The Hawk And His Boy

by Christopher Bunn

  Levoreth awoke with a start. The hound was nosing at her hand. It woofed happily when she scratched its head, and then it flopped down at her feet. She lay back and slept again.

  This time, she dreamt of a winter sky. High overhead, a hawk floated on the wind, wings stretched wide. Its cry thrilled through the air, fierce and cruel. Far off across a snowy plain, a figure walked toward her. She could not tell if it were man or woman, as the distance was great. A roaring rose in her ears. Wind howled through the sky and whipped across the snow. A flurry of ice stung her skin. Indistinguishable at first, but then clearer and clearer, a voice called to her from far away.

  Levoreth.

  I am Levoreth Callas. He stopped for me, and I looked up. I chose to look up. I took his name.

  Levoreth.

  It is mine. I never wanted much.

  This time, she awoke with a hand touching her shoulder. One of the maids from the castle was kneeling next to her. The hound sat up and yawned.

  “Miss Levoreth,” said the maid. “Milady would like you to come for your fitting.”

  “All right, girl,” she said. “Run back and tell her I’ll be along shortly.”

  “Yes, miss.” And the maid scampered across the meadow toward the town walls.

  Levoreth sat for a moment, staring down at the river. Its liquid voice sang of the valley, of the heather on the hills graying into autumn, of the mists that rose in the mornings on the plain and melted away under the noonday sun. Through it all was the murmuring memory of rain, of the storms in the Mountains of Morn that brought life to the Mearh Dun.

  “And the hope of rain, yet again,” said Levoreth out loud. The hound looked at her quizzically. “So it ever goes, and the years are preserved. May it ever be so and may the Dark never wake in Daghoron.” She scratched the dog’s ears, and it growled with pleasure. “Come, or Melanor will grow impatient and take it out on the poor tailor.”

  The tailor proved accommodating to Melanor’s wishes, even though he sighed at her demand that all the clothes be finished in two days. He was a melancholy man with sad eyes and the air of an undertaker.

  “Honestly,” whispered the duchess, “you’d think we were being fitted for our shrouds. But he’s positively the best tailor north of Hearne. Something terribly sad must’ve happened to him.”

  “Or perhaps,” said Levoreth, “he has corns and his shoes are too tight.”

  “You think so?” And the duchess spent the rest of the afternoon scrutinizing the poor man’s shoes until he grew so flustered that he jabbed Levoreth with a safety pin as he was measuring her for an evening gown.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  STARTING THE JOB

  Ronan spent some time watching the comings and goings of the merchant Cypmann Galnes. He had heard of Galnes even before Arodilac Bridd had told him his story. The man was well-known among the merchants and traders of the city. He was wealthy, powerful, and equally comfortable among the nobility of Highneck Rise and the roughnecks of the docks. It wouldn’t do to anger a man who had the ear of the regent. Even if the regent was paying for the job.

  Obviously, the man was aware of his daughter’s circumstance. And angry. The best thing would be to find out his habits and then rob his house when he wasn’t home. There was no need to anger him any further. Strange, though, that his daughter wanted the Bridd family ring for something. What was it Arodilac had said?

  She wants something in exchange. But she won’t tell me what.

  Strange.

  It was raining—a chilly downpour, unseasonal but welcome enough to the gardens and greenery parched brown by summer—and this dreariness plunged him into a brooding study. The rain reduced the city to a blur of stone, punctuated by the glow of lights in windows—taverns, shops, homes—all promising warmth and respite from the damp and dark.

  Water ran on the cobbled streets; it streamed from cornices and peaks and spouts. It flowed along through the gutters and gurgled down storm drains. In Mioja Square, in the heart of the city, the fountain began to overflow, sheeting water across the square. The vendors had already packed up their handbarrows and stalls and scurried away. Nobody shopped in weather like this.

