The Hawk And His Boy

by Christopher Bunn

  She shrugged into a frock and went downstairs. The scent of bread met her as she walked across the hall and opened the kitchen door. An old woman was bent over the oven, poking with a paddle at several loaves of bread inside. She straightened up, her face red from the oven’s heat.

  “M’lady Levoreth—it’s early for you to be up,” said the old woman.

  “Nonsense, Yora. The sun’s nearly up and the hands are up, and I just saw Mirek ambling across the yard.”

  “The lazy good-for-nothing. It’s a wonder he’s awake. He’s near as bad as his father who died of sleep, snoring away his life in the sun—M’lady! You’ll burn yourself!” The girl had stooped down and pulled a loaf of bread from the oven with her hands. She grinned at Yora and ripped a hunk of bread free. It steamed in her grasp.

  “It’s quite done. And smells wonderful, too.”

  “M’lady! You shouldn’t be doing such things!”

  Levoreth went outside, chewing on her piece of bread. The sun edged up over the mountains. She squinted up into the light and then frowned down at her toes in the dirt.

  The stable hands ducked their heads when she walked into the barn. Even the villagers were not as reverent as that with her uncle, Hennen Callas, the duke of Dolan. But the stable hands held her in awe and would never let her forget it. It had been her own fault.

  She had been careless one day, two years ago. It had been getting harder to remember, to be careful. But she had forgotten. Perhaps it had been the intoxication of a spring after a long, cold winter. She had hiked out to the upper pasture in search of the first lupines. The previous week to that day, the Farrows in their gaily painted caravans had rolled through Dolan, and Hennen Callas had bought three wild colts off of them. He had happily parted with a purse stuffed with gold, for the Farrows had an eye for horseflesh that was unsurpassed in all the duchies of Tormay. The colts had been turned out into the upper pasture to wait until Hennen had time to break them to bridle.

  Not thinking, she had set the colts dancing around her—wheeling away and thundering back at a gallop to stop, quivering, in front of her, pushing their silken noses into her palms. Their minds thrilled against hers, jarring her with impressions of childish delight. She caught images of time blurring into light and back again, shot through with joy and gold and pounding hearts, and the vast spaces of the northern plains racing away beneath their flying hooves. Their thoughts trembled with the solemnity of her name.

  Rejoice! Sun and speed and wind. Rejoice!

  Something had made her turn. Three stable hands sat on the fence at the end of the pasture, their mouths gaping. They tumbled off the fence and ran off. The colts wheeled and danced around her. Sunlight shimmered in the air, and everywhere there was the perfume of sage and lupine and the freshness of the earth wakening to spring. Wakening for her.

  That had been two years ago.

  Levoreth swallowed the last bite of bread and whistled. All the horses in the barn stuck their heads out of their stalls and nickered at her. Whispers of horse-thought brushed against her mind: oats, sunlight, and canters through the grasses of the high fields. She smiled.

  “You’re all just as lazy as Mirek,” she said. A roan stretched its neck out and breathed alfalfa on her.

  She rode the roan down to the ford and reined him to a halt in the shallows of the river. Sunlight shone on the water sliding over stones. The road curved from the ford and stretched away into the forest. Deep within the forest it split into two roads: one road to the south, toward Harth and Hearne; the other west to Andolan, the ducal seat of Dolan. Hearne. It had been many years since she had been to that city. The thought tickled again at the back of her mind and she caught it this time.

  Soon.

  “Soon?” she said aloud.

  Thou hast slept long enough, Levoreth Callas. Thou hast slept too long. Thy time draweth near. Not today. Not tomorrow. But perhaps the next. Or mayhap after that.

  And she frowned up at the sky and then down at the light sparkling on the water rippling by. The voice was her own.

  When she brought the roan to a clattering halt in the yard, Hennen Callas was striding down the manor steps. He was a tall man, with gray hair and kind brown eyes.

  “Levoreth.”

  “Uncle,” she said, dismounting and flipping the reins to a hovering groom.

