The Hawk and the Falcon

by Benjamin Corman

  The guard chuckled at that, eyes locked with hers, and he pulled one side of the gate open with a creak of rusty hinges. She gave him one last smile then moved into the city. When she was several paces down the hill that led into the slums, she spat in the dirt, and clenched and released her hands several times. She whispered her mantra to herself and took a deep breath.

  From this height she could see well the lay of the city. Dozens of small, squat shanties huddled against each other, crowding the bay. Flat roofs of thatch or crumbling slate, barely an alley between most of them. The further she trudged along, through the muck of the lower streets, the more the smell of filth filled her nose; of rotten cabbage and fetid meat. She didn’t have to guess, it filled the gutters in scraps, preyed upon by snarling hounds and hissing cats.

  The sound of drunken laughter led her to the taverns. Always a roaring fire in the hearth, and a room full of stinking, sweating men. More ale was spilled, than consumed, from the tall pewter tankards as the night went on, and songs rose high on slurring voices. But this is where she’d find him.

  She bore the leers of fishermen, and more than one unwelcome grope, despite the fact that she was dressed as she was, in dark tunic and trousers, tucked into tall boots, her brown hair cropped short, the lines on her face showing her forty-some-odd years of weathered life. Enough drink and it stopped mattering to them that her looks and manner were far from any one's conception of propriety.

  She floated in and out of the alehouses, suffering the stink and thick air for hours until she found him. At least it seemed like him, looked like him, from all she had gathered. Dark hair and tan skin, a bandage stained red, wrapped across the right side of his face, covering most of one eye. It was lucky for her, lucky for him, that it wasn’t too late.

  He sat at a small table, in a shadowed corner, two large men across from him. One was bald, with a fringe of long, brown hair, and the other had bushy gray hair, barely distinguishable from his bushy gray beard. Their skin was tanned and creased in a way that spoke of a lifetime spent on the decks of sea-bearing vessels.

  All three of them had mugs in their fists, but they weren’t drinking. That meant one thing: coin was being discussed, and it made them stand out in their current surroundings, to anyone who cared to notice.

  Jethra made her way over, snaking in and out of the maze of swaying drunks, moving slowly toward a spot by their table, as if it was by happenstance, as if she had never thought of sitting there until she was nearly upon the chair. The small alcove, across from their own, made it the perfect place to overhear them. Even despite the roar of shouts and laughter, she could make out what they were saying.

  “I know you trade for Kardiff,” the bandaged one said, leaning in, speaking in hushed tones. “Have been loyal to them for years. Do me this favor and I promise; the gold will flow when we reach Whitecrown. See me safely to the west, and the Throne will reward you tenfold.”

  “No one sits the throne any longer,” said the graybeard. “Or have you forgotten?”

  Anger flashed across the bandaged man’s face and his voice got even lower. Jethra had to lean in closer, strain her practiced ears to make out his words. “I was with Robert at Valis. I saw it happen with my own eyes. What I have to tell is worth a fortune to the right people.”

  “A thousand crowns,” said the bald one, leaning in, licking his lips. “At minimum, a thousand.”

  The bandaged man met his eyes and nodded, folding his hands. “That, and the eternal loyalty of House Lyle.”

  The bald one chuckled and patted him on the back. “That too. Now, we only need keep you alive long enough to collect.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ve arranged for my protection already.”

  The trio shook hands under the table, after that, and then the greybeard said, “An hour hence. On the western docks. Third pier.”

  The bandaged man nodded and then the two sailors departed. When they were gone, he leaned back and took long, slow swallows from his mug. Gloved fingers tapped against the table for some time, as if counting. He seemed an honest enough fellow, a nice man perhaps, from the way he sat, and dealt with the barmaid. No lewd comments or unwanted pats on the backside. A good man, perhaps, and one with important news.

  After another round, he downed the last of his ale, left a few copper coins on the table, and stood up. Jethra followed him into the night.

