The Hawk And His Boy

by Christopher Bunn

  Yes, but have you been hunting these past years?

  She lay back on her bed and promptly fell asleep, without even blowing out the candle. The wind wandered in through her window and, after investigating the hanging drapes of her bed, snuffed the candle out. It blew back outside into the night sky and headed south, winging its way toward Hearne, further to the Vornish lands and the deserts of Harth beyond.

  For the first time in a long while, Levoreth did not dream.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  AN ENJOYABLE CRISIS

  “You’ve got that look on your face again.”

  “I do? What look?”

  Owain Gawinn tried to rearrange his features into a pleasant smile but could not. He was not fond of smiling. His wife, Sibb, was sitting by him, knitting a scarf from red wool. The needles clacked in her hands.

  “There,” said his wife. “You’re doing it again.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I know that face, Owain,” she said. “That’s the same look you got the day you told me you were leading a troop to Vomaro to hunt for Devnes Elloran. Intent, inscrutable, as solemn as an owl, but there! With a bit of glee glinting in your eyes.”

  “I do not feel glee, as you put it,” he said, “due to the distress of others, if that’s what you’re saying.”

  “You know that’s not what I’m saying. All I mean is you enjoy crises.” Sibb softened her words with a smile. “There’s nothing more you love than buckling on your sword and riding out the gates with your soldiers behind you.”

  “Perhaps,” he admitted. “But if I’m out in the field, cold and tired and bruised, there’s nothing I love more than riding home to you.”

  “Devnes Elloran!”

  A strand of wool snapped in Sibb’s fingers. She exclaimed in annoyance.

  “That girl was a hussy if I ever saw one,” she said. “She got what she had coming to her!”

  “Sibb, Sibb—I wouldn’t wish ogres on anyone. At any rate, the Farrow lad handily beat us there.” Owain shook his head in wonder. “I still marvel at the story after all these years. He must’ve been the bravest fool in the land to have done what he did. Even with a column of men, I’d be wary of venturing into an ogre’s lair.”

  “So what are you thinking of doing now?”

  “Doing now?”

  “Don’t try that on me, Owain. I know when you’ve got something brewing in your head.”

  He smiled and kissed her, but then his face became serious.

  “I’ve been wondering about our little foundling. To my knowledge, she’s the only survivor of whatever’s been murdering its way across Tormay.”

  “Murdering its way—what? There’ve been others?”

  “I didn’t want to trouble you, my dear,” said her husband. “But there have been other incidents reported. Twice in Vo and three times in Vomaro. Mostly isolated farms. The news of them has been trickling in over the last few weeks. The same signs, the same methods of killing. Murder for no reason at all. No reason, at least, I can see.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Do?” He picked up a ball of wool and turned it over and over in his hands. “I’m not sure yet. It doesn’t affect Hearne, but the regency does have obligations. I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

  She touched his hand.

  “No, you can’t. No Gawinn would.”

  He smiled.

  She said something else, but it was lost in the sudden shrieks and laughter that invaded the room as their four children burst through the door. Loy was scrambling about on all fours, mooing like a cow and chasing them about.

  “Help, Father! Help!”

  “My duties don’t extend to defending the city against cows,” said their father, laughing. But his smile faded when he looked up, for the girl was standing in the doorway. Her face was grave. Her eyes stared at the other children, but Owain had the distinct impression that she did not see them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  RONAN MEETS HIS MATCH

  Some hot ale would do him good.

  Ronan paused outside the Goose and Gold and considered. Even though night was approaching, the day still had time enough in it to accomplish what he had to do. Cypmann Galnes would be at his warehouse for at least another three hours. Plenty of time.

  Any other inn would have been more to his liking, as the Goose and Gold was a dirty, run-down place, but he was chilled to the bone and the inn was conveniently on the way. A wave of warmth and noise met him, lit by lamplight and the roar of a fire burning on the hearth.

  The boisterous chatter lulled as he walked through the door, and then it surged back. He recognized many of the people in the room. Guild members, mostly. Eyes slid toward him and then flicked away. Curiosity on some faces. Fear on others. He was used to it all. He sat down at the bar.

