Fly Up into the Night Air

by John Houser

  The boys are learning to tamp their fires, but much as we love them, they are still a trial. Yesterday, being Saturday, it was bath day, and the boys went to clean up. I won't go into detail, but apparently Kit was feeling a bit more randy than usual. (Even this grandmother has noted that Stilian is a remarkably handsome boy, with those great long eyelashes and lean muscles of a greyhound.) Anyway, Kit became aroused and Stilian, despite his shame, could not help responding. Quite suddenly, they found themselves entirely alone in the baths, although I daresay there are some who would have happily joined them had I not passed the word that the boys were to be left to find their own way.

  My dear, I cannot know if that was their first time, but I have no doubt as to what ensued. (I will be dreaming volcanoes and hot lava for weeks.) Nor can I doubt their bonding. But we will wait to acknowledge that bond until Stilian is more comfortable with his feelings. I must speak to him about his father. Even so, I fear I will make matters worse by letting on that I know how he feels. Our capacity for denial is so strong! The boy must know that he flares like a signal fire on a mountain, yet he behaves as if his feelings don't exist, so long as he doesn't acknowledge them. Poor Kit! He knows exactly how Stilian feels about him--he is a beauty in his own right--but he knows he must go slow or risk rejection.

  How I wish you were here with me to share in this experience! I dream of our first summer together, when the very air seemed alive with you.

  I reach for your familiar touch,

  Thalia

  Madam Truman

  "What's the next move, Chief?" Griff and Harte sat at their usual table in the Ragged Crow.

  "I don't know, exactly. Maybe I'm just digging a privy in the rain, Griff. We need another witness, one that's credible, one that I can take to a magistrate. Lord, my head hurts."

  Griff smirked. "I take it you sampled your father's cellar, last night."

  Harte merely groaned in response.

  "You know, I have a radical idea."

  "Spill--before I do."

  "That bad?" Griff's face wrinkled in concern. "Maybe we should talk about this later."

  "I believe I sampled every vintage in the cellar. No, what's your idea?"

  "We have scented the people who saw the beating, but not those who were involved with it. It's time we talked to Greer and his friends. We we were afraid we'd endanger Peli, before. But now?"

  Harte was abashed. "Of course. You are absolutely right. I'm glad your head is not threatening succession."

  Griff tapped his fingers on the bar. "To do it properly, we need to interrogate more than Brin. Who, among Brin's friends, was there?"

  Harte sighed and straightened. "I don't know, yet. But I will. If I'm lucky, I'll have you some names tonight. You can round the men up and take them to Watch House for questioning tomorrow." He watched Griff drain his tea. "It's time we took the traces off this bird."

  Griff set his cup aside and looked at Harte. "I'll not ask you again. Are you sure you want to follow this road?"

  Harte peered at Griff through aching eyes. "I realized something last night. I have nothing to lose."

  "You mean, apart from your position--and your father's respect? Will Soloni's people share that assessment?"

  Harte shook his head and wished immediately that he hadn't.

  * * *

  A little after the midday bells, Soloni raised his napkin to his lips and wiped daintily. "Are you sure you won't eat?"

  Harte toed the pattern in the carpet, which resembled a corn maze. What prize awaited at the center? "No, thank you."

  Soloni spoke without looking up. "Scrambled eggs and smoked fish are not appealing, this morning?"

  "It's afternoon."

  Soloni shrugged and sipped his tea. "The demands of my business keep me up at night. I hear you have a guest at the Walford manse."

  "Yes, a circuit rider."

  "Do you believe the case merits a judge veritor?"

  Harte stamped impatiently. "He is not here at my bidding."

  Soloni smiled. "But he may prove handy."

  "It's possible. Listen, my head hurts. I lack patience for an inquisition. I came here to--"

  Soloni pushed his tea cup gently away. "To inquire of me, surely."

  "I want to know who else was with Brin Greer on the night he beat Raf."

  "You have been slow to ask this question."

