Cry of the Nightbird
By Tirzah Duncan
“Look—it’s a shadow, creeping on the wall.
Look—it’s a nightbird, feathered, black, and tall.
Look—o’er your shoulder; think ye twice,
Look—out, ye wicked rats, pray he finds ye nice.”
-Song of the Nightbird
Dedication
To everyone mad enough to be a hero.
Until I find my way to my own heroics, I will write your stories.
Acknowledgements
I thank my friend and fellow-author Danielle E. Shipley on several counts. First, I was trying to help her brainstorm for her next novel when I came up with the idea for Cry of the Nightbird. She didn’t want it. I was happy to keep it. Beyond that, she hung on every excerpt I sent her, making it that much more motivating to write the next piece. And then she was a free-of-charge and cheerful proofreader. And then to top it off she whipped up a cover for me, so the poor thing wouldn’t be going out into the world with nothing to wear or barely better, my own sorry artwork.
And I cannot go without thanking my mother, who bore with me as I followed her around brainstorming the initial concepts, as she bears the brunt of every idea that strikes my fancy—asking questions that force me to invent the answers.
Ferlund of Cavernad, lately his lordship Ferlund of Cavernad, stared down into the ravine that had claimed his father’s life two days earlier. His horse shifted forward under him, and he drew back on the reigns more sharply than needful. He swiftly dismounted and led the golden bay back some ways from the drop, securing the beast to a tree before venturing once again to the edge.
A lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed it back, sticking his hands casually in the pockets of his velvet tunic. He had not sought solitude to cry, as some probably thought, but to think. The lord’s death had left quite a sudden burden, and Ferlund, not yet seventeen, needed some peace in which to think and decide things, without advisors and councilors and mourners jabbering at him every minute.
Still, as he looked down—at the moss and leaf litter giving the rocks a deceptively soft appearance, at the apparent gentleness of the slope, every bit as false—he could only wonder why. Certainly, he could see why some gentleman on a hunt could, not realizing the treacherous nature of the ravine’s edge, draw too near, causing the horse to slip and tumble to their mutual deaths. But this wasn’t some gentleman. This was his father, who had hunted in these woods since before Ferlund was born. He knew every rise and fall of Cavernad’s many ravines, better than the wild beasts born within them.
Ferlund sighed and pressed his palms against his burning eyes; he was tired, so tired. The hours since first he’d heard the news had stretched into an eternity, the days long and wearisome, the nights longer and sleepless, yet met too soon by sunrise. Had it truly been but two nights since that hunt? Yes, yes it had.
He heard footfalls behind him, but they stopped a respectful distance away, and he did not bother to turn. If they would let him be, he would keep up his illusion of being alone for as long as he could hold it.
“I’ve not seen you in black afore. It suits you well,” the voice came after a moment. It was female, young, and mild. Not the voice of one of his councilors or men-at-arms, as he’d feared. “Come away from the edge, will you? It gives me nerves.”
He turned around, following the suggestion to its source; Dania, a goatherd, and the sweetest peppery girl he’d ever met. Her soft blue eyes were intent, her soft pink lips puckered with concern. She reached up, brushing her thumbs across his cheeks. Ferlund startled slightly, realizing she was wiping away tears he’d not known he’d shed.
“Sorry,” she said, wiping her hands on her skirts.
Ferlund gave a vague hum and shook his head. He turned back to face the ravine, sat down on the damp moss. Dania settled on a rock behind him, wrapping her arms about him and propping her chin on his shoulder. They were silent for some while.
“Sorry about your da.”
“’S alright.”
“Aye, sure it is,” she said, and he could hear in her voice that she rolled her eyes. “What about the betrothal?” she asked. “Your da was engaged, aye, to some Rirsmouth dame?”
“Nanine of Rirsmouth. He was. I daresay it’s broken off, now.”
Silence. Then, “Will they offer it again?”