  “Mulled ale,” he said.

  He drank and savored the heat flowing down his throat. He propped his elbows on the bar and shut his eyes. Oats and honey. A memory surfaced in his mind of his mother stirring porridge over a fire. The sun was not up yet and he remembered there had been a sound of horses nickering to someone nearby. Likely his father, bringing them something to whet their appetite before they ventured out onto the moor to crop the grasses. Oats as well, probably. His mother had turned to him and smiled, seeing him wake, and she had spooned honey into the porridge. Ronan took another sip of ale. The taste was like the memory of the taste. Porridge and honey. Oats and honey.

  Someone slid onto the stool next to him.

  “Go away,” he said.

  The Juggler tried to smile. He took a pull at his mug of ale and smacked his lips.

  “Go away,” repeated Ronan, not bothering to look at him.

  “I was wondering,” said the Juggler, “when I’d be compensated for the loss of my boy.” Here, the Juggler almost managed to look sad but ruined the effect by rubbing his hands together.

  “Your boy?” Ronan scowled at the fat man.

  “Innkeeper, another ale! Ahh, that’s more like it!” The Juggler took a gulp of his freshly filled mug. “We were family. Almost like father and son, we were. It pains me to have lost him. It pains me, lemme tell you! To have lost my son! Are you a family sort? I didn’t think so. I can tell with most folks—I have a knack for it. You can’t imagine the sorrow a father experiences when his son goes missing. A lamb from the fold! Ahh—someone’s drunk my ale. Wuzzit you?”

  “Innkeeper!” Ronan barked. “Get this man more ale!”

  Another mug of ale appeared as if by magic. The Juggler blinked at it.

  “Have a drink on me,” said Ronan. “Drink and shut up. I don’t want to hear another word.”

  The Juggler drank. He wiped his mouth.

  “But where’s my money?” he said. “Where’s my—”

  Ronan grabbed him by the collar and threw him headfirst into a nearby table. Plates and food went flying. The table collapsed in a tangle of legs and curses and spilled ale. The Knife had been moving so fast when he threw the fat man that it was doubtful anyone saw what he did, other than the innkeeper, who had been wiping the counter nearby. Ronan sat back down and took a drink of ale. Behind him, a joyous roar went up and the place descended into chaos.

  A pitcher whizzed by Ronan’s head and shattered against the wall behind the counter. He turned to survey the room. There was no logic to the brawl other than a willingness on most participants’ part to fight whoever came within reach. The Juggler’s face surfaced briefly in one spot, long enough for someone to break a plate over his head.

  “No blades!” bawled the innkeeper.

  A man staggered up against Ronan. The man took a swing at the Knife and then stepped back, aghast.

  “Sorry,” said the man. “Didn’t recognize you.”

  “Don’t mention it,” said Ronan. He kicked the man’s feet out from under him and sent him flying face-first into the thick of the fight. He sighed and mopped at his shirt. The man had spilled his ale.


  “Can’t a man drink in peace?” he said, glaring at the innkeeper.

  The innkeeper scowled back at him.

  Ronan closed the door of the Goose and Gold behind him. The street was quiet after the clamor inside the inn. It was raining. A lamp shone above the door of a pawnshop across the way, but the street was dark other than that. Time to visit the Galnes manor in Highneck Rise. He stepped out into the rain.

  “Hey, mister.”

  The voice came from somewhere on his left. There, in the alley running back alongside the Goose and Gold. He saw some movement. Water streamed down from the eaves.

  “Hey, mister.”

  He kept walking. He had a few hours before Cypmann Galnes would leave his warehouse down at the docks. A few hours to break into the Galnes manor. Time enough to find the missing ring.

  “He’s still alive, ain’t he?”

  That stopped him.

  It was a young child’s voice. High and taut with malice. There, just within the alley, he saw a face. A white blur of a face. He wiped the rain from his eyes.

  “I saw him. You didn’t kill him, cully.”

  “Kill who?” But he knew who the child was talking about.

