There were haughty Vomarone gentry, strutting like peacocks and stooping every now and then to investigate whatever bits of finery happened to catch their inquisitive eyes. The people of Harth were there, aloof and imperious with their eyes as blue as a desert sky and their hair sun-scoured white. Rich farmers from Hull, proclaiming loud, boisterous opinions on everything and everyone to impress their womenfolk they shepherded about. There were even a few men from Harlech, though hardly anyone in that city would have recognized them as such.
Jute forgot everything Severan had said. He forgot the cellar in Nio’s house and what waited there in the dark. He forgot the Guild. The sunlight and the colorful clamor of the square were too much for him. It was all too wonderful. Without another thought, he sauntered out of the alley and into the crowd.
At first, Jute contented himself with ambling through the press of people. This could not be done in a straight line, of course, because the vendors had created an impromptu maze in the square. The place was a labyrinth of stalls with their canopies and tented inner sanctums, as well as the barrows that maneuvered about into more advantageous configurations as the day wore on. The placement and ordering of these little shops were delicate feats of diplomacy, guile, bribery, and sometimes downright violence on the part of the merchants and their apprentices. It might be more beneficial for a honeycake seller to be near someone selling pillows and blankets, for the sight of such homely articles tended to encourage people, particularly men, to indulge in sweets. Those who wove wards always tried to locate their stalls next to blacksmiths, particularly those specializing in weapons. There was nothing quite like racks of gleaming daggers to set a goodwife wondering whether or not her home could use an extra protection ward. Any jeweler would be grateful to have a tea brewer nearby, for those most likely to buy an icefire pendant for their mistress or earrings for a daughter were always helped along to their decision by plenty of time and plenty of hot tea.
For a while, Jute wandered along at the heels of two tall men who were clearly from Harth. They conversed together in courtly tones that delighted him, for their speech sounded like the poetry the street storytellers sometimes used when they told their most expensive tales. He considered relieving the two men of their purses, for his own pockets were empty, but decided against it, as both of them walked with the alertness of cats and bore swords on their belts. This was also noticed by a blacksmith’s apprentice as the pair proceeded down a row of stalls, small shadow in tow.
“Sharpen yer swords, sirs!” bawled the apprentice. “Copper an edge!” In the stall behind him, a cloud of steam rose as the blacksmith plunged a glowing knife into a tub of water. The two Harthians stopped.
“Only one copper an edge,” said the apprentice. He wiped his nose and then rubbed his hands together, sensing a bit of business.
“I fear this blade of mine has no need for the stone,” said the taller of the two men. He glanced over the weapons displayed on the planked tables within the stall. The offerings were mostly unimpressive—serviceable blades, bundles of arrowheads, axe heads, and even a helm or two—but there was a collection of three knives that seemed to catch his eye.
“The Hearne air, sir, puts a rust on any iron,” returned the apprentice.
“What think you, Stio?” said the man to his companion. “Would my lady sister be pleased by such as these?” He indicated the three knives.
“Has your father’s court become so dangerous that gentle ladies would need knives?” said the other. “Faith, my lord Eaomod, her beauty is weapon enough, for keenly do I still bleed from her edge.”
Eaomod laughed and picked up one of the knives. It was an elegant weapon, the blade inlaid with delicate whorls of silver. With a careless flick of his hand, the man sent the knife dancing across his fingers. It whirled and spun through the air, though at every moment it seemed the blade must surely draw blood.
“My master’s a right hand with the anvil, my lord,” said the apprentice. “Just as you surely are a weapon master.”
“I doubt you not,” said the Harthian. “Yet I fear his anvil did not see the making of this blade.”
The apprentice grinned and shuffled his feet. A small crowd of onlookers had gathered, attracted by the sight of the flashing blade. Jute edged closer as well and relieved the apprentice’s pockets of two copper pieces. The blacksmith wiped his hands on a rag and stepped up. He cuffed his lad good-naturedly.
