The Wicked Day

by Christopher Bunn

  “Here?” said the basher, sounding somewhat dubious.

  “Aye,” said the man carrying Lena. “We’ll stash her and send word to the Silentman. The innkeeper knows how. One of them spell-talking things.”

  Lena’s point of view swung as the two men turned and pushed through a door. She caught a glimpse of a sign hanging over the door, upside down to her. Despite the snow swirling down and the faded, peeling paint, she knew where they were. The last place she wanted to be. The Goose and Gold. She could smell ale and roasting meat. It was warm inside, but this was no consolation to her. She shivered, and her teeth would have chattered, no doubt, had it not been for the rag stuffed in her mouth. Faces turned her way, men at the long bar and sitting around tables. But there was not a single spark of friendliness or compassion. This was a Guild inn. These were all members of the Guild. There was no help for her here. She shut her eyes. Her captor shoved her into a chair, but she could feel his hand knotted in the collar of her shirt.

  “Here, Garricky,” said the man to the innkeeper. “Can you send word, quick-like, to the man himself?”

  “Maybe I can, maybe I can’t,” said the innkeeper. He ran a dirty rag over the countertop. “What’s in it for me?”

  “What’s in it for you? How about I don’t take you out back and beat your face bloody, that’s what.”

  “You don’t have to be rude about it,” said the innkeeper. “What do you have to say to him, then? It’d better be important, for he don’t like being bothered, I can tell you that. Especially lately. I’ve heard some strange things.”

  “You can tell him we got the girl.”

  “The twenty gold coins girl?” said the innkeeper, looking greedily at Lena.

  “The same.”

  “Right away, gentlemen. Right away.” The innkeeper turned to go.

  “And ale all around.” The man’s hand tightened on Lena’s neck and he raised his voice. “A round for the house!”

  A roar of delight greeted his words, but Lena’s eyes were still shut, and despair filled her mind.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  RESCUING PEOPLE IS A TIME-HONORED TRADITION

  The cook was sulking in the pantry, the maid was in tears, and the children were hiding in the basement. Never had the house of Owain Gawinn seen Sibb in such a state. She snapped at anyone who was foolish enough to come near. She found fault with the morning bread, she banished the dog to the garden, and she had the maid polish the silver three times before she declared herself satisfied.

  Owain's absence was wearing on her. True, he had been gone many times in the past for weeks on end, but this time he was painfully near—just at the city wall—and that, in combination with his recent scrape with death, grated on Sibb. Even though their home was situated quite far from the eastern wall of the city, the tumult and din that had started in the morning was dreadfully apparent. Her nerves were frayed and she had caught herself considering packing everyone up, saddling the horses, and leaving the city. With or without Owain. The north gate was near enough, and she had cousins in Lastane. But that was ridiculous. She was a Gawinn, and Gawinns did not run.

  Doubtlessly, Sibb's four children would have been gratified to know that a great deal of their mother’s anxiety and irritation was due to her concern for the city’s safety and, more specifically, their well-being. However, they were more preoccupied with staying out of her way and evading her swift right hand.

  “Mother’s in the kitchen again,” said Jonas from the top of the stairs. He nudged the door open another inch to get a better look. “She sounds mad.”

  “She’s been mad all day,” said Magret.

  The eldest of the four Gawinn children was perched on top of a barrel in the middle of the basement. It was a tidy basement, as far as basements go, for Sibb Gawinn did not tolerate a disorderly household. The basement was full of neatly stacked boxes and barrels and chests. Cured hams, sides of bacon, and strings of onions and garlic hung from the ceiling beams. High up on one wall, narrow rectangles of window let in whatever light could thread its way past the tangle of rose bushes growing around the front of the house. Fen sat on another barrel, her chin in her hands and her face expressionless. The two smaller boys, Bran and Ollie, chased each other around the room, clambering up and over the stacks.

  “Stop that,” commanded Magret. “Both of you. You’re going to put your foot through something and then where’ll you be? Bran! That’s a wheel of cheese you’re standing on. Get off. Mother will hear you if you don’t stop racketing around.”