Ferlund took a breath, sighed. He began to say, what, to a dead man?, but he bit his tongue. He knew what she was asking, and he knew he ought to answer it. “My councilors assure me that they will.”
Silence. Ferlund continued. “It’s a good idea, one might even say necessary. A good tie between Cavernad and Rirsmouth would solve a lot of problems. It’s been quite agreed; it’s time for this animosity to die, and a marriage would solidify… the… alliance.”
Silence. Then, “What does she look like?”
“Nanine?”
He felt the nod.
“Twenty,” he moaned. “She’s twenty, and she looks it. She’s plump and powdered and always fanning herself—she wears layers of velvet and fur, and then she pants and gasps and flutters her fan. Every single time I’ve seen her.”
Silence. He twisted to face Dania, taking her face in his hands and kissing her. “Dan—” he started to say, but she pressed back into the kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck. After a moment… after a few moments… after a few more moments, she buried her face in his shoulder with a deep sigh.
“Dania,” he said gently, “you knew I’d have to marry soon. We didn’t think it’d be—like this. This sudden. This, this wretched. But you knew.”
“Err nnn,” she conceded, face still pressed against him.
“I knew,” he muttered to himself, laying his cheek atop her head.
But even as he pulled her closer, his eyes wandered back to the ravine, its edge barely distinguishable from where he sat.
Why?
The tray trembled in Wren’s hands, and she took a steadying breath. She had carried this tray up these stairs hundreds of times, maybe thousands. She just had to pretend it was like any other time.
But it wasn’t like any other time. Before, she had walked these steps with mild dread, dragging feet, and resentment. Now, there were nerves—new bosses inspired nerves, surely that was reasonable—and an unreasonable measure of giddiness. Calm down, relax, she told herself. You’re going to walk in, set the tray on the table, curtsy, walk out. He’ll not so much as look at you, not for any reason good or ill.
With a brave attempt to clear her mind, she continued up the steps, focusing instead on making her movements silent. When she reached the top, she moved just as silently to his room door. Holding her breath, she paused before the door, inclining her ear towards the crack when she heard voices within. She wanted to start things off on the right foot with the new boss, of course—but eavesdropping was a matter of principle.
“—successful, down to the nature of the accident.” That was Garren’s voice. He was an old hand in the business, but had fully supported the change of power. “There has been no whisper of investigation into the matter. Nevertheless, if Rirsmouth makes the same offer to the new young lord, the duke will be back for more business. Two accidents are harder to pull off than one. We’d be better off finding a way to pressure the boy into declining the alliance—”
“We don’t deal in pressure,” came Joreth’s voice, and Wren’s breath caught. It was a medium-deep voice, gravelly, and much more pleasant to listen to than the old boss’s wheezing words. “Pressure is politics, and politics are for the nobility. We deal in death, we don’t ask why, we take our gold. A commoner caught in the turning wheels of politics would be safer caught in a miller’s water-wheel.”
; “If you say so, sir. Be that as it may, we are caught in politics as it is. We’d do just as well to—”
“What you may do as a matter of independent contract is your own business, and on your own head be it. As an organization, we will no longer dabble in espionage. It’s the quickest way to embroilment.” The boss’s tone was as harsh as his voice.
“Yes sir, but what I’m saying is, we’re already embroiled,” Garren said, voice reasonable.
“Assassination is clean and simple compared to the filthy convolutions of the spy business, and this way we can be surer of protecting our own. Once you know secrets, nobles will see you as a liability to be eliminated. I hope to make it clear that my people are not to be disposed of once used. I am upfront that there are stern repercussions should they have one of you killed, but I need you to keep your heads down when you work, or else they’ll consider it worth the risk. Understood?”
“Understood.” A pause. “But sir, what will we say if the duke returns?”