  Cypmann Galnes stalked across the square, oblivious to the rain and oblivious to the shadowy form of Ronan trailing behind him. As far as the thief could tell, they were the only two souls out in the city that morning. He flipped his collar up and shivered. Rain ran down his neck. A curse escaped his lips as he splashed through a puddle.

  Normally, such a job would be given to one of the runners, one of the children fresh from the Juggler’s pack. Someone with enough brains to follow and keep their mouth shut, stay invisible, and hang about in doorways, waiting for someone else to move, someone else to think, someone else to act. But the instructions Smede passed on from the Silentman had been explicit. The regent wanted no one else from the Guild working on the job, no one else from the Guild even knowing about the job. The potential of embarrassment for the regency was too great.

  Ronan smiled sourly to himself. He appreciated the trust that the Silentman obviously thought him worthy of. Still, he’d much rather be sitting in an inn somewhere, a mug of ale in hand.

  We all have our jobs to do.

  Almost, he stopped to turn around, to see who had whispered the words, but it was only his memory stirring. Darkness filled his eyes and he saw the chimney yawning open underneath him, filled with shadow. He felt dizzy, as if he were teetering on a height. As if he was the one falling. He strode on in the rain, shoulders hunched against the wet and the cold, and against the past.

  Nothing personal, boy.

  We all have our jobs to do.

  Cypmann Galnes owned a warehouse near the harbor. Here, the city continued its hustle and bustle in spite of the rain. Water was a customary part of life, whether in the sea or raining from the sky. Even now, the docks swarmed with fishermen unloading the morning catch. Rain hissed on the swells rising and falling against the pilings. A schooner nosed up against the dock, its mainsail dropping with a clatter. Ronan could hear the calls of the sailors as ropes were flung and made fast. He huddled in an archway and watched as the merchant disappeared through a door down the street. A moment later, lamplight flickered from behind a window. The merchant would be there until late in the day. His routine was predictable. Ronan trudged away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THE GAWINNS TAKE IN AN ORPHAN

  They drove the mules hard. The twins no longer smiled and sang, even though Loy took to crooning wordlessly over the girl. She did not wake from her sleep. Her body grew thinner with each passing hour until it seemed she was only a collection of bones wrapped with skin. From time to time, Loy managed to trickle drops of honey and water between her lips.

  “Her skin feels like fire,” he said. “And the wounds on her leg stink of rot.”

  “Tomorrow morning we’ll be there,” said Murnan.

  “Might be too late.”

  “Aye,” said the other twin. “If these lazy mules of yours weren’t weighted so heavily, we’d make better time. Be there by nightfall.”

  The twins both glared at the trader. He tried to stare them down but could not.

  “All right!” he said. “Have it your way. It’ll mean less for all of us at journey’s end.”

  After a hasty discussion they decided on the copper ingots, as well as a pair of silver cats that had caught Murnan’s eye in Damarkan.

  “For a wedding,” he said to himself. “They’d have been a perfect wedding gift. Cwen loves cats.” But then he subsided into silence, for his thoughts turned to another wedding and the miller’s face staring up blindly at the sky.

  They buried the copper and the cats at the foot of an oak in a dell near the river Rennet. It was beginning to rain. The mules stepped out eagerly, now that their burdens had been lightened.

  “Ten hours,” said the trader.

  It was closer to nine hours and just into night when they reached the gates of Hearne. The hors
es steamed with sweat in the light of the flaring lamps and the mules refused to move once they clattered under the stone arch. A young officer emerged from the guard tower.

  “Sir—”

  “I need a physician. Quickly, and the best you know!”

  The officer raised his eyebrows.

  “Physicians don’t just come for anyone, sir. Even in Hearne, only a few practice and they cost a—”

  “What’s this?” said a voice behind the officer. A man sauntered down the steps of the guard tower. The young officer stepped to one side and saluted him.

  “Murnan Col, is it not?” said the man.

  “My lord?” said the trader.

  The lamplight drew the man’s face out of shadow, revealing a bony visage with startling blue eyes and dark hair falling over his forehead.