  Only this last threat was enough to stop the two boys. They settled on top of a chest and regarded their older sister with baleful stares.

  “Hungry,” announced Ollie.

  “Want an onion?” said Bran.

  “Yes.”

  Bran stood on tiptoes and managed to grab the bottom onion on a string. He tugged and the string snapped. Onions rained down.

  “Stop it,” said Magret. “You’re horrible little boys.”

  “Are not!”

  “You are too!”

  “What if we do it ourselves?” said Jonas from the top of the stairs.

  “Do what?”

  “Go find Father. Mother’s obviously upset, and she’s obviously upset because Father’s not back. We’ll find him and then she’ll be happy.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Magret. “Do you remember what happened the last time you left without telling anyone?”

  “But this is important.” Jonas stuck his chin out. “I wouldn’t mind getting spanked for this.”

  The two little boys stared up at him in awe. Magret jumped off her barrel and paced back and forth, scowling in thought. Fen did not stir from her perch.

  “All right,” said Magret finally. “We’ll do it. We’ll go find Father. But I’m in charge, you hear? I’m the oldest and that means I’m captain. Bran and Ollie, you stay home and take care of Mother.”

  “Am not,” said Bran. “I’m coming too.”

  “Me too,” said Ollie.

  “No, you aren’t. You’re both staying here.”

  “I’m telling Mother,” said Bran.

  Magret glared at him for a moment and then sighed. “You can come. You just better behave. Ollie, you stay here.”

  “Telling Mother,” said Ollie, his lip starting to quiver.

  “Fine!” Magret threw her hands in the air in defeat. “You can come too. Stop crying! Your nose is running and you look a mess. Here, blow your nose. Don’t squirm. Blow your nose, I say! All right, council of war. Now. Upstairs.”

  The five children gathered in the nursery and sat in a circle on the rug.

  “Council is now begun,” announced Magret. “Lieutenant, what do you have to say?”

  “Father’s at the city gate,” said Jonas, “because I heard the gardener talking to the maid about it. All the Guard’s there, that’s what he said, right before he kissed her.”

  “Want my Father!” shouted Ollie.

  “Be quiet,” said Magret, “or I’ll have you thrown in the dungeon.”

  Ollie shut his mouth, his eyes wide.

  “Whenever Father’s on duty at the city gate, he still can come home for dinner. He always does.” Magret frowned. “Something must’ve happened to him. Something terrible. He must be in trouble. We’ll have to rescue him.”

  They all looked at each other. Rescuing people was a time-honored tradition in all the stories they loved. It was what heroes did. It was what brave princes and soldiers did. It was what good, ordinary people did. More important, it was what Gawinns did. But having to conduct their own rescue—the first they’d ever done—was something entirely different. Bran cleared his throat uneasily.

  “But how’re we going to rescue him?” he said.

  “We’ll find out when we get there. Does that even matter?” The voice was barely a whisper. They all looked at Fen. She blushed. “After all, he’s your father,” said the girl.

  Magret was in charge, even though F
en was older than her, because she was a Gawinn and that’s what Gawinns did. They were all on strict orders to stay out of Mother’s sight. Magret commanded them to dress warmly, because she thought of things like that. Cloaks, sweaters, woolen caps, and scarves. She sent Bran down to the kitchen to steal apples and bread behind the cook’s back. There was no telling when they’d be back, so they had better be prepared. Jonas crept into the hall and took down the dagger of Great Uncle Bevan from the wall. He had always admired the thing and considered it vital for any rescuing they might do. He did not tell the others, however, as Bran and Ollie would want ones of their own, and there was no telling what Magret would say. Magret took the hooded lantern from the back porch. It was a small copper affair, full of oil and held with a leather wound handle. The older children knew how to use a flint and tinder (their father had seen to that), and Magret had an uneasy feeling that it might be dark later. After all, night was coming.

  “All right,” she said, surveying her little troop. “We’re off. Downstairs and out the back door. Not a whisper. Ollie, Bran! I’m watching you. Tiptoe.”

