Fly Up into the Night Air

by John Houser

  "Let our company be as a lantern in the gloom," Harte recited.

  Stilian led the way in the direction of the river. "You read Mawset, I take it."

  "Now and then. How long will you stay in Walford's Crossing?"

  "I don't know exactly. Usually, I wouldn't stay unless there were a case to hear." He rested his hand on Harte's shoulder for an instant before letting fall. "Peace man. I am not leaving yet."

  Harte was acutely aware of having said nothing to warrant this reassurance. "Will you not be expected at the next town?"

  "Our schedules vary depending on the cases we are offered. Some are more appetizer than banquet."

  "I hope to serve a course," said Harte.

  Stilian smiled. "Your father would have you change course, I think."

  Harte chuckled. "Has he spoken to you?"

  "No, but he arrived home a little before we left." He rubbed his hands. "His--concern--was apparent."

  "Then this walk was not entirely spontaneous."

  "Not entirely," said Stilian. "I thought you might like a little warning before you speak to him. But I value your company, regardless of the circumstance."

  Harte pointed back over his shoulder towards Watch House. "We began questioning Brin Greer's friends this afternoon. I'm sure word reached my father shortly after the first interview."

  "Have you made progress then?"

  "We have just begun. But the weave of their story begins to fray. We shall pull on some threads and see what unravels."

  Stilian blinked. "It's the first step--getting a magistrate to agree that there's sufficient evidence to continue--that worries you?"

  "Yes," said Harte. "I feel certain that we can make a case, if we can get past the initial hearing."

  "Will you argue that it should be considered a capital case?"

  Harte stopped on the path and dug a toe into the frozen earth. "I am troubled by that conceit. It would set a powerful precedent."

  Stilian nodded. "So it would. I'm glad you see its impracticality."

  Harte watched Stilian's face carefully. "Would you consider intervening if the case came to trial as a lessor criminal matter?"

  Stilian pulled his lips to one side and made a small sound. "I would have to be present in the courtroom and aware of witnesses lying. My presence would, in itself, be extraordinary. Normally, we appear only at the invitation of a town council or other convening body."

  Harte felt a knot loosen between his shoulders. Why did the idea make him so nervous? "Other convening bodies being, as I recall, the shire--that is to say the Mooten Council--Parliament, or the king."

  "And both Parliament and the king only act on matters of state--foreign affairs, taxes."

  "That leaves the shire," said Harte.

  Stilian nodded down the path and started walking again. "Who represents Walford Crossing on the Mooten Council?"

  "My father attends at Bugport." Harte gazed across the river to the southwest, where he could see tiers of fences and fields rising slowly towards the distant hills.

  "He would not likely take up the case in his present state of mind," said Stilian.

  Harte heard a bitter note in his laughter. "He never acts without a vote of the council."

  "There is considerable animosity towards me amongst the council," said Stilian. "Greer wasn't the only one, just the most obvious of those at the party. They distrust the Canny, and they see our role in their affairs as an imposition. They're not alone in this. My colleagues report similar attitudes, especially in the larger towns which have professional magistrates."

  "A cynic might suggest that they find judges veritor harder to purchase." Harte kicked a pebble down the path to disappear, one among the many. "I heard talk of a bill in Parliament to make the magistrates of an equal stature with judges veritor while I was in law school at the capital, but nothing seemed to come of it."

  Stilian nodded. "Yes, we tracked it at Blue House. The old king quashed it before he died. But the young king--it's not clear where he'll rest his weight. An old friend and mentor of mine thinks that he may be falling under the influence of a faction which seeks to weaken the role of the Canny. They would banish the fool and make judges veritor no more than traveling magistrates. As a means to their end, they inflate the fears of the people, spreading false rumors about the Canny in market squares, posting broadsheets with exaggerated tales of dark powers." Stilian paused, frowning. "It's dangerous nonsense! Bugport is secure. We have deep roots there, but there have been demonstrations in the capital. I fear our long peace may be over."

