Fly Up into the Night Air

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Fly Up into the Night Air Page 16

by John Houser


  Peli shrugged. "All right, I guess."

  Harte made an encouraging sound.

  "I want to help you."

  "Help me? I'm not quite sure I--"

  "To put Brin Greer in gaol. There must be something I can do. You see, I swore an oath, when I heard Raf died."

  Harte wondered again at the nature of Peli's relationship with Raf. "Perhaps it's my peculiar experience, but I'm inclined to view that kind of oath as something of a double-edged sword--as likely to leave you bleeding as your, ah, adversary. But I suppose that's moot."

  "What do you mean, moot?"

  "Water under the bridge." Harte examined Peli's narrow, spotted face and found his own determination echoed there. "So be it. You have sworn, so I suppose I shall have to find some way for you to help."

  "Good." Peli's thin shoulders dropped a fraction.

  "While I think about that, how did you sleep last night?"

  Peli's gaze dropped, and he appeared to be memorizing the pattern in the floor tile. "Fine."

  "You dreamt again, I gather. Come now. You need not be ashamed. Was it very interesting?"

  "I don't like dreaming."

  Harte waited.

  "I couldn't breathe! I was choking. Sister Grace came to wake me, because I was making too much noise. Then I dreamt I was--" He made a motion with his hand. "Only I wasn't!"

  "Oh my," said Harte mildly, keeping his face grave. "I have an idea. We need to visit the hospital to tell Sister Grace that you haven't been carried off by a vengeful bear. While we're there, I think we should ask if anyone was having trouble breathing last night."

  * * *

  The worn face of the Sisters of Mercy Hospital looked almost cheery in its coat of white snow as Harte and Peli make their way towards the entrance. But when they reached the lobby, a lone sister whom Harte had never met was halfheartedly sweeping the flagstones, in between frequent glances towards the back of the building. It was not hard to determine the reason for her distraction. A series of thin, howling cries echoed in the quiet building. As Peli and Harte hesitated, the cries seemed to come more frequently.

  "Oh dear. You must think something awful is happening," said the sister. "It's not what it sounds like. Of course, if it were that it wouldn't be so terrible. Or at least I don't think it would be. I have no experience of such things. But its just that it sounds so painful. Even though it's perfectly natural. Sister Grace says--"

  "Excuse me, Sister. Sorry to interrupt, but what exactly is going on back there?"

  "I don't know, exactly, but Sister Grace says it's perfectly normal--"

  "Normal? It sounds like a someone's having a baby."

  "Well yes! Of course it does. But someone isn't quite the right word, I don't think--"

  "Sister! Who is having a baby?"

  "Well no one, really."

  Harte's looked at Peli to see if he was finding this any more comprehensible. Unaccountably, the boy seemed quite unconcerned. "But why then--"

  "If you would stop interrupting me, sir, I would tell you."

  Harte took a long breath. "I crave your indulgence."

  "It's the cat, you see. She's having kittens. We were really quite worried about her, because she wouldn't come out of the supply closet. Then she started that awful howling ..." She trailed off, probably because her audience was rapidly disappearing down the corridor.

  "Peli, who was that woman?"

  "That's Sister Gertrude. She's all right. She just gets muddled, when she's nervous. She's very fond of the cat, you see."

  "I imagine Sister Grace set her to sweeping the lobby in order to get her out of her hair."

  Peli grinned at Harte. "I expect so."

  They reached a door at end of the hall. "Should we go in?"

  "How bad could it be?" Peli opened the door. Ahead, steps led up to the second floor. To one side, there was a small closet door. Clustered around the opening were three sisters: Grace, Magda, and another, unknown to Harte. Sister Grace was on her knees, pushing a reed basket filled with rags into the closet. "Here kitty, kitty! I've a warm basket for you. Here kitty!" The only response from the closet was a loud howl. The unknown sister carried a bowl of milk, which she tried to put down in the closet just as Harte shut the hall door behind him. She started, dropped the bowl and kicked it into the closet. Sister Grace, trying to avoid the flying bowl and spilled milk, stood up suddenly and stepped backwards, hitting her head sharply on the angled door frame. "Crap!"

