Stop what?
You’re not a thief anymore. You are the anbeorun Windan. The guardian of the wind. Be yourself.
Fine for you to say, said Jute. You still haven’t taught me how to fly. I’m more likely to fall flat on my face than soar. Who’s going to be impressed with that? Some guardian I am.
The steward led them down hallways that opened into anterooms and observatories and miniature gardens vaulted over with glass that revealed the night studded with stars. They walked down yet more halls, each more gorgeous and magnificent than the last, until Jute, who prided himself on maintaining an excellent sense of direction while investigating strange houses, was thoroughly lost. Doors opened into yet more halls and waiting rooms; they trudged up a flight of stairs and stepped carefully through a gallery wet with soap and water and cluttered with drudges industriously scrubbing on their hands and knees.
“Do you even know where the regent is?” said Owain. “Are you lost? Is this your first day on the job?”
“Very good, my lord,” said the steward, keeping a wary eye on the captain and increasing his speed just enough to keep him out of range. “Almost there, my lord.”
A marble hall opened before them. Their footsteps whispered on the polished stone. They came to a final door and the steward opened it with a deep bow. Multicolored lights glimmered from candles set behind sconces of stained glass. Tucked out of sight in an alcove, a trio of musicians wove music that gently filled the room. A pair of glass doors opened out onto a balcony. White roses climbed the pillars of the balcony and then fell back down in abandon. On the balcony, faces turned toward them from around a table, blurred in the moonlight.
A short fat man stood up and hurried to Owain’s side.
“Gawinn, always a pleasure to see you,” he said, trying to smile but only succeeding in looking as if he had a stomachache. “But what are you doing here? This isn’t the best time.”
The man’s gaze settled on Declan and Jute. His mouth fell open.
“I don’t care what time it is, Dreccan Gor,” said Owain. “I’m not in the best of moods. We need to speak to Botrell now. Now, do you hear me?”
“Yes,” said Gor, still staring at Jute.
“Gawinn, my dear fellow,” called a voice from the table. “Lovely to have you drop in like this, but why don’t you run along now? There’s a good man.”
Owain pushed past the fat man and strode to the table, motioning Declan and Jute to follow him. Candles lit an array of wine bottles, glasses, and plates piled with fruits and cheeses, all crowded across a white silk tablecloth. There were several people sitting around the table, but only one of them commanded attention. The regent. Nimman Botrell. He sprawled gracelessly in his chair. His face was slack and his mouth wet with wine, but his eyes were sharp and attentive. They flickered over to Jute and Declan. His eyes widened for a split second—Jute did not notice, for he was looking hungrily at the cheese—and then his face smoothed, became bland.
“My Lord Captain of the Guard,” drawled the regent. “Must you forever be plaguing me? No, you needn’t say a word. I’m sure you’ve come to ask for more money. That’s it, isn’t it? Always money. So tiresome. Isn’t there more to life, I ask you, such as this splendid little red from Thule? I’d offer you some, Gawinn, but it’d be wasted on your untutored palate. Soldier, don’t you know.” This last comment was made to the others sitting around the table. They tittered politely.
“My lord,” said Owain through gritted teeth, “I wouldn’t dare intrude on your precious time unless I thought it of vital importance to the safety of our city. This is such a time.”
“Doubtlessly. Such a bore, I’m sure.” The regent yawned. “Impending doom, a tidal wave, some sort of dreary plague decimating the commoners. They can all wait until the morning. Now, who are these, er, guests of yours?” He sat up a bit straighter and peered at them. “Shadows above. That’s a hawk. Didn’t notice at first. Tame, eh? Quite a big fellow.”
“They’re the reason why I’m here. Allow me to introduce Declan Farrow.” Here, Declan stepped forward and bowed. “The hawk, of course. He can talk. And this is Jute.” Jute stepped forward as well and made an awkward bow in imitation of Declan.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” said the regent. “I had a talking magpie when I was a youngster. It said things like ‘cake’ and ‘die.’ Farrow, Farrow—that name means something. Just can’t bring it to mind.”
“Horses, my lord,” said one of the other people at the table.