  Nothing personal, boy. We all have our jobs to do.

  The boy was dead. When he killed people, they stayed dead. That was his job.

  “You should know. You’re the one knifing people.”

  But it hadn’t been a knife. No. Poison. Enough of it to kill a horse.

  Ronan stepped into the alley. The walls were close and high. The stones underfoot were slick with mud and garbage. There was no light at all, but he heard the scuffle of footsteps retreating before him. As quiet as a mouse, but enough for him. He’d tracked animals in the past that made less noise than mice. They were just as easy to kill.

  “You saw him? Saw who?”

  Abruptly, the alley angled around a corner. He strained his ears but all he could hear now was the rain pattering on the roof and dripping from the eaves.

  “Who’d you see?”

  The knife slid from his sleeve and into his hand without a sound.

  “You know, cully, well as I do.”

  The voice was closer than where he thought it would be. It was a little girl’s voice, he was sure of it. Brave. He had to give her that. Brave, like the boy had been. He paused. The knife felt heavy in his hand. But then he took a step closer and the night burst red with pain. A tremendous blow struck his head. Again and again. Something shattered on the cobblestones next to him. Wood splintered. He staggered, trying to duck and hide but there was nowhere to go. His body would not obey. The world spun. He caught a glimpse of the night sky above him. There were faces in it. No, not in the sky, but leaning out, peering down from above the eaves. Children’s faces, wizened and evil, leering at him. A boy heaved over a wood barrel right on top of him.

  The world went black.

  It was still raining when he came to. He was laying face down in the mud. He tried to roll over and then immediately wished he hadn’t.

  At least it’s still raining, he thought dizzily. I’ll be able to wash this muck and blood off. Children. The Juggler’s children.

  I don’t blame them.

  Surprised they didn’t cut my throat while they were at it.

  “How you doing, cully?”

  It was the little girl. He opened his eyes.

  “Don’t feel too good, do you?” she said.

  She crouched down, hands folded around her knees, eyes intent on him. Just out of reach. Not that he was in any shape to try anything. The rain had plastered her brown hair against her head. She wore a shapeless brown dress several sizes too large for her, and the sleeves were bunched up in rolls around her arms. A scar lay like a hand slap across the side of her face.

  “Felt better,” he said. He could taste blood in his mouth. “Give me a few days.”

  He tried sitting up but he couldn’t. The little girl did not move away, but he saw her tense. He heard feet shuffling around him in the darkness. Other children.

  “You’re the Knife,” she said. “The big, bad old Knife.”

  She flipped a blade in her hand, end over end and catching the haft. His knife.

  “Jute,” she said. “The boy who did the chimney job. He’s my friend. The Juggler says he got snaffled by a fire-ward, but you can tell when he’s talking rot. Besides, we saw you.”

  “You saw me?” he said stupidly. His head ached. This was almost as bad as when he got thrown and trampled breaking a yearling when he was a boy. Years ago. He could still remember his father’s sudden yell, running toward the corral. Blacking out when the horse stomped on him. He hadn’t been much older than this girl.

  “Course we did,” said the little girl. “Haro an’ I climbed a house close by an’ watched the whole thing. Jute went down the chimney, we saw that. An’ then we saw you push him down when he tried to come out. We saw it all, cully.”

  Ronan closed his eyes and saw the boy’s face again, staring up at him from within the chimney darkness. The girl stood up. She kicked him in the side. A rib grated against another and he almost blacked out from the pain of it. She crouched down next to his face.

  “All that hurt like fallin’ down a chimney, cully?” Her voice trembled. “I wish I could kill you, but I can’t. I just can’t. It ain’t in me. I’d like to, for Jute. I’ll be keepin’ your knife. Maybe I’ll grow up one day and change my mind.”

  He heard her footsteps fade away and then there was only the sound of raindrops dripping on cobblestones. He took a deep breath and pushed himself up to his knees.

  Pain wasn’t a bad thing altogether. It meant you were still alive.