  Harte placed his palms over his eyes. "I did not want to endanger Peli."

  "And now that Peli is safely in the hands of Sister Grace--he did eventually make it to the hospital?"

  Harte lowered his hands. "Of course. He was snoring with his mouth open the last saw him. It was very endearing."

  "Really? Well." Soloni stood up and paced to the window. "I propose that you should direct the warmth of your attention towards someone else for a while. While I do find your company entertaining, it comes at a price."

  Harte ventured a smile. "I suppose Mr. Blud was unhappy with me for mounting that little drama on his doorstep."

  Soloni turned around and returned to the table. "With both of us, I'm afraid. You enjoyed that entirely too much."

  "Mr. Blud is of no concern to me."

  Soloni sat down. "Really? He has been known to threaten exposure--"

  "What have I to expose?" asked Harte.

  Soloni rested his elbow on the table and his cheek on his fist. "What indeed? In any case, I think you should ask your friend from the watch where Brin goes at night for entertainment. Perhaps the proprietor of that business will appreciate your regard more than Mr. Blud."

  "You mean Truman's?"

  "You know the place?" Soloni raised his eyebrows.

  "It is very popular among a certain crowd."

  "Not yours?"

  * * *

  Harte sat on the public dock at the south end of the Dock Street as the sun lowered in the west, and watched small patches of river ice drift by on the Bug. After he left the Red Rooster, he'd hired a boy to deliver a note to Griff. Now, he was waiting until it was time to meet Griff at Truman's. It would not be hard to identify Brin's friends if they visited again. They were, after all, mostly Harte's boyhood schoolmates. There would be no going back, after this. They would shun him--or worse.

  The sun's last rays warmed the icy sheets to red and caused painful reflections off the small ripples between the ice flows. Harte closed his eyes and let the sun warm his face. What had that strange man said to him last night? I had need of knowing. No, it was not knowing he needed. It was hope. Hope that there might be place for him somewhere beyond Walford's Crossing.

  * * *

  Harte whistled softly and fell into step as Griff passed by. "I wonder if a uniform might have been more appropriate tonight."

  Griff ran a hand through his short hair. "They will know who we are. Both of us, I should think."

  "I suppose I have begun to make a reputation for myself, haven't I?"

  "Not the one your father had in mind, huh?" laughed Griff.

  "My father cannot see beyond his own ambition."

  "And your ambition?"

  Harte grinned at his friend. "Has me wondering Dock Street at night."

  They arrived at Truman's establishment to find its gaily lit windows frosted from the cold. Were it not for the neighborhood, it could have been wealthy family's mansion, lit for a party.

  "After you," said Griff.

  Harte marched up the steps and opened the door. A young woman in a low-cut gown nodded at him from her post just inside. "Welcome to Madam Truman's, gentlemen. Come in. May we take your cloaks? There is dancing in the parlor. Or would you like to start with a bite to eat? We have roast loin of pork or smoked eel, tonight."

  Harte looked at Griff. Griff placed a hand on his belly. "I think a table in the dining room would be fine."

  "As you wish, sir."

  They had just started their main course, when a handsome, middle-aged lady made her way over
to their table from the direction of the bar. They stood as she approached. "Madam."

  "Oh you mustn't make a fuss, gentlemen. Would I be imposing if I joined you for a moment?"

  "Certainly not, Madam." Harte pulled out a chair for her. "I am Harte Walford. This is Griff Tarren. I don't believe we've met?"

  "I'm Alice Truman," she said, settling onto the edge of the padded chair.

  "Ah," said Harte. He and Griff reseated themselves.

  "I make a point to welcome all my new customers," said Madam Truman. "You are enjoying your meal?"

  "The pork loin is fine, but the winter root casserole is magnificent," said Harte. "I must describe it to Cook."

  "I'll tell my chef of your appreciation. Perhaps it'll inspire him. And you, Watch Patrol Leader? How do you find the eel?"

  Griff swallowed hastily. "It is a rare treat, Madam."