“Right you are, my lord,” he said. “Someday I might be making a pretty little thing like that. I’ve many years to live yet before I learn the secrets of such smithying.”
“I think you will have to travel to Harlech to learn art as made this,” said the Harthian.
He might have said more, but Jute had already moved away. A breeze brought him the scent of raisins and he drifted along its trail, listening to his stomach grumble and jingling the two coppers in his pocket. Never before had he seen the square so crowded. Even on days when such extravagant fairs weren’t being held it took quite some time to walk from one end to the other. Now, it would take all day long if he was to see every stall, every barrow, and every delightful oddity being hawked.
And what if he himself was seen?
Jute sobered at the thought, even though he had not seen a single familiar face since he had climbed out the window. Yet he might be spotted without his knowledge. He quickened his pace and slipped down a row of carpet merchants, sash sellers, and handkerchief vendors. Just ten minutes more and then he’d hurry back to the university and safety. He’d investigate a few pockets and then be on his way. No one would be any the wiser, and besides, Severan himself would never know. He hardly ever saw the old man.
A crowd of people had gathered at the intersection of several rows of stalls. Jute could smell the raisins close by, and he slipped through the people, helping himself to pockets as he went. He emerged beside a confectionery’s barrow, from which a delicious steam rose. Biscuits studded with raisins and glazed with honey cooled in a wire basket. A griddle sizzled over a brazier glowing with coals. Behind him, a cheer went up from the crowd. He looked to see what had roused them, but he was too short. At any rate, the growling in his stomach rated more attention than a crowd cheering and he turned back to the confectionery.
“Run along with you,” said the old woman behind the barrow. She shook her wooden paddle at him.
“But I’d like to buy,” protested Jute. “I’m not a thief.” He jingled the coppers in his pocket and felt virtuous.
“One for half a copper,” said the old woman, “and let’s see your metal first. I’ve had enough of you scamps today.”
“I’ll take two,” said Jute grandly, and he tossed a copper piece on the griddle. The old woman scraped the coin off with her paddle.
“All right, then,” she said.
“Of course, my good woman,” said Jute, trying to recall how the Harthian lord had spoken. She whisked two of the hot confections into a twist of cotton and handed the lot over. Jute ruined the lordly effect by taking an enormous bite and nearly choking on the hot dough. The old woman smiled.
“She’s about to start again,” she said, unbending a little.
“Who?” managed Jute. He gulped for air and licked honey from his lips.
“The Mornish girl. The singer.” The old woman gestured toward the crowd. “Been singing on and off all morning. Got a throat on her like a bird.”
The singer started before Jute saw her, for the people were standing toe to heel and it took some doing to work his way through. The voice had a confiding quality to it, as if the singer sang for Jute alone. Each person in that crowd probably thought the same. Despite such intimacy, her notes soared up into the sky.
She sings like the hawk flies, thought Jute.
He edged between a stout couple dressed in the commonsense weaves of Hull. They made grumbling way for him and then closed up behind him like a sturdy wall fed on pork and potatoes. The Mornish girl was no girl, for the old confectionery woman would
have regarded any woman under the age of fifty as a girl. The singer had the solid features of the mountainfolk, as those people, when along in years, tend to look like they have been carved from the stones of the Mountains of Morn. But the beauty of her voice overwhelmed all other senses. A man sat on a stool near her feet and played accompaniment on a lute. The singer stood unmoving, her arms at her side. Only her mouth and throat moved, buoyed by the slow bellows of her breast.
“Hanno Col rode from Lascol forth
on the first of summer’s day.
The earth was green and tasseled gold,
corn heavy with the rain.
The wind blew him west, along the plains,
toward an unseen shore.
Where the keep of Dimmerdown stood,
the sea knocking on its door.”
The air around the singer seemed to shimmer, almost as if the sunlight had been caught by the woman’s voice and was coaxed to slow and thicken in attentiveness to her sound. Jute tasted honey in his mouth and was not sure if it came from the biscuit or the song.