  “You sold me a pair of emeralds a year ago,” said the man. “Perfectly matched. Had them made into earrings for my wife.”

  “Ah!” Murnan’s face lightened. “Owain Gawinn! My lord, surely fate has brought you here. I’m sorely in need of your assistance. I know a good physician’s hard to find, but not for the regent’s Lord Captain of Hearne.”

  “For yourself, no doubt,” said Owain, though he didn’t mean it. His eyes had already noted the form cradled in Loy’s arms.

  “Several days ago, my lord, as we came up from Damarkan, we arrived at a village on a tributary of the Rennet. A little place I’ve traded at before, pleasant and friendly folk. This time, however, when we entered the village we found a charnel house out of the worst nightmare! Every person slain except for this one poor girl we brought away, and she is gravely wounded. Perhaps it would be a kindness to let her die, seeing her people are gone, but who knows why one is left to live?”

  The captain’s face had stilled at the trader’s words.

  “How were the villagers killed?” he asked. His voice was quiet. “Did you take time to notice?”

  Murnan’s face twisted in disgust. “Their bodies were disfigured by the birds and rats feeding, but it seemed they died in one of two ways. Some had deep wounds, thin and precise as if stabbed by knife or sword. Others had their throats torn out as if by a wild beast.”

  Owain Gawinn said nothing more after that, except to snap an order to the young officer at the gate. Soldiers dashed out with fresh horses, and in a matter of seconds the trader and the twins found themselves hurried along through the streets of Hearne. The rain and the darkness and the looming walls around them passed by in a blur of clattering hoofs and the muttered talk of the soldiers. Owain rode at their head, but he seemed a shadow flitting through the night, only just in sight and always out of reach.

  The street climbed up a steep rise. The houses were larger there, mansions, for the most part, set back behind walls and gardens. The rain rustled overhead in the branches of trees sheltering the street. They came to a gate in a high wall. Owain called out, and the gate swung open. They entered into a courtyard. Light spilled from doorways and windows. Servants came forward.

  “Welcome to my house,” said Owain Gawinn.

  The regent’s own physician came and tended to the little girl. He was an old man with a stern face, but his hands were gentle and the girl’s labored breathing eased under his touch.

  “Her blood’s tainted with a strange poison,” he said. He bled her with a knife into a stone vial, though Loy scowled and grumbled in the corner so much that he had to be ushered from the room. Owain’s four children peeped in through the doorway, all with his blue eyes. Sibb, his wife, swept in and out with hot water and a cool hand that seemed to do just as much good, if not more, than the physician.

  Murnan Col left that same night, relieved and heading north to Thule and home. One twin, Gann, went with him, but Loy stayed behind in the house of Owain Gawinn, for, as he said to his brother, he had felt the little girl’s life ebb away in his arms over the course of those past days and he wished to see her whole again before he left.

  Her fever broke after three days, and the wounds on her arm and leg began to heal. But even though she opened her eyes, she would only stare at her visitors. Not a sound escaped her lips, despite Owain’s repeated attempts to question her. Finally, his wife banned him from the room.

  “She’ll speak when she’s ready,” she said. “Until then, you’ll have to wait. Now go, before I lose my patience.”

  “Know your place, Sibb!” said her husband. But then he laughed and kissed her. He was a wise man and knew that his wife was wiser still in most matters.

  The days passed, and still the girl remained silent. All of them grew used to her grave eyes—Owain, his wife Sibb, their children, the servants, and Loy—though Owain wondered what it was that she had seen. This was not the first tale he had heard of such killings, but it was the first time he had encountered a survivor.