  She kept her distance as much as possible, her boots silent on the dirt path, as his own clopped along. He peered into several shop windows, dark and dormant, then made his way roundabout, toward the bay. No one else appeared, no one followed, but surely that wouldn’t last.

  The tide was out, she could tell by the smell when they got closer. That was good, it meant time, and she would need it to find what she was looking for.

  As the dark-haired man moved out into the soft glow of lamplight cast down from high poles surrounding the docks, she slunk back in the shadows of an alleyway. Beyond, a vast, triple-masted ship sat in the bay, anchored at the end of a long, narrow pier. The dark water lapped softly at the log support pilings of the dock, and the bandaged man met the pair from earlier halfway out. They talked softly with one another. She couldn’t hear their words now, but it was clear they were passing the time.

  Jethra searched the surrounding alleys one by one but found nothing. So, she climbed the steep steps of a vacant building, and made for the roof. Below, the trio still stood on the pier, talking. Foolish. They should have found the safety of the ship now, while it was safe, despite the fact that the tides wouldn’t be with them for another hour or more.

  No matter, it gave her time. She forced her eyes away from them and scored the rooftops. At first it seemed as if there was nothing, but then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught movement across the way.

  On the far edge of the adjacent rooftop she saw him lying in wait, his cloak fluttering ever so slightly in the wind, something held under his body, trained on the trio below. She thought to go back down to the streets and find a way to the top of the other building, but time was growing short. She stalked to the edge of the roof, crouched low, and sprang into the air.

  There was nothing but an open alley four stories below her for a few breathless moments, and then she hit the opposite roof, hard. Harder than she had hoped for such a small distance, and as she landed her ankle twisted beneath her. Pain lanced up her left calf, and she had to bite her lip to stop from yelling out. Pushing away the pain, she looked up, certain the man would have heard the commotion.

  But the figure still laid there, the hood of his cloak drawn up over his ears, no doubt saved her life. As Jethra neared, ever so slowly, she could tell he held a long, wide, crossbow under his body, and knew from the size and shape, it would cover the distance to the docks.

  When she was nearly upon him, her injured leg caused her foot to scrape against the slate roof awkwardly, and the man spun around, pointing the crossbow up at her. She rushed forward and kicked the weapon to the side, as the bolt released with a twang and flew past her ear. The man went for a shortsword at his belt, but fumbled with the blade in his precarious position, giving her more than ample time to stab her own dagger down into his throat. There were a few, strained, gurgles of blood, and then his head lolled to the side and he stopped moving.

  Below, on the docks, the three men must have heard the commotion, for they were looking up toward her. With deft fingers, she retrieved her own bow from her shoulder, nocked an arrow from her quiver, drew, aimed, fired.

  The shaft soared through the air and took the bandaged man in the chest. He fell to the ground, and though the other two men tried to help him for a moment, when they realized he wasn’t getting up easily, they turned and fled toward their ship.

  Jethra put an arrow in each of their backs, one falling headlong into the water, while the other went to his knees, then slipped over the side of the pier. Both landed with a splash, and then made not another sound.

  The bandaged man had gotten
to his knees by that time and was groping at the arrow protruding from his chest. “Guards…” he managed, in a groan. “Guards…”

  “They aren’t coming,” Jethra whispered. Then she put an arrow into his head.

  All she found of interest when she searched the crossbowman, was a small piece of parchment folded into quarters, with the Falcon of Lyle sketched in dark ink, and a note instructing the throne to dispense the sum of five hundred crowns to the bearer. He must have been the protection the bandaged one spoke of – money well spent.

  She ripped the note to shreds, tearing the falcon into a dozen pieces, and then tossing them onto the winds. “Death is release,” she whispered to herself, “but vengeance first.”

  Chapter Six

  WILLIAM

  The city had swelled to the point of bursting. It was only a few weeks ago, on an evening walking with Alaina around the castle walls, that he had remarked upon the emptiness of the streets at night. Now, near to noon, the number of people in the city had multiplied beyond even the usual daytime traffic.