“If he wants the younger Cavernad dead, we’ll see it done. If he wants another accident, we’ll see that it’s an accident.” Joreth paused, seeming to dare Garren to protest the possibility of such a job. “If he wants anything else, he can feel free to go elsewhere. Am I understood?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good. And good job with the elder Lord Cavernad. How was it done?”
“S—sir?” Garren sounded surprised. Hezune, the old boss, had never cared to know how things were done. Wren smiled. Garren seemed to be forgetting that Joreth was fresh from the field himself, and would take a professional interest in the job.
“How was it done?” Joreth repeated. “Tripwires? They would have to be quickly set up.”
“Yes; very quickly, and aided by a cudgel. One wire to trip the beast initially, another to send it towards the ravine, and a blow to the rider’s head at the same time. My springing up from behind the tree would also have spooked the beast in the proper direction. Then, tripwires recovered, fast-rope down the ravine to confirm the kill—the blunt damage will have been attributed to the fall—back up, rope recovered, away.”
“Inspired,” Joreth approved. “Here you are, then.”
Wren heard the clink of coins, then Garren’s word of thanks, before footsteps started towards the door. She backed with quick caution to the stairs, and appeared to be just reaching the landing as Garren pushed the door open. She passed him with a murmured good morning, caught the door before it closed, and stepped inside.
Joreth sat sideways in the chair Hezune had always occupied, a big, solid dark wood construction with padding and a high back that made Wren think of a throne. He was shirtless—why do males think they can get away with sitting about shirtless?, she wondered. Was it any less distracting to females for him to show off that olive-tan torso, rippling with muscle and crisscrossed with intriguing scars, than it would distract males for a woman to go shirtless? Wren felt her face heating, and kept her eyes downturned as she came forward. Seeing her own tunic nearly flat against her chest, she had to keep from making a face. At that, I would probably prove no distraction at all.
She paused before the throne-chair, and her eyes rose to his; medium grey, beautiful, and not looking at her. His back propped against a chair arm, a leg thrown over the other, he focused on the small embroidery hoop in his lap, his needle and light blue thread darting in and out of the white handkerchief.
She watched his fingers guide the growing pattern of tiny flowers. The pattern was irregular, and she could begin to see the code emerging. Roses for nobility. The number of roses in the cluster would indicate the rank of nobility. There were three so far—duke—but there might be another forming. No, that was the beginning of a house name. The needlework was passable, especially for quick work.
“You know the cypher.” His voice made her flinch, and the cutlery rattled on the tray.
“Cy—yes, sir. I have picked it up.”
“Then I had best not continue it just now, hmm?” he said dryly. He tossed the project in process onto the bed nearby, twisting to face her. “You pick up a lot of things?”
Wren swallowed, trying to read the sharp lines of his face. Had he heard her listening at the door? His features were neutral, giving her nothing.
“A lot,” she admitted. “I mean, most of us do. Servants, I mean. Sir.”
He nodded. “I believe it. I was a servant myself, once.” He went silent, scrutinizing her. She hoped he couldn’t tell she was trembling.
“I hear Hezune was not a favorite among the maidservants,” he said at last, reaching out and taking ahold of the tray.
“Not among any of the servants, sir,” she said, passing the tray to him.
“But the maidservants had particular complaints, I understand.” His hand caught her wrist before she withdrew it, and her gut flipped over—she recoiled on instinct, but some part of her was giddy at the contact. She bit her lip, feeling torn.
He pushed up the sleeve of her tunic, turning her wrist to expose her inner forearm. Half-faded thumbprints still marbled the pale skin, faint grey shadows. His other hand reached forward, forefinger gently tracing a path from one to another, up her arm. She knew he could feel her shaking.
“I see his taste started a little young,” Joreth said mildly, with a bite of disapproval.
Probably meaning yours doesn’t, Wren thought, ducking her head. Do I truly look that young?
His fingers left her arm, reaching up to tilt her chin. She looked into his eyes, his lovely grey eyes, not the lovely muscles of his bare arm, or where his lovely neck met the muscles of his bare shoulder, or his full lips, drawn into a wry line.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Fourteen,” Wren murmured. In two months, she silently added.