  After some time, the girl plucked up enough courage to venture out of her room, but only if Loy was in view. Besides Owain’s wife, he was the only one she would suffer to pick her up. But even for him she remained silent and solemn, despite the many ridiculous faces he would make for her benefit. Not a night went by without a nightmare coming to her, and it was only then she made noise—screaming as if she were looking into the darkness of Daghoron itself. The household waited patiently for her improvement and speech. She remained mute, however, and so the family grew to expect nothing more of her, though Sibb wept over her sometimes at night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  VANISHING STAIRS

  There was food on the table when Jute woke up. After he ate, he investigated the room. There was nothing worth stealing. Wool blankets and old books would not bring much from the barrow sellers who bought from the Juggler’s children. The room adjoined another room with nothing in it except for a window opening out onto a stone casement. He crawled outside and sat in the morning sunlight. The stone was already warming with the sun. He was at a great height, well above the rooftops of the city. Above him, the university spires towered even higher, up into the clear sky. Far below, the hubbub of Mioja Square drifted up to him. People bustled like ants among the brightly colored awnings of the stalls.

  The city sprawled around his vantage point. The sea was a brilliant line of blue to the west. To the east, huddled near the university walls, was the ugly mass of the Earmra slum, where the poorest of Hearne’s poor lived and worked. To the north, of course, the rooftops sloped sharply up toward Highneck Rise, at whose highest point rose the gleaming white stone towers of the regent’s castle. He had never been inside, or even close, for the castle was so heavily warded it set his ears buzzing if he got within a hundred yards of the place. According to the Juggler, the castle of Nimman Botrell was filled with the most fabulous treasures imaginable.

  The Juggler.

  His jaw tightened. A breeze blew by his face, prompting him to look to the sky, but there was nothing there—no hawk riding the winds—only the empty blue.

  The view from the window only held him so long. By noon, his boredom outweighed his fear of the university and the terrors Severan had hinted at. He opened the door to the hall and peered out. No one was there. The hall was silent. Even better, he could not hear any ward spells whispering in his mind. What was it Severan had said?

  An alarming number of the ward spells here aren’t attuned to noise.

  Then what do they listen to if not noise?

  He rubbed his nose and thought hard about this for a moment. He hadn’t met a ward yet he couldn’t beat. The trick was to be as silent as the sky. Silent and empty, and the spell would reach right through you and find nothing.

  Jute crept down the hall.

  He tripped his first ward twenty minutes later.

  After some time prowling about the warren of hallways, he came upon a marble door carved with whorls that seemed to creep in and out of each other. He pressed his ear against it and listened. There was only silence. More importantly, there was no ward whispering in his mind. He opened the door and found himself standing on
a platform jutting out over a huge, gloomy space of darkness. He edged over to the side to look down. He could see nothing below. But surely something was down there. He had to find out.

  Happily enough, a staircase curved down from one side of the platform. The steps were visible some distance down in the darkness, reflecting a hidden light source he could not make out. Jute tiptoed down the stairs in silence. However, after some time, he became aware of a noise. He froze. It was the quietest of noises—similar to a finger tapping on stone. Just a simple, peaceful tapping.

  Or so Jute thought.

  He took another step down the stairs, listening hard. After a few more steps, he realized the tapping increased in rapidity the further he descended. He retreated back up the stairs a way and paused. Sure enough, the tapping slowed back down.

  If Jute had understood the history and nature of the university, he would have promptly ran back up the stairs and hurried to the room where Severan had left him. And there he would have waited until the old man returned. But Jute didn’t. He was a stubborn boy and he was also a curious thief. It was a combination that didn’t always prove healthy.

  He tiptoed down the stairs, listening with all his might to the tapping as it increased in tempo with every step he took. He still could not tell where the stairs ended, as no floor was visible below. By this time, the tapping was so fast that surely the next step down he took would result in the tapping becoming a single, unbroken blur of sound. He took one more step and found this to be true.

  It was at that moment the stairway began to vanish. The steps below him disappeared, one by one, climbing up toward him. He turned and ran. There was one horrible spot at the end where he felt the step under his foot soften and he looked down to see the thing vanish. He lunged for the platform at the top of the stairs and hauled himself, sobbing for air, up over the edge.