  “It has been quite a while, hmm.” He stopped and blinked several times.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “I have it in mind,” he said. “I have it in mind to . . .” He trailed off again and gazed across the yard. “Blast those boys. They haven’t mucked the mares out yet.”

  “You were saying?” she said.

  “What? Oh. As I was saying, I think it time we paid a visit to Botrell in Hearne.”

  “Hearne?”

  “Been a few years since we’ve been down to the city,” her uncle said, “and every trader coming north says Botrell has a mare, Riverrun’s dam, been foaling the best hunters since Min the Morn first set hoof in Tormay.”

  “Which is an exaggeration,” Levoreth said, “as Min the Morn supposedly lived over seven hundred years ago, and the tradition of formal hunting began less than two hundred years ago when your great-great-grandfather broke his neck riding out after wolves. So the story goes.”

  Hennen blinked. “But there’s also the Autumn Fair. Everyone goes who’s anybody. Even the royal court of Harth. Your aunt has her heart set on going this fall, and besides, you haven’t been since you were a little girl.” A puzzled expression crept over his weathered face. She waited and said nothing.

  “What’s more,” he said, “I received a raven last week, with word from Botrell that the duke of Mizra will be attending the Fair this year.”

  “Yes?” she said, smiling at him. And then words failed her uncle, for he turned and beat a hasty retreat toward the safety of the barn.

  CHAPTER THREE

  EXPECTATIONS

  The Knife strode through the dark streets of Hearne. Houses sleeping still, shuttered windows, bolted doors and gates—he was alone. The box was a comforting weight in the bag slung across his back. Shadows, but he’d be paid well for this night’s work. Nearly enough gold to take him far away from this miserable city, up to the Flessoray Islands, off the coast of Harlech. Nearly enough. And there he could lose himself on one of the islands and never be known for who he was, never be found again.

  Nearly enough gold.

  Night was weakening fast into the dark blues of morning, and he cast the sky one disinterested glance. If he had paused to look more carefully, he might have seen a hawk flying far overhead. He came to the Goose and Gold. The inn was still shuttered against the night. He slipped down the alley that ran alongside the inn and knocked at a door. It popped open and revealed the face of the Juggler.

  “Success?” said the fat man.

  “As expected,” said the Knife, moving past him into the room. The building was silent around them.

  “And the boy?”

  “Did his job well.”

  “He was the best I had,” said the Juggler, trying to look sad. “I hope our patron takes my loss into account. I’m a poor man who loves his children. They’re all I have.”

  “You will be rewarded,” said the Knife. “Enough gold to keep you drunk for a year.”

  “Ah,” said the fat man, rubbing his hands together.

  “You will also forget this night. It never happened. If even a whisper of this is heard anywhere from Harth to Harlech, I’ll come for you. Understand?”

  “Of course.” The fat man smiled shakily. “I would never dream of—”

  “Don’t even dream of it. I’m not fond of killing children. You, however, would be a different matter altogether.”

  They walked downstairs into the basement of the inn. At the far end of the room were the oak barrels where the innkeeper kept his wine and ale. The barrels were taller than a man and a good fifteen feet in diameter. When he came to the last barrel, the Knife felt alon
g its side until his fingers encountered a tiny catch. The side of the barrel swung out on well-oiled hinges. It was empty. Inside was an opening in the floor. The Knife climbed in and lowered himself down through the shaft. He paused.

  “Tell your other children, those children you love so well, that the boy stumbled across a ward. A fire ward or something like that.”

  “Yes, yes.” The Juggler nodded. “The sort that leaves nothing but ashes.”

  “We can’t have them asking questions.”

  “I’ll beat them if they do.” And the Juggler smirked.

  The other eyed him distastefully and then disappeared down the shaft. The Juggler closed the barrel door behind him. He waited, listening until the faint noises within faded into silence, and then, rubbing his hands together, he padded back up the stairs.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WAKING UP

  The boy Jute woke by degrees. First, he was only aware of pain—a dull sort that came in waves. He was not sure he had a body any longer. Pain was all he was, an ache that was everywhere. An ache that bloomed into fire.

  He gasped. And then he heard a voice.

  “There, you see? He’s coming to.”