  Their walk had taken them to the river bank north of Dock Street, in a low lying area that served as a commons because it was subject to periodic flooding. Willow trees ringed a field of grasses and reeds that bordered the riverbank. An earthen path wound among the stands of reeds. As they continued, a first fall of snow clouded the air. Harte watched the dark surface of the river moving restlessly.

  "It's very peaceful here, away from town," said Stilian. "I can relax."

  "What's it like? To sense another's emotion?"

  "It's difficult to explain." Stilian looked out over the rippling flow. "There's a rare medical condition called synesthesia, which can afflict people who receive a head injury. It causes people's senses to become confused. They see sounds, hear sights. It's a little like that. We canny experience people in different ways. I am what we call a sighter, which means for me it's mostly visual. Sometimes I perceive a shading--cloudy or dark when someone is angry or upset, bright and steady when he is happy. Lying causes colors to mottle. Rarely, I may hear a constant whining at the edge of my hearing."

  "How strange. How do I appear to you?" Harte asked.

  "Are you sure you want to know?"

  "Why not?"

  Stilian hesitated, looking into Harte's eyes. "I don't wish to condescend, but people would often rather not know themselves fully."

  Harte broke away from Stilian's gaze but was unwilling to give up. "You will stop if I ask you to?"

  Stilian sighed. "Of course. But the genie of self-knowledge is hard to put back into the bottle."

  "Remember that childhood game, Truth or Dare?"

  "Yes, few adults play that game, as the stakes become higher as you gain in experience."

  "Please," Harte insisted. "I would know how you see me."

  "Very well. You are complicated: bright, very bright, in my senses, but changing constantly like the scrims on which they shine colored lights in the theater." Stilian hesitated.

  "There's more," Harte insisted.

  Stilian took a measured breath. "I cannot block you, Harte. I feel a warmth from you. It's always there. It is very pleasant. Like a touch. I don't wish to be separated from it. But you have denied yourself for a very long time. You flick from feeling to feeling in a mad chase to escape yourself." He smiled. "I would help you rest, if I could."

  "I do not know what to say."

  Stilian sought Harte's eyes again. "I require nothing from you."

  The small flakes that predict a heavy snowfall were coming down rapidly now. The snow covered the ground and obscured the path they walked on, until all was white.

  "I don't want to go back," whispered Stilian. "But we would freeze if we stayed."

  Harte laughed. "I would warm us both."

  Stilian shied at this extravagance and would not meet Harte's eyes. But he smiled a little as he watched the snow flakes disappear into the river, before turning back towards town.

  * * *

  When Stilian and Harte arrived back at Walford House it was nearly half six bells, and fully dark. Amalia met them in the foyer. "Please change for supper. Gastir has asked that we eat together tonight. Stilian, he specifically asked that you join us. We'll eat at seven bells. Hurry now, or you'll be late!"

  Harte looked a question at Stilian. Stilian gave a short nod in return. "I will join you shortly."

  Harte's father was already seated at
the table when Stilian entered the dining room. "Good evening, Judge Cast. Son."

  "Father." Harte's tone offered nothing.

  "Your mother tells me you were out for a walk. Is the snow very deep yet?"

  Before Harte could answer, Amalia came in through the door to the kitchen. Councilman Walford rose and pulled out a chair for her. "Amalia, you know that's my favorite dress. Quite beautiful. Is there some occasion?"

  "Why no, dear. I just wanted to look nice for dinner."

  "Son, you were going to tell me about the snow," said Councilman Walford.

  "I was?" said Harte. "It's nearing an inch, I should think. Coming down fast. Cook has the pantry well stocked I suppose, Mother?"

  "Of course. We always stock up this time of year."