  From his perch atop the outer stone wall of the Lyle estate, high on the Avalene Hill, Will could see them all. The dirty and the freshly bathed, the wretched and the ridiculously wealthy, all pressed together, shoving, pushing, forcing their way down the labyrinthine streets. All the way from the southern gates, through the massive city wall that wound its way up rolling hills and into the distance beyond.

  The most lavish of the nobles and officials rode in shaded litters, carried on the backs of a half-dozen servants, but their course looked little better. The going was slow, the litter constantly jerking back and forth, as the servants tried to pick their way through the mass of people.

  The weather offered little reprieve. The sun sat like an inferno in a cloudless sky, beating down on everyone, scorching them, baking them. The smell was evidence enough. The wash houses were overcrowded as it was, and with this influx of people, the stink of sweat and waste rode high on the winds. With that came flies, hundreds of them, thousands of them, fat, black, circling, searching, looking.

  The flies brought birds, dozens of them, large and small, swooping in and out to feast, taking of the offered bounty. It was considered a good omen. Everyone was saying it, and so, all in all, it was a wonderful way to send a King to the hereafter. For that is why they were all here in their multitudes. To pay their respects and attend the funeral of the King of the Hyrel, a man Will had trouble finding a tear for. A man that had looked down at his son’s insistence on befriending someone so far beneath his station. A kitchen servant, a task Will’s own father had worked long and hard to attain for him. No doubt the old man, now long dead, had enjoyed the proximity with which it brought one of his own kin, to those of such standing.

  But what had that proximity, that friendship, brought him? A lifetime of headaches it seemed. Will had carefully avoided getting too wrapped up in Byron’s affairs over the years, but now, with his new position, his friend was constantly asking him to do more. Take a message to this official, check on this missive, or on that delivery. And how could he refuse? The Prince Regent, for that is what he was called now, was asking after all, and soon he would be confirmed as King at Valis. Will could only hope that the higher Byron rose, the less he would need help from some acquaintance of the middling class.

  There was no escaping it for now, though. So, Will pushed off the wall, landed hard on booted feet. Then he started down the hill, to join the stinking, shouting, swarm.

  The body of the King lay high on the dais. A thin, white shroud covered his aged form, upon which sat a narrow cloth of silver and blue, depicting the spread-winged falcon of House Lyle. Below that were piled logs of fine cedar, and kindling, tinder to start the pyre that would bring the old man back to the dust.

  Behind him rose the dark granite statue of Rook, a massive raven with its wings spread high into the air, feathers outstretched, as if preparing to flap and rise onto the winds. Rook who would take the righteous in the bosom of his wing and carry them to the grace and majesty of the afterlife. If you believed in that sort of thing.

  For Will the here and now seemed a lot more important, and so he couldn’t help but be a little pained to see Byron at the front of the large Square of Rook, some ten feet back from the pyre, looking down, seeming forlorn, despondent, as if none of this was really happening. For his friend’s sake, for the sake of Hyrel, he hoped the feelings didn’t last long.

  On either side of Byron was a member of the royal guard, standing tall, clad in blue cloak and armor of steel scales. Steel helms sat on their heads, stylized wings at either ear. A round clasp held their cloaks in place, bearing an engraved falcon in silver. Tall spears were ready by their sides, practiced fingers poised to form-up at a moment’s notice.

  Around them the nobles crowded, in their robes of green and red and purple. Not just those who held lands or titles in the province, but dozens from cities and towns from throughout the realm. They stood in front of a tall building of white granite, three floors in height. It was the Hall of the Order Aves, the chambers where the dukes and earls of the noble houses gathered to rule – or to scheme, depending on one’s inclination. But now they stood outside of their closeted rooms, and servants held banners on long poles above their heads, depicting their family crests.