  They tiptoed down the stairs, through the hall, and past the open door of the kitchen. Cook was busy with carrots and chicken and thyme and did not see or hear them. Mother was sewing in her workroom. The maid was ironing linens in the storeroom and would not have noticed a troop of cavalry galloping through. All her thoughts were on the gardener. Fen was last in line, and she closed the back door behind her. It was cold outside and a few snowflakes of snow swirled down from the gray sky. Distantly, the sound of the battle at the city wall echoed through the air, but the children paid it no heed. To them, it only sounded like thunder. They scampered across the grass, giggling with relief and delicious terror. No one saw them. They pushed through the garden gate and found themselves standing in the street running behind the Gawinn home. Magret looked back through the iron bars of the gate and something in her faltered. But then she saw the determination on the others’ faces. Fen smiled at her.

  “No sense dragging our feet,” said Magret. And, with that, the five children set off down the street.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  WHAT FEN SAID

  “Another round for the house!” roared the bigger of Lena’s two captors.

  He wiped his mouth and slammed his mug down on the counter. The Goose and Gold roared back in appreciation. The inn was crowded now, which was what always happened when someone began standing drinks for the customers. People surged up against the counter.

  “What’s the occasion, Malo?” said someone, slapping Lena’s captor on the back.

  “Caught me a goose,” said Malo, swaying a bit on his feet. He looked around and then lowered his voice to what he thought was a conspiratorial whisper. “A golden goose. One of them gooses chock-full of gold. And the Silentman’s gonna pay.”

  The enthusiasm around Malo dimmed at this news. People edged away, clutching their mugs of ale. The innkeeper leaned across the counter and filled Malo’s mug. “Perhaps the gentlemen might care to relax in one of our rooms to wait? The, er. . . the—he’s coming. I sent word through the, uh. . . He should be here very soon.”

  “Nonsense,” said Malo. “I’m a man. He’s a man. We’re all men here—besides, hic!—besides my little golden goose. She ain’t a man, I tell you. She ain’t. I’ll fight any three men of you, if you sez different.”

  He glared around the room, but no one met his eyes. Several people slipped out the door, and those who remained drifted away to the shadowed corners of the room. Lena sat in her chair, watching all this. For the hundredth time, she tensed against the bonds around her wrists and ankles. It was no use. They were as tight as they had been an hour ago. The front door opened and closed and two more patrons slipped out of the inn. A dusting of snow blew in through the door as they left. The room was cold, despite the fire crackling on the hearth. And with the chill in the air was fear. She could feel it, a sort of brittleness in the air that hardened in staring faces and left the innkeeper wiping the countertop in trembling and uncertain movements. Her other captor, the basher, stirred in his chair at the corner of her eye. He was a quiet man in comparison to Malo. The more dangerous of the two, in her estimation. He hadn’t had any ale the entire evening but sat in his chair watching the room and watching her.

  “Fool,” muttered the basher.

  He might have said more, but he did not, for it was at that moment that someone stepped through the doorway behind the bar. The one that led to the stairs and the cellar below. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. The innkeeper shrank away. The flames in the fireplace leapt up, crackling, but they changed in color from orange and red to a yellowish blue. The room was silent. Lena could hear the wind outside, whispering in the eaves and scratching on the windows with the icy fingertips of snowflakes.

  “Good evening,” said the newcomer. His voice was friendly, but there was an odd sort of vibration in the sound, as if he held himself tightly in check. “Good evening, good evening. That is, I mean to say, good evening.”

  He stepped forward and the light of the fireplace fell on his face. Lena’s heart shuddered. The man from the tunnels. The regent. Nimman Botrell. But no, it wasn’t precisely him. There was something fuller about the face, deeper about the eyes, as if there was more to him than merely Nimman Botrell.