  Are their words always so empty--and the spaces between so pregnant? What purpose did it serve to talk of the weather, Stilian wondered. There was a pause while Theo poured the wine, then Councilman Walford turned his attention to Stilian. "Judge Cast, you are, of course, welcome to stay as long as you have need--indeed you might find it difficult to leave just now--but I must ask, is there a particular case that keeps you in Walford's Crossing? I don't recall the council authorizing payment of a judge veritor for any pending business."

  It's the courtesy before the dance. "No, I have not been asked to hear any cases here," said Stilian.

  "I see. Then Harte has not asked you to involve yourself with his current ... project?"

  Stilian was careful to keep his voice neutral. "No, he has not asked me to involve myself."

  "Harte, what is your assessment of your project?"

  Harte spoke dispassionately. "The case involves the beating and subsequent death of a citizen of Walford's Crossing. It appears there were a number of witnesses to the crime. We are currently interviewing them to find out what happened."

  "You make it sound so routine, son. I am informed that the person who was beaten was a prostitute who was engaged in soliciting at the time he was beaten. The persons you have chosen to question are prominent members of this community. Moreover, I am not aware of the council voting to pay for this inquiry."

  Harte put down the fork he had not yet used. "I have chosen to pursue this investigation on my own authority, and I have paid for it with my own coin, as Patrol Leader Tarren will attest. That is my privilege as a member of the court."

  Councilman Walford rested his fingers on the edge of the table. "Judge Cast, I'm curious, what's your assessment of the probable outcome of this inquiry?"

  "I could not say, Councilman. Surely that's the job of a presenter advocate such as your son to assess. We magistrates and judges must let them play their role first, must we not?"

  The councilman leaned forward. "But we all have a role to play in seeing that our legal process works, and that the cases that are brought forward have some chance of succeeding?"

  "True, but cases that are not brought to hearing have no chance of success. Is that not so? We must engage in a legal process, in order for the process to work, yes?"

  Stilian was relieved when Theo arrived with the meat course. He took a bite from the roast. He had little chance to chew before the councilman spoke again. "What about the merits of this case? I understand the boy who was beaten was soliciting, when the attack occurred. Such behavior is not to be tolerated."

  Harte's face tightened, but he spoke lightly. "You are quite right, Father. Such violence should not be tolerated."

  "You misunderstand me, Son."

  Harte spoke bitterly. "You understand me perfectly."

  "You are impertinent," said the councilman.

  "Our laws do not prohibit sexual advances," said Harte. "Their intent is to discourage prostitution."

  Councilman Walford took a sip of wine. "That includes soliciting payment in return for sex."

  "Yes, which leads me to another question, Father. Who told you that the boy was soliciting? The evidence I have suggests only that he made a rude suggestion. Perhaps I should be questioning you on the details of the attack?"

  "You are intolerable!" Councilman Walford slammed his hand on the table.

  "Gastir!" exclaimed Amalia.

  "Never mind, Father. I can guess well enough to whom you have been speaking."

  Stilian rose and took the wine bottle from the sideboard where Theo had left it. He poured himself another glass and returned the bottle.

  "Perhaps, Harte, if you had gone to the family concerned, this matter could have been resolved in a less heavy-handed way."

  "To what end?" said Harte.

  "It might have gotten the boy better doctoring," Harte's mother pointed out.

  "What about the next victim and the one after that?" Harte insisted.

  "Are you saying there's a pattern of violence here?" The councilman's tone was dismissive.

  Harte stared at his father. "I do not know if the man who beat Raf--for the boy's name was Raf--has ever done this sort of thing before. I do know that it happens all the time. The poor and the social outcasts who work on Dock Street--and it's their work, it's the way they survive--are victims time and time again. There is no justice for them, because they cannot pay for it. Councilmen fund justice only for their own kind. This boy Raf, Father, do you know what they did to him? He was beaten so badly they nearly knocked an eye out of his head. His torso was covered in boot prints, and his--manhood was torn."

  "Harte!" pleaded Amalia.