An arm clamped around his neck, nearly wrenching him over.
“Jute,” said a voice.
He yelped in fright. The arm tightened and a small face insinuated itself against his own.
“Shh!”
And then he recognized the livid burn and the tangled brown hair falling down around her face. She frowned and smiled in delight at the same time.
“Lena!”
“Quiet,” she said. “That old Demm is standing not three feet away and he’s allus been a nasty one.” She nodded. A gaunt rail of a man was standing in the front of the crowd. With one step, the man could reach them and grab Jute by the scruff of his neck. But the singer sang on and Demm stared at her with glazed eyes. Sweat slid down Jute’s back. Demm was one of the bashers who ran the docks for the Guild.
“C’mon.” Lena’s hand slipped into his own. They threaded their way back through the audience until they were in one of the less crowded byways of the square.
“Shadows, Jute,” she said, rounding on him. “Where you been at?” She stuck her small fists on her hips and glared at him.
“Not here,” he said. His heart was beating fast, as fast as the heartbeat of a sparrow he had picked up once. The silly thing had broken its wing and had been flopping about the cobblestones. He had picked it up and felt the tiny hammer of its life knock faster and faster until it was gone and there was only a bundle of feathers and bones in his hands. The heartbeat had been so fast. At that moment, his heart felt the same. Demm had been so close. Almost close enough to touch.
“You tell me, cully!” she said furiously.
“Not here, Lena.”
He grabbed her hand and pulled her along. There were too many people, too many twists and turns, too many carts jammed into hodgepodge lines and angles, too many canopies blocking out the sky. He felt as if he could not breathe. He needed empty spaces and silence. Too many hands that might reach for him, too many faces, and too many eyes. Surely they were all watching him. Too much noise and babble hiding the gossip surely being whispered behind hands and stalls and hanging drapes.
They hurried through a fading fringe of people and scattered carts, right on the edge of the square, and dove into the alley skirting the university ruins. The wall loomed up next to them and shrouded the alley with afternoon shadow.
“Jute!” said Lena, “You’re hurting me.”
“Sorry.”
She perched on a pile of rubble and glared at him.
“Now where you been? And this better be good. Better than being dead, for that’s what the fat old Juggler was allus telling us. I cried, and he just smiled all over his fat, greasy face.”
Jute laughed, for the little girl had twisted up her own face into an approximation of the Juggler’s leer.
“Don’t,” Lena said crossly.
“Sorry.” He sat down next to her. She laid a hand on his arm.
“Are you going to have that?”
“No,” he said. He handed her the remaining biscuit. He wasn’t hungry anymore. Besides, the thing had long gone cold.
“So then?”
Jute was half of a mind to tell her the whole story. After all, he had known Lena for years, ever since she had shown up at the back door of the Goose and Gold, a tiny, frightened girl. The innkeeper had put her to work in the scullery, scrubbing the endless grease of pots and pans. The deftness of her hands had caught the Juggler’s eye, and it wasn’t long before he had her. She had learned under the tutelage of the older children. Jute had taught her a fair bit himself.
He winced at the memory, looking down at the burn scar blooming on the side of her face. It covered one cheek and reached up into the scalp. Luckily, her hair had grown back.
“I got caught.” He shrugged. “There’s not much to the story. The job went bad and got me nicked.”
“As if you’d get nicked.” she said, spraying crumbs. “That’d be the day.”
He shook his head, secretly pleased at her praise. “Plenty of things out there that shouldn’t be tried for. You know that. No matter how quick you get, there’s always a bit that’s gonna be quicker. And those are the bits you have to leave be—only I tried for one of ‘em.”
She scowled, but he saw her touch her face, fingers drifting unconsciously across the burn scar.
“It were for the Knife, weren’t it?” she said.
“Aye.” And he saw the man’s face again, floating pale and ghostly above the chimney’s mouth. Nothing personal, boy. His hands clenched. Stone and shadow. He hadn’t thought of the man for several days now.