  Another voice rumbled an answer, but Jute could not make out what it said. He became aware of his body, lying heavy and useless on a mattress.

  “He’s been out long enough,” said the first voice. “We’ll get some answers now. Try that philter of yours again. Maybe that’ll bring him around properly.”

  Recollection seeped back into Jute’s mind. Images drifted through his mind. The Knife, like a shadow against the moonlit sky, reaching down for him. And then the prick of the needle and the long fall back down the chimney, into a well of darkness. But there had been something before that. He had opened the box. The black dagger. He had cut his finger on its edge.

  A bitter odor tickled at his nose. He sneezed and opened his eyes. He was in a room lit by a candle burning on a table near the door. The light blurred in his eyes. Blinking, he tried to focus. He was aware of a figure seated next to him beside the bed. Another man stood at the foot of the bed. The man leaned forward, and the candlelight cast his features into shadowed relief. A hooked nose and a narrow skull gave him the appearance of a bird of prey stooping over its kill.

  “Of all the houses in Hearne,” said the man. His eyes glittered. “This is the one you should not have broken into. You’d have been safer robbing the regent’s castle.”

  The pain flared down into Jute’s bones with a sickening rush. His jaw clenched, grinding his teeth together. A spasm arched him off the bed, and his hand flailed off to the side, grabbing desperately. A warm hand grasped his. The pain subsided as quickly as it had sprung up.

  “You’re going to kill him, Nio,” said the other voice.

  “I’ll snap him like a stick!” The hawk-faced man glared at the other seated next to the bed. “The box is gone, Severan! It’s gone!”

  “He’s just a boy,” said the older man. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind answering a few questions. Would you, boy?”

  “No,” said Jute, blinking away the tears blurring his sight. But then the candlelight winked out and he sank back down into blessed darkness.

  The darkness was warm and complete. The warmth seeped into his bones. The pain receded. He was not sure whether he was awake or dreaming this darkness. Something rustled nearby and then settled into silence—a patient, waiting sort of silence.

  Jute coughed experimentally. The silence deepened. He was relieved, however, for he knew that whoever was there was friendly. Someone different from the first two men. How he knew this, he wasn’t sure. But there was a comfortable feel to the darkness, not unlike someone drowsing by the bed of a sick friend on the mend.

  “Excuse me,” said Jute.

  “I was wondering when you would speak.”

  “Do I know you?” said Jute. “Your voice sounds familiar.”

  “Once or twice,” said the voice. It spoke in an odd, old-fashioned sort of way. “In dreams. Mostly when you were small.”

  “Do you know who I am?” Jute asked, his voice eager.

  “For a surety,” said the other. “It is because I knew you that I’ve spoken to you.”

  “Who are you?” said the boy.

  There was a pause, and then the voice chuckled. “Enough time for that later. We shall find our explanations when we must, but no sooner. If I were you, I would not say a word about opening the box. To anyone. You’re in a difficult enough spot as it is.”

  “I didn’t mean to open it,” said Jute.

  “Perhaps,” said the voice. “There’s usually a difference between what one means to do and what one is meant to do. At any rate, this Nio fellow will not be interested in whether or not you meant to open the box. What will interest him is whether you did. Tell him anything except that.”

  Someone shook his arm then, and he opened his eyes. Jute found himself blinking in the candlelight of the room. The thin-faced man, Nio, was gone, but the old man was still sitting by his bed.

  “Could you stomach some food, boy?”

  The old man had brought with him bread and a bowl of stew on a tray. Jute ate, and the man watched in silence. He was dressed in grubby clothes that hung loosely on his gaunt frame. His eyes were brown as polished walnut wood.

  “What’s your name, boy?” he asked.

  “Jute, sir. At least, that’s what I’ve been told.” He mopped up the last bit of stew with some bread and eyed the old man nervously.

  “Well, Jute,” the old man said, “It’s a name as good enough as another. As for myself, my name is Severan. You seem rather young for robbing houses. Work for the Thieves Guild, don’t you?”

  “Er, yes,” said Jute. “Sort of.” He plucked nervously at his blanket.