  "Your employer is generous."

  Harte felt his smile become fixed. "Patrol Leader Tarren is employed by Walford's Crossing, as are all the watch."

  "But he does your bidding, Presenter Advocate Walford, does he not? Chasing minor thieves and such. I trust that you are here tonight to engage in more pleasant pursuits?" She motioned to the bar. "There are a couple of our young ladies now. I'm sure they would find it quite charming to lead handsome men such as yourselves on a chase."

  "Regretfully, Madam, I must decline such a pursuit. We are here on business."

  "Then I fear I may also have cause to regret. Why are you here?"

  "Our needs are simple. There is a certain man who frequents this place. We want to know who visits with him."

  Madam Truman tapped her fan. "You cannot imagine that I would divulge the names of my customers."

  Harte shrugged. "We are quite comfortable here, observing. I'm sure Mr. Greer and his friends will visit again ... eventually."

  "Impossible!"

  Harte waived in the general direction of the window. "We could wait outside, I suppose. But it is so cold! We would certainly require some sort of shelter: a temporary pavilion perhaps, a good fire, some of Patrol Leader Terran's men to feed it ..."

  Madam Truman smiled sourly. "You are fond of theater, Mr. Walford. Perhaps I should offer you the use of a peephole?"

  Harte glanced at Griff's impassive face. "That would not be to my taste at all, madam."

  "I must not be seen speaking to you any more than I already have." She produced something from her sleeve and slipped to Harte under the table. Harte felt the thick and embossed print of a card. "One of my ladies will meet you at this address tomorrow morning, at ten bells. Enjoy the remainder of your meal." She pushed her seat back and swept off.

  Griff raised his eyebrows. "You do seem to have a way with women. You have them blowing hot and cold."

  "Leave off, Griff."

  Griff stabbed a piece of eel and began to chew. "This eel's really good. Maybe it would have suited you better than the pork."

  Harte picked up his fork and addressed his winter roots. "Were I paying any attention, I might accuse you of mockery."

  Griff was the picture of innocence. "I can't imagine what you mean."

  * * *

  The next morning, Griff and Harte met at the entrance to Watch House. Harte strode away as soon as Griff came down the steps.

  "Where are we going?" asked Griff, as he lengthened his stride to keep up with Harte.

  "It's a tavern that caters to ladies. The Needles."

  "I wonder if it is connected to Madam Truman," said Griff, looking out towards the river.

  Harte turned his head look at Griff. "See the things you pick up, while associating with me," said Harte.

  Griff glanced back. "Oh, I am continually amazed at what I see associating with you."

  "Here," pointed Harte. "I believe it's this way." They turned down a street which would have been shaded in the summer by a stately row of oak trees. In winter, the tree boughs left a jumbled pattern of light and shadow on the cobblestones.

  "You've been to this place before?" asked Griff.

  "No, I asked my mother," answered Harte.

  "Surely she would not--"

  "No, no, but she enjoys gossiping with the servants."

  "Really!" Griff raised an eyebrow.

  "My mother is not a snob."

  Griff paused, in thought. "Maybe it is impolite to ask, but how does she put up with your father?"

  "I don't know," said Harte. He looked down the line of barren limbs. "Perhaps he was not always as he is now."

  "People do change."

  "Do you think so? Are our courses not fixed at birth? Do you believe that we may wrench ourselves free and choose a new orbit?"

  Griff chuckled. "Sister Grace says that God sets the rules of play, but we play the cards."

  "An odd metaphor--for one of her calling."

  "She is no more odd than your mother."

  "I did not mean to offend."

  "You did not." Griff was silent for a moment. "When I was a child, I wished for a real mother, one I didn't have to share with the hospital or with God."

  "I'm sure you were no more selfish than other children."

  "Was that selfish?"

  The tall oaks left behind, they came to a small square that sat above a bluff, overlooking the Bug. In the clear, cold air, the river was a bright ribbon looping through the plain. Harte wrapped his cloak more tightly around himself. "It's colder now. We will have snow soon, I think."