“Oh, yes. Horses. Are you one of those Farrows?”
“A long time ago, my lord,” said Declan.
The hawk’s voice whispered in Jute’s mind.
Careful. Something is not what it seems here. This regent fellow bears a ward that is more than just a ward. It guards him, yet it examines everything around him. More than examine. I think it seeks to intrude on your thoughts.
Even as the hawk spoke, Jute became aware of a gentle pressure on the edge of his mind. It was as soft as a feather, drifting in and out of his awareness. The regent’s eyes settled on him and the pressure increased. Jute pushed back in his mind, hard, and the regent dropped his wineglass. It broke in a spatter of glass on the marble floor of the balcony.
“Shadow take it!” said the regent.
“Another glass, my lord,” said one of the ladies at the table, but the regent waved it away.
“What was it you were saying, Gawinn?” he said. “Get to the point, man. You’ve already ruined my evening, but you needn’t ruin it much longer.”
“Hearne is under threat of attack, my lord. An army is massing in the east. Beyond the Morn Mountains. I want you to invoke the writ of sovereignty so that I can demand the mobilization of the duchies, from Harlech to Harth, so that Hearne might be defended, and with it, all of Tormay.”
The regent stared at him for a moment, astonished. Then he let out a bray of laughter. “For a moment I thought you said an army. Beyond the Morns. The only place beyond the Morns is the duchy of Mizra. Fine fellow, the duke of Mizra. He has manners, don’t you know. Just had him here to visit. Good taste in horses. Excellent clothing, too.”
“I did say beyond the Morns, my lord. Yes, the duchy of Mizra.” Owain ground his teeth together and then unclenched his jaw, forcing himself to continue. “Hearne will be attacked by Mizra once the spring thaw sets in. A matter of weeks, at most. I need the writ of sovereignty.”
“Bosh, man! Absurd. Nonsense. On what do you base these ridiculous claims?”
“The words of these two.”
“And they are experts, scholars, renowned for their wisdom?” The regent yawned. “More wine! Give me a fresh glass. Ah, yes. Thank you, my dear. You’re too kind.”
“This boy is the wind guardian, my lord. The stillpoint of the wind.”
“The wind guardian? Isn’t that some kind of silly bedtime story for children?”
But he believes. The hawk’s voice was puzzled in Jute’s mind. He believes what Owain Gawinn says. I can feel it on the edge of his thoughts. Careful, now. A strange game is afoot here and I do not see how it will play out.
“He speaks the truth, my lord,” said Jute.
Those around the table examined him with interest. Just on the edge of his sight, he saw that the fat man was shifting from foot to foot. Sweat gleamed on his bald head.
“Oh?” The regent leaned back in his chair and took a sip of wine. He smacked his lips. “Now, boy, who exactly are you again? Right, of course, you claim to be the guardian of the wind. That’s what he said, Gor, is it not?”
“Yes, my lord,” said the short fat man. “Perhaps he, er. . .”
“Perhaps he might be the guardian as he claims? Is that what you are saying, Gor? You hear? My own chief counselor, my sage advisor, thinks you might be the wind guardian. Who am I to gainsay him? I’m merely the regent and. . .” Here, he stared down into his empty wine glass and frowned. “. . . And I’ve drunk a lot of wine this evening. Quite a lot.”
; “But not enough, my lord,” said someone at the table, leaning forward with a bottle.
“Thank you. Not enough. Never enough. Yes, well, it’s not every day we have the guardian of the wind in our castle. Rare day, indeed. A historic day for Hearne. I suppose it’s incumbent upon us to extend our hospitality. To you and this, this Farrow fellow. And your pet hawk too, don’t worry.” The regent focused blearily on the hawk and raised his glass. “Always been fond of birds of prey. Devotee of the hunt, that’s me. Go on and say something, my dear bird. Something, anything? No? But you must understand, Gawinn, I can’t commit to this idea, this idea of our young friend being the wind guardian, without a little interview on the part of the court wizard. Merely a formality. Check credentials, you know. First thing in the morning. I’m sure he’s sound asleep at the moment. Wouldn’t want to bother him. First thing in the morning, however. No writ of sovereignty until then.”