She licked her fingers clean of honey and then wiped them on her shirt.
“Ain’t no reason to worry about the Knife,” she said.
“What do you mean?” he said, startled.
“Oh, nothing,” she said, smiling in triumph. “Just that, me ‘n the other—we jumped the Knife behind the Goose ‘n Gold.”
“What?”
She told him, waving her hands about for emphasis and grinning.
“You could’ve been killed,” said Jute, angry and jealous and amazed all at the same time.
“Well, I weren’t. What’s more, I heard the Knife ain’t the Knife any longer. He been kicked outa the Guild or something. All in disgrace, cuz of you, cully. Everyone’s talking about it.”
“Kicked out?” he said in amazement.
“On his rear. So, what was it? What were you trying to swipe?” she said.
His mind cast about for something suitably impressive. “An old book. Something filled up with magic spells and things like that. Real expensive and rare.”
“Must have been a real swoop,” she said, “else the Silentman wouldn’t have put out such a price on you.”
“The Silentman? A price? What are you talking about?”
“Stone,” she said, wide-eyed. “You hadn’t heard?”
“No. I’ve been—I’ve been busy. Tell me then.”
“Maybe I’d like another biscuit first.”
“Maybe you’ll tell me.” He poked her in the ribs.
“A hundred pieces of gold.” She wriggled away. “Who’d have thought your ugly mug’d be worth all that?”
“A hundred pieces of gold,” he breathed. “You should turn me in yourself. You’d be rich.”
“There’s plenty would turn you in for a lot less than a hundred, Jute. Word’s gone out around the city. Every kid in the Juggler’s lot is dreaming of gold. Oh, not Wrin and the twins. They’ll allus be true as can be. But every member of the Guild has word to take you if they’ve the chance—alive. The Silentman wants you alive. You’ve the shadow’s own luck to be out on the square today and nobody seen you.”
“It was stupid of me.” He shook his head in disgust. “I need to disappear. Don’t tell anyone you saw me, will you?”
“Course not,” she said indignantly.
He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Here, you better take this lot.” He forke
d over his pickings from the square. The remaining copper from the blacksmith’s apprentice, a silver coin embossed with the ducal crest of Hull, and an opal no bigger than his thumbnail but black as night. Lena’s eyes bulged and she squeaked.
“I won’t need ‘em,” he said. “Not where I’m holed up. Give the opal to the Juggler. That should keep him in a good mood for days.”
The little girl looked at him blankly for a moment.
“You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?” he said.
“Bout the Juggler. He’s been gone more’n a week now. He must be dead or something, ‘cause the Guild’s moved a new one in. Old man who just sits and smokes his smelly pipe all day and take our swoop. He’s not half bad, an’ he don’t beat us hard at all.”
“The Juggler's dead?”
Joy trembled inside him, but then it was swept away by anger. His vision blurred. Someone else had killed the fat man. He had wanted that pleasure himself—somehow—to watch the life go out of those beady eyes. To extinguish him, just as a wick would be blown out.
A breeze blew down the alley.
What are you doing? Beware your mind, fledgling.
The hawk.
Instantly, his sight cleared. Lena was watching him curiously. He forced a smile.
“I have to go,” he said.
She nodded. He grabbed her arm.
“Could you do something for me, Lena?”
“Of course.”
“There’s a man named Nio who lives near Highneck Rise. An old manor at the end of the Losian Street. A tall garden wall and a tower. Find out if anyone in the Guild is talking about him. But be careful. He’s dangerous. More dangerous than the Knife. Quiet as a mouse, all right?”
“But how’ll I tell you what I find?” she said.
He wondered guiltily about the hawk and glanced at the sky.
“Three nights from now,” he said. “Meet me here at dusk.”
“All right,” she said, and then she scampered away down the alley, back toward the cheerful clamor of the square.
The Shadow at the Gate Page 5