  “Someone summoned me? The mirror spoke to me. Quite urgently. It asked for the Silentman. I suppose that’s me. I don’t mind being bothered, but only when I don’t mind, and I always mind. Being bothered makes me hungry. I really need to consult someone’s memories on this. I have so many inside of me, it’s like storing a library in my head. Ah, there it is. I suppose you, innkeeper, you were the one who summoned me. Some sort of Thieves Guild affair, no doubt? I've always considered the Guild a miserable collection of wretched little maggots. Cutting throats and lifting purses? Is that the best you can think of? Think higher. Think bigger. Think with your mind! I think with my mind; I’ve eaten quite a few, and I certainly know how to think. Why stop at one throat? Cut everyone’s throat until the streets fill with blood, so deep, so swift that you must pole about in boats. Ah, what fish you might catch then in those waters, eh?”

  There was no response. People sat motionless in their chairs. Malo stood unmoving at the bar. Even the fire on the hearth seemed to no longer flicker but crouched there like a statue of carved flame. The Silentman looked around the room, his head bent forward, his hands clasped behind his back. He smiled, as if he were among friends, but Lena saw the sharpness of his teeth and the madness in his eyes. Somewhere behind her, a footstep sounded furtively.

  “What’s this?” said the Silentman, turning. “Leaving so soon?”

  “Please, if your lordship,” said a plump little man near the door. “Gotta—dinner, I mean, my wife. . .”

  “Wife? Dinner? Come, man. Speak up. Enunciate. Form your words with care and an appreciation for language. Now, what was it you were saying? You’re going to eat your wife for dinner, was that it?”

  This encouragement did nothing for the little man. It only served to plunge him further into stuttering incoherence. Sweat beaded on his face. The Silentman stepped forward, tall and stooping, not unlike a vulture leaning over its prey.

  “Cat got your tongue?” he said. “Perhaps not just yet. Catte is the older, more precise rendition of the word. Catte.” He spoke the word this time with a snap in his voice. The air trembled in front of him, an odd sort of shudder that defied the eye to focus on it. Lena smelled a whiff of something strange. Scorched metal, perhaps. And then, there, on the ground before the Silentman, was a cat. A big, black cat sitting on its haunches. The Silentman nodded approvingly.

  “And, of course, tunge is more apt than tongue,” he said. “Catte, aetbringa tunge!”

  The cat leapt forward. Lena shut her eyes as tight as she could. Her ears, however, she could not plug, for her hands were tied. Screams filled the room, screams that quickly turned into a wetter sort of moaning
, an inarticulate anguish of mangled noise. The cat snarled once and then was silent.

  “There,” said the Silentman, “that’s much better. By the way, is there anyone else who needs to leave? Any pressing engagements? Soup boiling over at home? Loved ones choking on fish bones? No? Excellent. Who was it? Ah, yes. Innkeeper, barkeep, whatever you call yourself, why was I summoned here? No, don’t answer it yourself. I’ll do it.”

  With one swift movement, the Silentman pounced on the innkeeper and grabbed him by the head. His fingers sank into the unfortunate man’s skull and, with a jerk, he hoisted him off the ground to dangle kicking and squirming. The innkeeper made no sound, other than a sort of hissing exhale, as if he were a bladder deflating. And deflate he did, shrinking and shriveling away until there was only a tangle of skin and cloth hanging from the Silentman’s hand.

  “Interesting,” said the Silentman, flicking the remains off onto the floor. “Interesting and delicious, except for the aftertaste of mediocre ale. Now, you must be Malo. You’ve apparently captured a little girl that my—ah—predecessor was interested in collecting. Happily enough—at least, happy enough for me—I, too, am interested in the little girl.”

  “I caught her, my lord,” said Malo, almost choking on the words.

  “Like a fish?”

  “There was a bounty. . .”

  “Twenty pieces of gold.” The Silentman surveyed Malo with a smile. “Twenty shining, round bits of metal grubbed out of the ground that will enable you to drink yourself into sodden oblivion for the rest of the year until you wake up one day with your throat cut and the remainder of your money gone. You have a shining future in front of you, my friend. Now, get out before I lose my patience. All of you. Out.”

  The Silentman did not raise his voice, but the room instantly emptied with a scraping of chairs and one last slam of the door. The fire on the hearth burned an even deeper blue, its reflection wavering in the windows, on the copper pots hanging on the wall, on the cracked mirror behind the bar. The Silentman’s gaze settled on Lena.