  "Sister?" Harte said, astonished. The unseen cat howled.

  "You have exquisite timing, Mr. Walford," said Sister Magda.

  "Perhaps we should wait in your office, Sister Grace."

  Sister Grace recovered quickly and closed the closet door. "Sister Magda, would you please check on the cat--" She paused while the cat howled again. "--in about a quarter bell? She appears inclined to solitude at the moment. We can restore the closet later. Sister Alma, please return to your ward. Mr. Walford, I see you have returned our missing Peli. Could I perhaps interest you in a cup of tea?" She jerked her wimple straight, as she led the way back to her office.

  Settling down with a cup of tea, Sister Grace permitted herself a small sigh. "Now, what brings you here in the middle of the day, Mr. Walford?"

  Harte resisted the temptation to smile. "I'm sorry to disturb you in the midst of--"

  "Never mind." Sister Grace made a gesture that seemed to sweep all petty concerns aside. "I must complement you on your performance in the hearing. You struck a blow for justice."

  "It was more a gentle tap on the doors of power. We shall have to see whether they open."

  "When will you argue the case?"

  "The clerk of court has not scheduled the case yet. Typically, it would be within four weeks of the preliminary hearing, but--"

  "You did not come here to discuss the case."

  Harte marveled at the woman's sensitivity. "No. Peli and I are exploring possible causes for his sleeping trouble. I wonder if you might help us to answer a question: was any patient having difficulty breathing last night?"

  "There were two or three who were ill enough to cause respiratory distress. I would have to ask the ward nurses to find out if any were having particular difficulty."

  "Would you do that for us?" Harte asked.

  "I am inclined to ask the reason." Sister Grace paused. Neither Harte nor Peli were inclined to explain. "However, I see you are not ready to share." She looked at Peli. "Peli. I am glad that you have found, in Mr. Walford, someone you can trust to keep your secrets. I will not intrude. But I have a favor to ask of you. I know that I have no right to require it. Would you please tell me when you are going to visit Mr. Walford?" She tucked a gray strand back under her wimple. "I am an old woman, and I worry, perhaps unnecessarily. But it would be a kindness if I knew that you were safe."

  Peli blushed and nodded. "I--all right."

  "Thank you." She turned back to Harte. "I will consult with my ward nurses. Will you wait?"

  "Thank you, but no. I have another task to accomplish today, and I must be on my way. Peli, I'm sorry, but I must leave you here for now. We can talk again tomorrow, if you will."

  "But you said I could help."

  "Yes I did, and I mean to find a way to keep that promise. However, I cannot take you with me today."

  Peli indulged a heretofore undemonstrated interest in the contents Sister Grace's bookshelf. "I could follow you, whether you want me to or not."

  "Peli. I have made a promise. Look at me. Do you believe me to be lying?"

  Peli reluctantly met Harte's gaze. After a moment he dropped his eyes. "No. I don't."

  "I shall see you tomorrow. You can tell me then what Sister Grace has found out."

  Pressure

  The Red Rooster was nearly empty in the early afternoon. Harte leaned on the bar and caught the eye of the barkeep.

  "What'll you have?" asked the man.

  "I would
speak to Soloni, if he is available."

  The barkeep frowned. "Stay here. I'll check."

  Harte looked around the tavern, curious to see it in the light of day. It was smaller than he remembered and cleaner than he expected. The hearth opposite the bar was well swept. A fresh supply of wood awaited the fire. There was a hint of sour ale in the air, but the overall impression was more of yeast. Harte became aware that a man was watching him with interest from across the room. He was middle-aged, with a gray fringe to his brown hair, and dressed in fine wool. He smiled when he noted Harte's attention and motioned to a chair at his table. Harte hesitated, then walked over.

  "I don't believe that we've met, sir," he said.