  He scooped up a handful of water from a puddle and tried to clean his face, but the water only ran through his fingers. His side was on fire. Broken rib, he though dully. More than one. He levered himself up to his feet, cursing the day. He was in no condition to attempt the Galnes manor. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow would be a better day.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  A DISTURBING ENTRY ON SCEADUS

  The night arrived as the sun slipped down into the ocean. The moon crept up into the sky, but no stars were visible yet. To the east, a dark bank of clouds rolled toward the city.

  Nio sat in his library and stared out the window, a book open in his lap. Fynden Fram’s Endebyrdnes of Gesceaft. The Order of Creatures. He knew the book by heart. There was not much point in reading it, but he was looking for reassurance. Vainly looking, of course.

  When he had returned to the house after meeting the Juggler, he had found the wihht shambling about the rooms. It was unsettling, for his command over the thing should have kept it waiting in the basement. Somehow, his control was fraying. The thing had been unwilling or unable to give him much of a reason for its behavior, only mumbling that it was hungry. It needed food. Just some food. Just a taste. A bite. But wihhts didn’t need food, like a man or an animal needs food to survive. Wihhts survived on the strength of their maker’s will.

  At least, that’s what he had assumed.

  The thing had lurched off to the basement without protest as soon as he snapped out the order. Still, it made him uneasy. There were definitely some things about wihhts he did not know yet.

  But Fynden Fram, despite his genius, had nothing to say in his Nokhoron Nozhan Endebyrdnes of Gesceaft that Nio did not already know. Wihhts only ate on command of their master, and only then to bring about a modification their master willed. Nio thought uncomfortably about the wihht absorbing his blood. It had wanted to take more than he had wanted to give, hadn’t it?—right at the end? That didn’t line up with what old Fram had written. No matter. He would unmake the wihht soon. Besides, it would be good to have the thing unraveled and gone before Severan or one of the other old fools might come by the house and stumble on it.

  The irritating thing about Fynden Fram’s writing was that, despite the wealth of detail, his descriptions of creatures tended to be divorced fr
om historical context. For example, if he wrote of giants, he had nearly nothing to say of their origins, or in what lands or wars they had been encountered. Rather, he provided terse descriptions of physiognomy, habits, and social customs. In addition, there were often details on how a creature interacted with magic or was affected by the same.

  The giant, or oyrs, can live to ages of over three hundred years, though they reach their full maturity at the first hundred. In death, they are laid out upon the ground where, in some curious interaction of the moonlight, they slowly turn to stone. In appearance, the giant resembles the race of man, though one must be a distance away from a giant in order to notice the similarity. If one gets too close, besides the hazard of proximity, one will find the giant’s face so large that it cannot be viewed in entirety; rather, it must be looked on in part—here is the nose, here is a huge, staring eye, over there is a portion of mouth or cheekbone.

  The scarcity of historical setting in the entries gave one the unpleasant feeling that all the creatures the old scholar wrote of were still alive.

  Such as the sceadus.

  A scant page in the book was devoted to details of the sceadus. It was the shortest entry among hundreds of other entries that ran from the next shortest—five pages about cobolds—to the longest—seventeen pages about dragons, a section that made for fascinating, but unsettling reading. Almost as unsettling as what Fram had written concerning sceadus.

  The sceadus were not created by Anue. Rather, they were made out of darkness, woven from the feorh of it into forms of their master’s choosing. Legend tells that only three sceadus were ever brought into existence, though I am not certain of this claim. Some analogy exists between the making of a wihht and the making of a sceadu. An external will must be brought to bear upon the essence desired as the foundation material for the creature. There, the similarity between the two types ends. A wihht, of course, can be made from nearly anything, combinations of material such as earth, wood, water, fire, or stone. A sceadu, on the other hand, can only be made from darkness, and thus is a thing of pure evil. Certain histories indicate that the sceadus are close in power to the anbeorun themselves. While some have claimed the ability to fashion wihhts of all shapes and strengths, no man has ever had the power to fashion a sceadu. No man ever will—thankfully. This begs the question: if not the gods, then who was powerful enough to have created the three sceadus?