His dark brows drew down and his eyes tightened, transforming his face in an instant. Wren’s breath caught at the danger of it, and though the fingers on her chin and the hand on her wrist were as gentle as before, she drew back against them. The hand tightened very slightly.
“Don’t,” Joreth said, voice low, “lie to me. Ever. Even in the small things.”
Eyes wide, Wren nodded.
“How old are you?” he asked, his countenance fading back to its usual sternness.
“Thirteen… and ten months,” she whispered.
“What’s your name?”
“Wren.”
“Wren. Listen to me.” He leaned towards her, dropping his voice, and she bent nearer to hear. “I know you know most everything that goes on here, all the information that passes through this place. I said I was a servant once, remember? It is the nature of any intelligent person to gather information. That’s fine. How long have you been here?”
“I was born here, sir. My mother worked here till she died in the plague ten years back. I wasn’t quite old enough to work, then, sir, but they kept me till I was.”
“Excellent. Then clearly, you already know the value of keeping your mouth shut outside of here.”
She nodded.
“But I’d like you to do a little more than keep shut.” His eyes went back and forth between hers. “Wren, did you ever bring things to Hezune? Information, I mean. Rumors whispered among the servants? Anything that might have warned him, for instance, that there was a usurper in the wings?”
She shook her head vehemently.
“Why not?” he asked.
She blinked at him. “Uh… I… don’t know,” she said softly.
Joreth looked again at her arm, his eyes flicking from one bruise to another. “Perhaps because you had no reason to.”
He released her wrist, looking back up at her. “Wren,” he said softly. “I’m not going to hurt you. I don’t hurt people. I may kill them, but I never hurt them.” His lips twisted up into a smile, and Wren couldn’t help smiling with him. “That’s another story,” he went on. “That’s my profession. If you’re unsatisfactory as a servant, you’ll be fired. If you interfere with my profession, you
’ll be killed. But I am confident you’ll do neither, and you may be confident that I’m not going to hurt you.”
She nodded.
“Now. May I ask a little more of you than that?”
Wren swallowed and nodded.
He lowered his voice further still, and she leaned closer yet, still desperately focused on his eyes. “Could you bring me what you never brought to Hezune, Wren? Conversations overheard, rumors whispered among the servants—anything that might be useful to me? Anything that might save my life? You all know that I dislike espionage, but I dislike dying even more. I need a discreet spy to watch my back. Could you be that for me, dear?”
Wren was already nodding vigorously. “Yes, sir,” she whispered. “Of course, sir.”
His lips twisted into a sidelong smile. “Thank you. I haven’t even told you why you should. You’ll be getting an extra copper piece a week, straight from my pocket, that the household need not know about. It’s no fortune, but I’m hoping it’s enough to make it worth being my favorite little birdie, Wren.”
“Yes sir, I’d love to, thank you so much, sir!” She bit her lip to shut herself up, and so as not to smile too hard. She’d pay a copper piece a week in order to be his favorite anything. Well, maybe not. A copper quarter-piece, perhaps. This was the best position she could have asked for, especially if her body caught up with her age anytime soon and, luck of all luck, Joreth noticed as much.
Joreth’s lips twitched as the door swung shut. He softly snapped his fingers in thanks to Old Man Chance. Sending him a sweet little puppet like that, just when he needed someone true to watch his back—sometimes life was too easy. Such docile dolls usually came standard with stupidity, but he didn’t think Wren was either ignorant or foolish. No, she was just a clever little girl who was fool-enamored of him.
In fact, he thought, absently reaching for the embroidery, if he didn’t know better, he’d think he could trust her completely. Of course, it was the regretful lot of one in his position to trust no one, but there were times one needed to as-good-as-trust, and there were sometimes people that could be as-good-as-trustworthy.
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