  "No, I don't believe that we have," the man answered. "Nevertheless, I am as delighted as I am surprised to find you here."

  "I have business with the owner."

  "Soloni's not in trouble is he?"

  "Not as far as I know."

  "Surely you would know."

  "I see you have the advantage of me."

  The man smiled again. "You asked if we had met, not if I knew who you are, Mr. Walford. My name is Gregor. I am very pleased to meet you. You must not think me impolite. But your case against Brin Greer has made you famous."

  "Famous? I hardly think I--"

  "Oh, come now. Walford's Crossing has never seen a presenter advocate seek justice for a pretty boy, much less a presenter advocate with your name. Did you think your crusade would go unnoticed?

  Crusade, is that what people think? Harte looked around to see if Soloni was in evidence.

  "The gossip has hardly touched on any other matter, these past few weeks."

  "I'm sorry to hear that."

  "You could not have expected otherwise," said the man. "I don't mean to distress you, only to thank you."

  "I have only tried to do what seems right and fitting."

  "Maybe so, but you have rolled a snowball on the slope of a glacier."

  Harte looked around desperately for Soloni or for any other rescue, but found none. "You know, sir, if someone wanted to start a true revolution, he would find me a witness to identify Brin Greer in court. Until people begin to speak out for--ah! Soloni!" Harte rose. "If you will excuse me." He strode quickly across the room to where he had just seen Soloni entering.

  "Mr. Walford. You wish to see me?" Soloni placed a parcel casually on the bar and cocked an eyebrow.

  "I do. Can we?" Harte flicked a finger towards the back curtain and the staircase behind it.

  Soloni raised his eyebrows. "You will start rumors."

  "I would speak to you privately."

  "As you wish." Soloni shrugged, picked up his parcel, and led the way upstairs. "May I interest you in some lunch?"

  "No, thank you. I must leave soon."

  "It's no imposition. I was just going to heat water for tea and eat a couple of these." He unwrapped his parcel, which was revealed to contain six stuffed crescents. "You have had these? They are really quite good."

  "From the place around the corner?"

  "You know it then? I'm so fond of these, I once tried to buy the shop. It's owned by a old fellow and his daughter, neither of whom would be moved by any promise of investment or riches. I believe they consider their buns a religious offering." While he talked, he poked the fire into new life and placed a small grate over it. A tea pot went on that.

  "They certainly move one to a spiritual state."

  "More likely, a spherical state." Soloni smiled and handed Harte a bun. They ate in silent reverence. Soloni finished by daintily licking his long thin fingers. "Now then, what new torment do you bring to my house?"

  "No new torment, only an old one: you understand that the other day's hearing was only the start of the Greer prosecution. The trial will require that I clear a higher bar."

  "Yes."

  "I will be blunt, Soloni. I do not believe I can win without at least one witness to identify Greer as the one who did the beating."

  "You have not just come to this conclusion!"

  "No, but it becomes more urgent that I find such a witness."

  "I suppose you want me to open a door to this blind alley."

  "You have spoken before of a community." Harte searched Soloni's face for--something. "That man out there--who thanked me for my work--spoke as though my actions were motivated by some kind of political thinking. They have not been. But, if there is a community here--" He waived around. "--then it is time that it manifested more than whispers in the dark. Some credible person must appear in the light of day to demand justice. It cannot succeed any other way."

  "Hmm. I hope you were at least polite to that man out there. He's Gregor Illeutan, one of the wealthiest merchants in the river trade. He stops here when he comes to inspect his holdings. I believe he likes my ale, or some such, for he tried to buy me out once."

  "You would divert me, I think."

  "Has anyone ever pointed out your regrettable lack of patience."

  "Recently."

  "What about that beautiful judge veritor you have been entertaining at Walford House? Could he not help you to expose Greer's lies?"

  Harte found himself shifting restlessly. "Everyone knows Greer is lying. The trick is to show such compelling evidence that they have no choice but to convict him. The beating must also be exposed as the cruel, violent, crime that it was. For the jury will be predisposed to excuse a proud man for lashing out when insulted by a pretty boy. The beating will have to be shown as out of proportion with the insult."