“My lord,” said Owain, grinding his teeth together, “while I appreciate your startling kindness to my guests, I think it vital that—”
“No writ until then,” repeated the regent, wagging one finger.
He only plays at being drunk, said the hawk in Jute’s mind. There is more going on here than we can see. Do not trust this man.
“Find you a nice room to sleep in, my dear boy,” said the regent. “I’m sure you’d like a bath, too. You look rather grimy. Gor! Call for a couple dozen of our best footmen and get them on it, straight away.” He yawned. “Getting late. Perhaps we should say good night for the night. Ha! That’s not bad.”
“Very good, my lord,” said Gor.
Doubtless, there is a different thought in his mind than what he says. I do not understand the currents here, but there is a hidden thing here and it runs dark and deep. Look at his hand.
Jute glanced down and saw that the regent’s hand, the one on his thigh and half hidden by the folds of the tablecloth, was clenched so hard that the knuckles were white with the force of his grip. A bead of sweat trickled down the line of the man’s jaw.
“My lord,” said Declan, “that won’t be necessary. While we’re grateful for your hospitality, we're unpolished folk and would be comfortable in the Guard barracks.”
“They’re welcome at the barracks,” said Owain.
“I insist.” And though the regent was still sprawled in his chair, wine slopping from his glass, his eyes were hard and cold.
They were shown to a suite of rooms, well-appointed and looking out into the night over the lights of the city. A footman and an indeterminate number of pages (they were always coming and going, thought Jute, like a flock of swallows) bowed them through the door. Several of the pages hurried over to the fireplace, and in no time at all, flames crackled from a pile of logs. Others, wielding glowing tapers, scurried from table to sideboard to mantel, lighting candle after candle.
“If you need anything, my lords,” said the footman, “you’ve only to ring.” And he indicated a silk rope hanging discreetly in one corner.
“Never mind ringing,” said Jute. “Could we have some dinner? Roast chicken, or something suitable?”
“Very good, my lord.” Several of the pages sprinted away. “Would there be anything else? No? Good night, my lords.” Preceded by the remainder of the army of pages, he bowed himself out through the door.
Owain Gawinn lingered for a moment in the hallway, scowling and looking embarrassed at the same time.
“Stubborn mule, that’s what he is,” he said. “Refusing to sign the writ. I suppose a few more hours won’t do much harm. Not that anyone’s going to ride out for the duchies in the dead of the night.” He stepped closer and his voice lowered. “Watch yourselves. It might be more comfortable in the castle than the barracks, but those who are wise are never certain about Nimman Botrell. I’ll see you first thing in the morning.”
With a final scowl that was not directed at them but in grumpy vagueness at their surroundings, he turned and strode away.
Close the door and do not speak, said the hawk inside Jute’s mind. Bid Declan the same.
Silently, Jute did as he was told. Declan nodded wordlessly and sat down in one of the plush chairs by the fireplace. The hawk hopped down from Jute’s shoulder and prowled about the room.
“Finally, a place with some class,” said the ghost, appearing.
“Shush,” said Jute.
“Look at that vase. Probably worth a hundred pieces of gold.”
Tell that fool to shut his mouth. The hawk glared back over his wing at the ghost.
“Hush.”
The ghost made a face at Jute and then drifted over to the window. Jute noticed with pleasure that the two open doorways on either side of the room revealed two bedrooms, each with its own bed. He was tired. A bed. He could not remember the last time he had slept in a bed. It seemed like he had been sleeping in a succession of dreadful places that never involved beds: the ground in various degrees of rockiness, beneath a wagon in the middle of the snow, a barn. The barn had been the most comfortable of all those spots. Hay, despite its knack of working its way under clothes and manifesting itself in scratching and itching, wasn’t all that bad.
Ah. The hawk sounded grimly pleased.
What is it?
As I suspected. Do you see the painting over the fireplace mantel? It is not just a painting. It’s a ward. An interesting ward. As far as I can tell, it’s activated by sound.
But then it’s already active.
