain—a cold, driving rain that seemed to slant down from every possible direction so that it was no use attempting to hide under the narrow overhangs of parapet and tower and wall. Owain retreated back down the steps and sought refuge in the armory. The rain hammered against the window, turning the view of the city into a muddle of vague gray shapes. He sat at his desk and fiddled at his ledger in distraction, not thinking about the numbers and succeeding only in spilling ink on the paper and staining his shirt. Sibb would have something to say about that.
A knock sounded on the door.
“Enter,” barked Owain.
Bordeall stuck his head in.
“They’ve returned,” he said, his face expressionless. And before Owain had time to ask who “they” were, Hoon and Posle popped into the room, Hoon with a smirk on his face and Posle looking positively ill.
“You smell like a brewery,” said Owain.
“Money well spent, guvnor,” said Hoon. He navigated his way to the only other chair in the room, examined it for a moment as if to make sure it wouldn’t try to escape, and then flopped down. “Money well spent. Had to do a spot of mixing with the locals. Do as they do, that sort of thing. Was Posle’s idea, and not half bad. Sharp little feller. Puts away the ale with the best of ‘em. A tankard clutched in each fist. He stood ‘em down. Brave as a soldier on the field, he lifted first the one then t’other. Drained ‘em dry to the last drop, and then what’d he do? Why, he hollered for another round. Fill ‘em up, cully, sez he, an’ I won’t have it any other way.”
“I’m not interested in hearing about your drinking,” said Owain. “Pull yourself together, man. Any news of our theft?”
“Theft? Oh, aye. Our theft. Listen close, guvnor.” Hoon leaned forward, laying one finger alongside his nose in a confiding manner. A wave of ale fumes washed over Owain. “The word’s on the street. Guild’s put out the mark on ye. Well, not ye specifically, guvnor, for they don’t know who did the dastardly deed, so they can’t say it’s ye that did it, if ye follow my reasoning. But whoever did the deed, that’s who they want. A hundred pieces of gold for news that leads to your door, an’ two hundred for your skin.”
“The Silentman’s furious,” said Posle. “Dead or alive, he wants you.” The little man gulped and considered his words. He wrung his hands. “Us. Dead or alive, he wants us. That means me!”
“Aye,” said Hoon. “It were all they were talking about down in the taverns of Fishgate. Guild an’ no Guild alike. Enterprising folks we have here in the city. Many of ‘em already discussing how they’d be spending the gold. Mebbe the posh folks in Highneck Rise are talking of it, too? Never met a rich folk yet that weren’t grabby for more.”
“A hundred pieces of gold.” Bordeall’s eyebrows went up. “I’d turn you in myself for money like that, but there’s the problem of my own guilt. Stones and shadows. That’s more money than most honest men see in a lifetime.”
“Well, now we know the news is out,” said Owain. “But no word of our particulars? That fat man who wriggled out of our hands? Nothing to tell from him of our looks or voices or anything like that?”
“Nothing we heard, guvnor. Nobody said a thing about that.”
Owain nodded. “Can’t say I’ve ever had a price on my head. At any rate, keep your mouths shut, particularly when you’re at your ale. It wouldn’t do for the Guild to be looking to the Guard for its culprit. We’ll ride this out, and then—” He banged his fist down on his desk. “—And then, by stone, we’ll cut their purse again.”
“My lord,” said Posle. “If I could, er, have a word alone?”
“No need. We’re all comrades here.” Owain chuckled. “Comrades in crime. Speak up, man.”
“My woman an’ me, we’ve been talking, my lord, an’ we feel maybe it’s high time we see other parts of Tormay. City life ain’t all it’s cracked up to be, an’ I’m hankering after some land in the country. Put our roots down. It’s old age, you see. Maybe grow some of them cucumber trees and tomatoes. Some goats for milk an’ cheese—”
“No,” said Owain.
“No?” said Posle, looking crestfallen.
“No. And cucumbers don’t grow on trees. So, definitely no.”
Owain arrived home that evening in good humor, despite the rain growing colder as the sun fell behind the curtain of clouds and the edge of the sea. He shut the gate behind him and walked up the path. It was quiet inside, but he could smell dinner. He followed the scent into the kitchen and found his wife there.
“Feels almost like snow,” he said, kissing Sibb on the cheek.
“Early winter?” she said.
“If we’re unlucky.” He paused here and scowled. “I think this year is not proving to be the luckiest of years. How’re the children? How’s the little one?”
“Quiet, which makes me nervous. They’ve been down in the basement, rummaging about, and then up in the attic for most of the afternoon, doing something with wood and rope and an old pulley. I didn’t want to look too closely, as they seemed extremely pleased with themselves, and no one’s come running in tears or streaming blood, so that’s all right.”
“A pulley,” said Owain, mystified.
“Yes, a pulley.”
“I suppose it’s better I don’t know. As long as they don’t break their necks, or someone else’s neck, for that matter.”
He wandered over to the stove and twitched the lid off a pot.
“Stewed chicken? With dumplings?”
“Get your fingers out of there. It’s far from done yet. You’re looking smug. What have you been up to?”
“Up to? My dear, you wound me.”
Realization sparked in her eyes. “You robbed the Guild. Tell me.”
He told her. In great detail. She was, after all, his wife.
“And that’s why, my love, the coffers of the Guard are full. The Thieves Guild is more generous than the regent. And they’re generous in their bounties, as well. I’ve one on my head for a hundred piece of gold. Though, the Guild doesn’t know it’s me, of course.”
“I should turn you in myself for that kind of money.”
CHAPTER TEN
CONVINCING OWAIN GAWINN
They stole horses from a prosperous-looking farm early the next morning. Rain slashed down, so cold that it teetered on the edge of freezing into sleet. A light shone in the window of the farmhouse on the other side of the yard from the barn.