  "We're due for it."

  "There it is. On the corner." They blew into the narrow building with a cold gust and alighted at a table along one wall, settling their cloaks around them. Harte looked around. At nearly ten bells, it was early for lunch; there were few customers. An old woman in a black dress and shawl sat in a comfortable looking armchair by the fire. She was knitting rapidly, between sips from the mug at her elbow. At a nearby table, two younger women in bright head scarves spoke quietly, their heads close together. Perhaps his mother loved to hear of such places because she could never visit them. As Harte looked around, Griff went to the bar and brought back two mugs of hot cider. Just as Harte heard the church on the opposite corner of the square ring the hour, a young woman in a plain gray dress and long winter cloak entered the tavern. After glancing around briefly, she came straight to their table.

  Ignoring Griff, she addressed Harte. "You are Mr. Walford?"

  Her hair was long but tied back tightly behind her head. Harte thought she might be quite pretty in a different dress and with her hair less tightly confined. He nodded. "I am."

  She spoke softly. "I cannot stay. I'm to give you this." Putting her back between their table and the rest of the room, she retrieved a small purse from a pocket sewn into the lining of her cloak, and took out a note. Handing the note to Harte, she turned to leave.

  "Wait. I--"

  "I am only a messenger, sir. I know nothing of your business. Good morning." She walked rapidly towards the door. Harte watched Griff follow her barely swaying hips until she left the tavern.

  "Well, that was hardly illuminating," said Griff, turning to look at Harte.

  "On the contrary, my friend," said Harte, handing the note to Griff. It was neither addressed nor signed. It consisted of three names and a scribbled note: "Do not visit again."

  "Do you know them?" asked Griff.

  "All three. This is a small town. None well, I'm glad to say. "

  "It's smaller for you," said Griff. "What do you want me to do?"

  "I want you to request that they each visit Watch House to discuss a certain matter. If they decline, insist on it."

  Griff stiffened in his seat. "As you say, Presenter Advocate Walford."

  "Thank you, Patrol Leader Tarren. Send a note to my home when the first is ready for questioning. Please arrange to have someone present to witness and to take notes."

  "Yes, sir."

  They sat in silence then until they had finished their cider,
and then pushed out into the blast.

  Family matters

  Dearest Hugh,

  The preparations for Stilian and Kit's bonding ceremony are moving along rapidly now. They have chosen a date during the thaw, when the low fields should be fresh with new blooms, but not yet in riotous excess. There will be the usual food and drink--including fresh vegetables, if the weather cooperates. How I look forward to the first asparagus and peas! Rutabaga is fine, but I long for greens!

  I digress. Kit will solo in the new multi-part that Kate wrote, if he can memorize his part in time. The boy is incorrigible! When he is supposed to be at the games, he is in the Library with a book. When he is supposed to be studying history, he is wandering the fields or climbing some terrifying rock face. In desperation, I have asked Stilian to try to help him manage his time, but to no discernible effect. Stilian, on the other hand, has taken to his studies to a degree wholly unexpected--particularly by him. He has an aptitude for rhetoric and letters. You may have a prospect for Blue House, my love, though I should hate for you to take him away from me. But he seems the type: where Kit is content to live in the world, Stilian is determined always to change it.

  You will come in the thaw with the first drays? The boys ask after you; they want you here for the ceremony.

  I yearn for your warm hands and constant song,

  Thalia

  "Will you walk with me, Harte?" Harte looked up from the book he was trying to read to find Stilian looming. "I must stretch my legs," the tall man said.

  Harte grimaced. "Walk? I might as well. I'm achieving nothing here." He shook his head, "I am terribly impolite am I not?" He jumped up to bow. "I would be delighted to accompany you on a walk, sir."

  "I welcome your company." They were silent as they went to get their cloaks and hats. Stepping outside, Stilian laughed. "It's hardly the day for it." The sky had darkened with clouds. "The sun has shuttered up and retired early."