  “Ah,” said Severan. “You run with the Juggler’s children?”

  “Yes,” said Jute, startled by him knowing.

  The man nodded. “Even dusty old artifacts like me know a thing or two about this city. Guild or no Guild, they can’t help you in this house. If Nio deals with you as he’d like, you’ll be wishing you broke your neck falling down the chimney. He put a lot of stock in that old box, even though he couldn’t figure out how to open it. He swore it held something valuable. Something unusual. Not sure if I ever believed it myself, but, no matter. He’s angry, lad. Extremely angry. It never does to cross his sort.”

  “He’s not—” Jute said, faltering as he remembered the fury in the other man’s eyes. “Is he here?”

  “He isn’t here,” said the old man. “You’re in luck of a sort this evening. He hardly ever leaves this house these days so intent is he on his studies. Reading, researching, that sort of thing. For the moment, though, he’s gone. Listen, Jute—you’d do well to tell me what you know. There’ll be no harm coming to you if you tell me everything that happened two nights ago.”

  “Two nights ago?” said the boy in disbelief.

  “Aye.” Severan reached out and touched Jute’s head. “You got a knock there, falling down the chimney. Strange that a clever lad like yourself would miss his step climbing a chimney. Perhaps you were pushed, eh? Perhaps your friend waiting for you at the top?”

  Jute’s eyes widened. The needle in Ronan’s hand gleamed in his mind, gleaming in the moonlight. The old man sat back with a gloomy smile.

  “Who can you trust, Jute?”

  The candlelight dimmed down, like a golden eye winking at him from the shadows. The room blurred around the boy, and then there was only darkness.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  DISCUSSIONS DURING SUPPER

  The duchess of Dolan had been born Melanor Ayn, only daughter of Rodret Ayn, whose family had held the western foothills of the Morn Mountains for the dukes of Dolan ever since Dolan Callas had built the town of Andolan.

  The story Hennen always told Levoreth was that he had been hunting deer in the foothills when a stag led him to the country lodge of Rodret Ayn. A young woman had been hanging ou
t the washing on a line, and she had paused, pegs in her mouth and a damp shift in her arms, when he had ridden up. Love at first sight for both of them, Hennen always solemnly intoned.

  Melanor Callas’s story, however, was different.

  “That idiot tried to set his horse at the holly hedge bordering the garden. Of course the horse balked at the prickles and pitched him over onto his head. Knocked him cold, and blood everywhere. I ruined a good tablecloth wrapping up that knucklehead of his. Wouldn’t be the last time, mind you. Fever took him for two whole days, raving out of his mind. When he came to, the first thing he did was propose to me in a most unsuitable way. I refused him, of course, until he had spoken to my father. It’s best to keep a man waiting, my dear.”

  Prompted by meaningful glances from the duchess at supper, the duke broached the subject again. He looked down the table at Levoreth and cleared his throat. She ignored him and concentrated on Yora’s mushroom and potato casserole. The steam rose up from her plate and tickled her nose. She chewed thoughtfully. Garlic, crushed pepper, dill.

  “Your aunt and I’ve been talking,” said Hennen, refilling his glass out of precaution. “She feels, as do I, that you’re old enough now to—”

  “Thyme,” said Levoreth.

  “Um—well, time is a consideration, of course. The fact is, you do so splendidly overseeing this house whenever your aunt is in Andolan.” He gulped some wine.

  “Fennel,” said Levoreth. “But it’s not fresh.”

  “What?” said the Duke.

  “She’s doing her trick again,” said his wife. “Figuring out the herbs Yora used in the casserole. Levoreth, don’t be difficult. What your uncle has been referring to with such delicacy is that it’s high time you were married.” The duchess glanced at her husband, but he was applying himself industriously to his casserole. “Surely you’ve thought it yourself, my dear. How old are you now? Seventeen, eighteen? Don’t tell me you’re nineteen!” Melanor waved her hand. “I can never remember such things. No matter. Your age isn’t important. What’s important is that you’re a grown woman. And not just any woman—you’re lovely, sensible . . .”