  "You ignore my question. What about Judge Cast? Could he not intervene?"

  "He has gone to Bugport to visit his family. In any case, a judge veritor may only intervene under the most extraordinary circumstances."

  "Is your crusade not extraordinary enough?"

  That word again! Harte's thoughts returned to his last exchange with Stilian. "We cannot depend on assistance from that quarter."

  Soloni sighed. "I will consider what might be done."

  * * *

  Dear Harte,

  Poor Petar! He does not understand why we were compelled to leave a perfectly snug stable in the dead of winter. I arrived at Grenton this evening, after an endless ride in the snow. My nose is frozen, and I'm snow blind. But I scratch this out in compliance with your silly demand. I imagine you reading by that lovely, great fireplace in the library. You are sipping hot mulled wine, your eyes unblinking as you devour some new idea. The picture irritates me.

  How is Peli? You have checked on him, haven't you? I have been thinking of him: I feel we must help him to find his place in the world. No matter what happens in court, Raf's memory is best served by helping Peli. I know you begin to care for him.

  I'm frantic with worry about Hugh. The cord binding me together during these last two years of circuit riding has been the thought that some day I would go home to my adopted family at Blue House. I cannot imagine the place without Judge Hugh. The walls lose their shape without him.

  I do not believe Kit would have ever left Grayholme for very long. How he loved it there! But Grayholme always seemed a fantasy to me--not quite part of the world. I long for home, and yet, there is a part of me that must always be out in the world looking for--I know not what. That is my guilt; I would have left Kit behind, had it come to that.

  When I return, Harte, will you scour the world with me? Will you travel until we are old, and we can sit by the fire content that we have done what we were here to do? I know I ask too much of you. I'm tired, and I must ride on into the white tomorrow.

  I will think of you until I am released in sleep,

  Stilian

  * * *

  Griff was aware of the men following from the time he left the girl's village. But he took no notice until he heard them break into canter along a deserted stretch. The road was marked only by a flat space between reeds and white-draped shrubs. He twisted around to watch as they approached, their h
orse's hooves sending up billows of snow as they pounded up the narrow trail he'd cut before them. It did not occur to him to be concerned. The men were dressed in typical winter traveling gear: high necked tunics, long hooded cloaks, and high boots. Their tack looked more expensive than most of the farmers in the area could afford, but not remarkably so. There were three of them, and they carried no banners or insignia.

  Griff called a greeting as they thundered into range, but they did not respond. He turned back to steady his horse. The first man slowed as he came parallel to Belle. Without saying a word, bent to grasp a rein where it ran along her neck. Griff called out in dismay. "Stop that!" The second man came up on the other side. Both men spurred their horses, dragging Belle and Griff with them. When they reached a canter, the second man drew a dagger from his belt, leaned over and stabbed Belle in the neck. Belle screamed and floundered, then reared up on her hind legs. Griff fought for balance. He was not a frequent rider, but he might have stayed on anyway, had it not been for the blow he received from behind. It must have come from the third rider. He fell from the saddle, one foot caught in a stirrup. Belle dragged him, his head preserved from bouncing on the ground only by the thick coat of snow covering the road. Twisting furiously, he fought to get his foot clear of the stirrup.

  * * *

  Harte woke to a rough shake from his father's hand. "Harte, wake up! That pipsqueak from the hospital is here, insisting on some emergency that needs you. Wake up!"

  "What is it? Who's here?" Harte come to himself slowly.

  "It's that boy from the hospital, Peli. Cook would not let him in, but he threw rocks at the windows until she gave in for fear he would break one. He's yours to deal with, boy. I'm going back to bed."

  "Peli's here? Why?"

  "How should I know?"

  Harte rose and threw on the nearest clothes he could find. He went down the servant's stair directly to the kitchen, where he found a red-faced Cook squaring off with a wide-eyed, wild-haired, shivering, Peli.

 

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