  "He was kicked repeatedly and stomped on with those damn hobnailed boots and left in the street for the crows to--"

  "Harte! Stop!" said Stilian.

  Harte ground to a halt. His was voice was rough. Stilian did not need to see his face to know that there were tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry. I cannot talk to you about this." Harte stood. "Good night, Mother." He strode rapidly from the dining room.

  Councilman Walford slumped in his chair. "I don't know what to say to that boy. He'll throw away his career and his future in the council."

  "Perhaps," said Amalia, "he wants a different future."

  "I fear it does not matter what he wants now."

  Stilian rose unsteadily to his feet. "Councilman Walford. I do not want to impose, but ... but I know you love your son. I wish you would tell him that. Good night, Mrs. Walford." Stilian followed Harte out. As he left the dining room, he heard Amalia's insistent voice.

  "Gastir, you must let him go."

  "I'm afraid he wants a future without his father."

  Stilian paused on the stairs to hear the quiet answer. "I know. But a bird will peck even the hand that feeds it, if it be through the bars of a cage."

  * * *

  "Harte, may I come in?"

  Harte stared into the fire. "Go away, Stilian."

  "I will not," said Stilian, knocking again. "Please let me in."

  "For God's sake, quit yelling through the door. It's not locked. What do you want?"

  Stilian came in and stood swaying above the couch where Harte's flood had laid him rest. "I want to tell you something."

  "What is it?" Harte placed a fresh log on the grate.

  "Your father loves you."

  "I do not need you to tell me that. Are you drunk? Sit down." Harte resumed his contemplation of the grasping fingers of fire that twisted upwards from the hearth.

  "Probably." Stilian was not finished. "You could not know the boy would become ill."

  Stilian's aim was better the second time. Harte's mind returned to the thought he'd sought to ignore since running from his parents. There had been no catch in Raf's breathing on his first visit. If he had approached the Greer family and asked for recompense in the form of medical treatment as soon as he had suspected Brin, would Raf still be alive? "Shit! Sit down, before you fall down. What do you want from me?"

  "I want you out of my head," said Stilian.

  "I could say the same!" Harte pointed to the wine glass that Stilian had carried from the dining room. "I thought the w
ine helps."

  Stilian lurched into motion. He glanced at the wine glass as if surprised to find it in his hand, then shrugged. Dropping awkwardly onto the couch, he leaned over and placed the glass on the floor. "The others are gone." He wiggled fingers above his head. "Now there is only you."

  "What am I to do?"

  "Let me hold you."

  "I have never--"

  "Stop talking." Stilian took Harte's chin and pulled it towards him. Then, looking into Harte's eyes, he pulled Harte's head to his lips and kissed him gently.

  It was the softness of his lips that surprised Harte.

  * * *

  Dear Hugh,

  I'm mired in Winter's sluggish grip, awaiting a trial that may not take place, and maybe, the start of something new. I'm in Walford's Crossing, living in luxury in the house of one of the town's oldest families, where I've made strange alliance with a scion of the town council, local presenter advocate, and budding radical. I exaggerate not. This beautiful man seems to want to replace our creaking gears of justice with burnished new ones that do not require the grease of influence. He insists on prosecuting a case involving the beating--and subsequent death in hospital--of a boy prostitute who appears to have made the unfortunate mistake of propositioning a councilman's son. Can you imagine a more quixotic enterprise? Yet on he trudges, even as the winter sludge freezes around him. Will the thaw beget new life from this weird alchemy? I cannot think of leaving until I see the first green tips break loose of the earth. I'm laughing, but at the same time afraid you will take this merely as evidence of too much drink. I am besotted, not entirely with wine.

  Don't judge me too harshly,

  Stilian

  P.S. Send this on to Thalia. She's used to my feverish embarrassments. SC

  * * *

  Dear Thalia,

  I enclose the latest from our wandering child. He seems to be experiencing some fever. He admits that he's drinking again.

  In haste, as we prepare for exams,