“You’re sure there’s no dog?” said Declan.
“If there is, he’s asleep in the house,” said Jute. He tilted his head to one side, trying to listen more closely to the wind. “Definitely no dog outside.”
“No dog,” said the ghost, drifting up out of the rain. “I just checked. Assorted chickens, two roosters, cows, pigs, and—yes—there are several horses. For the life of me, I can’t understand why I’m aiding and abetting your criminal activity. Low company begets low character, I suppose.”
The chickens managed a few sleepy clucks when Declan and Jute crept into the barn. The place was deliciously dry and warm with the scent of livestock, hay, and oats. One of the cows rolled an irritated eye at them, stamping a bit.
“They need to be milked,” said Declan. “And soon. The farmer’ll be out in less than ten minutes, I’d bet. Quickly now. That gray for you and the sorrel for me. Not the best of horses, but we can’t be choosy. Ah, there’s bridles and blankets hanging on that wall. I like this fellow. He keeps an orderly place.”
“Are we, er, leaving money for him?” said Jute. “Or are we stealing these horses?”
“Leaving money, but taking without permission.”
“It’s still stealing,” said the ghost.
Declan placed two gold pieces on top of a railing in the sorrel’s stall.
“But at great profit to the farmer,” he said.
They reached the top of the Rennet Gap that afternoon. The rain had continued through the day, sometimes mixed with sleet and hail. Jute’s hands were numb on the reins, and he could not feel his nose and ears. The wind came at them hard at the top of the gap, howling through the oak trees and bending what little grass there was over until it lay flat along the ground. Jute tried several times to speak with the wind, but it must have still been in a bad temper, for it refused to answer.
“We’ll make Hearne by nightfall,” said Declan. “Not bad for a farmer’s nags.”
“If we aren’t attacked by bandits or wolves or washed away by a flood,” said the ghost darkly. “All quite likely, judging by our luck so far.”
Jute did not say anything, but he looked back as they stood for a moment at the top of the rise. All of the Rennet Valley to the east was invisible to the eye, misted with rain, silvery gray, dense, and impenetrable. He could have been looking out over a great abyss, the edge of the world, rather than across the slopes of a valley. There was something out there. He was sure of it. Something deep within the mist. Something coming closer. He shivered and turned away.
The horses kept up a good pace, despite having run all day, and Declan urged them along with care. They stopped for a quick rest and a bite to eat in a copse of oaks, more for the sake of the horses than for themselves. The horses cropped eagerly at the meager grass poking up through the muddy earth. Rain dripped down from the branches overhead.
“Ah, onions, cheese, and stale bread,” said the ghost, sniffing the air. “An intriguing meal. Gourmet, robust, and pleasing to the palate. Pleasing, that is, if one has no sense of taste.”
“Hurry,” said the hawk grumpily. “Food! We have no time for such things.”
The horses struck out with renewed vigor. They passed through fields of blackened cornstalks protruding from the ground like fingers flayed of their flesh and frozen by the winter into death. The rain seemed to be falling horizontally now due to the force of the wind. Jute hunched his head down into the sodden folds of his cloak and tried not to think about how miserable and cold he was. He wondered where Severan was. Perhaps back at the Stone Tower. Or maybe further north at the old cottage he had spoken about.
Somewhere deep inside of Jute, hope flared like a tiny, warming flame. A cottage. It sounded like a lovely sort of thing. A bed, his own bed, made of wood and having a mattress stuffed fat with feathers, not straw or hay. A fireplace with a spit mounted over the grate. Perhaps a chair or two. Several chests full of marvelous things such as woo
len blankets, a pair of boots for the winter months, a fishing pole (he had never fished with a pole before, but he had always thought it a wonderful idea). And, of course, one entire chest devoted to food, with a couple of well-waxed cheeses stinking deliciously, a string of sausages, a side of bacon wrapped in oilcloth, turnips, potatoes, and withered winter apples. And onions.
Jute’s stomach growled. He still wasn’t tired of onions.
The moon was high in the east and the sun was long sunk into its sleep when the walls of Hearne came into view. The walls were washed pale by moonlight but the countryside around them was lost in darkness. Torches flared above the main gates. The Rennet River murmured and flowed below the wall, swollen with its winter weight and riding high beneath the bridge that crossed over to the gates.
“Hello the gate!” called out Declan. They clattered over the bridge and pulled the horses to a halt beneath the wall. There was only silence in response. He yelled again, but still there was no answer.
The wind tickled at Jute’s ear. It tickled him again, harder. He turned.
“Look at the mist,” he said, frowning.
“Ah, mist,” said the ghost. “Frequently seen hovering above bodies of water, moors, marshes, and other terrain features. Most people don’t know this, but mist is caused by the—how can I say this delicately?—digestive habits of flocks of birds during certain key hours of the early morning and late evening. I often lectured about this phenomenon. Mist occurs when—”
“The mist is moving.”
“Yes,” said the ghost. “It does that when blown by the wind. You are even more uneducated than I previously believed, aren’t you?”
“The wind is blowing the other way, you nitwit.”
“Really!” huffed the ghost.
“He’s right,” said the hawk. “It’s moving this way and it shouldn’t be. Declan!”
“Travelers at the gate!” yelled Declan.
He urged his horse up against the gate and kicked savagely at the wood, but the noise was inconsequential, lost in the clamor of the river below them and the wind moaning against the wall. Behind them, further down the river, the mist grew and gathered. It shone a dirty gray under the moonlight. The mist surged forward, even though the wind and rain blew against it.
The Wicked Day Page 17