Jute had not noticed the painting before. It was a large oil set in a silver frame. A man stared from the painting, an old-fashioned ruff of black velvet knotted at his neck. There was something sly and nasty in his expression. His ears dangled from the sides of his head like those of a donkey, but his eyes were filmed over with the milky white patina that signified blindness.
Ears of a blind man, said the hawk in Jute’s mind. Such are much sharper than normal. The painting listens to us. Whisper to the ghost that he must mind himself. I hope that his outburst went unnoticed. The ghost could prove an invaluable asset, but only if unknown to others. At least, if he thinks that, it might keep him quiet and so save our nerves.
The ghost, looking startled, drifted over to the painting and stared hard at it. Jute yawned, trying not to look in the direction of the painting. Even though the man was sightless in it, he had the uneasy feeling that the blind eyes followed him. Someone knocked on the door.
“Dinner,” said Declan.
Two pages tiptoed in bearing platters larger than themselves. They eyed the hawk with a mixture of alarm and interest.
“Is it true, my lord,” said one page, “that the hawk speaks?”
“What’s true,” said Declan, “is that he’s fond of raw human flesh. Particularly liver. For breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”
The pages fled and the room was once again left in silence. Jute hitched his chair closer to Declan and whispered through a mouthful of cold chicken.
“The painting above the fireplace is a ward. Hawk says it’s listening to us.” And then, in a normal voice. “Good chicken, isn’t it?”
Declan nodded. “Excellent chicken.”
With the candles out and the fire collapsing into subdued embers on the hearth, they retired to their rooms. Jute lay in the bed and stared up at the ceiling. The bed was extremely comfortable, the most comfortable bed he had ever had the good fortune to encounter. But he could not sleep. Things were too silent. Much too silent. He turned over on his side, punched the pillow into a more agreeable shape, and shut his eyes.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A NARROW ESCAPE FOR SOME AND NOT FOR OTHERS
The last of the guests had departed, unsteady on their feet and escorted by solicitous pages who veered and zigzagged with them in sympathetic harmony. A door closed somewhere behind them, and there was silence. A breeze wafted out of the night and breathed across the balcony, batting at the candle flames burning on the table. The regent hunched his head down in the collar of his fur coat and poured himsel
f a glass of wine. He took a swallow and shook his head.
“Shadows above and below,” he said. “Can you believe the luck of it? Our little thief shows up unannounced, out of the blue, along with the Knife. Who turns out to be Declan Farrow, of all people. Did you know that, Gor? I never did. I never bought his I-come-from-Aum line, of course, but I never imagined him a Farrow. Not just any old Farrow, but the legendary Declan Farrow himself. I daresay he could tell me a thing or two about horses.”
“And ogres,” said Gor, shivering a little.
“Right. And ogres. Regardless, we’ve been handed two juicy plums. At least, they were plums. When we still had a client.”
“It looks that way, my lord.”
“And claiming to be the guardian of the wind. Ridiculous. An absurd story, yet they somehow hoodwinked Gawinn with it. I wouldn’t have thought him susceptible to such nonsense. He must be getting foolish in his old age. Too many whacks to the head on the practice ground. At any rate, what’s important is that they’re here. In my castle. Ha! What do you advise, Gor?”
“I’ve been considering nothing else, soon as I clapped eyes on the boy.” Gor trailed off into silence and fidgeted with a piece of bread.
“So what’ve you been thinking? Out with it.”
“There’s something down there, my lord.”
“Down there?” But the regent knew what he referred to.
“Down in the Court of the Guild.” Gor’s voice sank to a whisper and he seemed to shrink in his chair as if there were eyes watching from the night around them and he sought to evade notice. “I went down there this evening to meet with some of the district enforcers to see what news there was of the robbery. There was something down there. Something watching. It felt like him, if you know what I mean, or something horribly similar to him. Even the others were aware something was wrong. They couldn’t wait to get out of there, and I ran back up the passage, expecting to feel a hand on my shoulder at any second.”
Botrell shuddered. “I don’t like where you’re going with this, Gor.”
The Wicked Day Page 19