  There was the gannet of House Dolan, a light blue bird on a field of green, facing left, its wings spread out horizontally. Old, sinewy, Deiron Dolan, Earl of Galde was in attendance, gray of hair and beard, with his dark-haired wife Merja Dolan beside him. The blue albatross on white of House Kaepa had its wings bent downward. Portly Marlen Kaepa, Earl of Hallis, was here with his sister Marwen, and there was Myles Stanford also, Earl of Darre, with his white crane on green, and even Ceiron Warren, Earl of Warren, with his red cardinal on a field of a deeper red; all of these birds on these crests had wings tucked by their sides.

  “The stance of the bird means everything,” his father had told him long ago, with too much adoration in his voice. He had pointed out the crests of countless trains of nobles visiting the city over the years. “The position of the wings, their height, symbolizes the House’s own claim of stature. The direction of the beak, the way in which the bird faces, notes the family’s alignment, the area they hail from, east or west.”

  Will noted that there weren’t too many birds facing to the right, to the east. He saw only the blue wren on black of House Bardow, Rolan Bardow, Earl of Novak, himself easily spotted below the banner. Wavy, dark hair and beard going to gray, a man in his forties, with thin lips, and dark circles under his eyes. By all accounts, he was the only earl of the east that had attended. Assuredly, it was a long journey from Kyres on such short notice, but where were the facing swans of the Prince of Valis? Surely, the Iyril Palace was not so far?

  It was a clear insult, and telling, though the nobles who flocked to Byron’ side would certainly deny it. The only voices of reason, it seemed, had sailed east with Alaina. Will ground his fist into his leg, trying to put her out of his mind. It was an effort that he had not been overly successful with in the days since she had left.

  The Duke Stans Wallace of Casterlin, the man she had gone off to be with, had sent his condolences along with an emissary, but what else could he have been expected to do? Admit his part in Robert’s death? Unlikely. Will had a feeling it would be some time before House Casterlin showed their true colors. Meanwhile they’d grab as much power in the east as they could manage. The same as they had been doing for decades, but in earnest now. Perhaps Alaina would be successful in her endeavors, but the danger she was in… it made Will more fearful than he had ever been for his own sorry hide.

  Around those on the dais, just behind Will, there was a wide circle of more royal guardsmen, and then after that, the teeming masses – shouting, pushing, standing on straining legs, pressing against the shoulders of the people in front of them, trying to see, trying to catch a glance of what was going on. They were hemmed in only by the tall, stone
buildings that surrounded them on all sides, which shaped and formed their sinuous ranks, following the lines of the streets, on all four sides.

  The buildings crowded in so close that the square was bathed in a dim light, only scattered streaks of sunshine making their way downward. It was cool, but it was gloomy. Perhaps fitting for the affair at hand. Will had never found cause to celebrate death, as some priests liked to preach.

  The Grand Augur stepped up to the dais then, long, scarlet robes trailing over granite steps. He had a gray beard and bushy eyebrows, and wore a bronze helmet, rounded over the skull, with large wings spread out from either temple. In his hand he held a tall staff capped with a similar pair of bronze wings.

  The High Order of Augurs divined the will of the gods by observing the behavior and flight of birds. The Grand Augur was the king’s own diviner and as he spread his arms to the crowd, his staff held high, two white-robed women stepped behind him, holding between them a wood-slatted crate.

  One of the women unlatched a side of the crate and pulled it open. With the flutter of a dozen wings, a flight of a dozen doves shot forth from the cage and made for the sky. They wheeled about in the air, the crowd and the Grand Augur following their path with head and eyes. After a few moments they were gone.

  The Grand Augur then spoke, pitching his voice high over the crowd. “The King ventures forth on the wings of joyous tidings. To a place of eternal mirth and biding. With weather fair and souls laid bare, forever more residing.”

  “How poetic,” Will muttered under his breath. Foolishness most like, but pretty sounding. Good words for a funeral, he supposed.