The Wicked Day (44 page)

“Refugees from the outlying areas,” said the duke. “From the Rennet Valley and further east in the Morn Mountains. They’ve been pouring into the city for days. Farmers, shepherds, miners from the mountains, townsfolk.” He shook his head, his face grim. “They think they’ve found safety here. I wish them well, but city walls can only stand for so long.”

“I have no faith in walls,” said Jute. “Give me the sky and the wind, and I’ll feel safe enough.”

“Not everyone can reach the sky.”

Jute shivered. Not from the icy chill in the air, but from sudden thoughts of the wihht, of the regent and his court, the Thieves Guild, the bashers and the smashers, the Juggler, hungry days and lonely nights. The stretch of the square, the line of rooftops dim against the dark sky, the fingers of chimneys pointing up into the falling rain. He knew it all as well as the palm of his hand, but Hearne was not his home anymore.

They hurried through the streets. The city was dark around them, waiting for what the day might bring. A few lights shone in windows, but they were furtive and dim. Torches burned high up on the city wall. Jute’s eyes detected the dark shapes of the Guard as they kept their watch along the parapet. Their spears were as slim as saplings, with iron heads like leaves.

“They’re all looking out across the wall,” he thought to himself. “Down the valley. But some should be looking within. They should watch the city.”

Jute could not help himself with that thought and turned, involuntarily, to look back down the street. The rain was on the roofs and flowing in the gutters. Darkness stood in the alleys and crouched under the eaves. He wished she was here. Levoreth. He could still see her face gazing down at him. He had been safe with her. Just like with the hawk.

They reached the gates of the Guard compound. The sentries on either side came to attention, rain dripping off their helmets. An officer hurried over.

“My lord Lannaslech!” He gaped at them, stammering. “My lord. You were—were you? Where have—”

“Is your captain here?”

“In the tower.”

The officer said more, but no one heard it, for the duke of Harlech was already striding past him, with Jute and Rane on his heels. The rest of the men headed in single-minded focus toward the barracks kitchen. The steps leading up to the tower were rimed with ice. Torches burned at the entrance, the flames hissing as the wind whipped rain against them. The door boomed shut behind them. There were others on the stairs: soldiers and officers from the duchies, guardsmen, servants dashing past with arms full of everything from bandages and sewing kits to lanterns and candles. Faces turned in surprise, in shock, and in delight. Voices called out to the duke, but he did not halt. The door to Owain Gawinn’s study was shut. Rane knocked on it with his mailed fist.

“Enter!” shouted someone inside.

Firelight and the scent of hot ale met them. Flames burned on the hearth. Shadows swayed in the corners of the room. Owain sat at his desk, frowning down at some papers, quill in hand. He did not glance up. Someone stirred, a dark shape, in the tall-backed chair facing the desk.

“Speak your piece and then get out,” said Owain, still looking down at his papers.

“It’s a long road from the Rennet Gap to your hearth,” said the duke of Harlech, “most of it through the dark and with dead men behind us. My feet are cold and I’m feeling my age. Now, do you have some mulled ale for us, or must I go and get it myself?”

There was a second of astonished silence, and then Owain jumped up out of his chair, shock on his face. The hawk fluttered up from the shadows beside the hearth. The ghost materialized beside him. But the biggest surprise of all was the face that popped up over the chair facing Owain’s desk. Firelight fell on the man’s visage, illumining the gaunt profile.

“Severan!” said Jute.

“Severan!” said the duke of Harlech.

Severan managed to look surprised, delighted, and embarrassed all at the same time. He grabbed Jute by the hand and wrung his fingers vigorously.

“Very pleased to see you again, my boy,” he said. “Very pleased indeed. You can’t imagine how I’ve been worrying ever since we parted company.”

“I might say the same,” said the duke of Harlech, his face grim.

“Ah, Lannaslech,” said Severan, turning a bit red. “Quite a surprise seeing you here, eh? I’m afraid I—”

“I’m afraid we thought you dead these past ten years. Ten years without a word, you idiot. I didn’t know what to think. Fallen down a crag in the Morns with a broken neck, dead of thirst in some sandy Harthian ruin, with your crazy dreams dried up in your sun-bleached, addled skull. Blast your overeducated hide. You could’ve sent word.”

“Well, I, er, I must’ve forgot.”

“Forgot!” roared the duke of Harlech. He took a step forward.

“Gentlemen,” said Owain. “The important thing is—” He stopped abruptly, looking back and forth at Severan and the duke of Harlech. “Good grief. You’re brothers, aren't you? May the sea take me if you aren’t the mirrors of each other.”

“Brothers?” said Jute.

“Yes,” said Severan, even more embarrassed. “Two years apart. I’m younger, of course, thank goodness. I would've made a botch of the duchy. Ah, Rane. How are you? Everything well, I trust?”

“Of course,” said his brother. “Of course he’s younger. Otherwise he wouldn’t be flitting about Tormay without a care in the world.”

“Ten years gone should not mean much to the men of Harlech,” said the hawk. He hopped up onto the back of a chair. “What are ten years but a passing day? Besides, we have much more important matters to discuss.”

Severan mumbled something unintelligible, but looked relieved. His brother scowled at him. Rane’s expression did not change from its typical impassivity, but he nodded in a somewhat friendly fashion at his uncle.

“That we do,” said Owain, sitting back down in his chair. “My lords of Harlech, I’m grateful to have you back behind these walls. Jute, we’re deep in your debt. We can ill afford to lose Lannaslech’s men, given the numbers that face us. My scouts have been out all night, riding the edges of the valley. Mizra is marching up the Rennet River and will be here, I daresay, in the morning. Even though the northern duchies and Vo have brought their soldiers to Hearne’s aid, we are still greatly outnumbered.”

“I’ve something to tell you about the ghost,” Jute whispered to Severan.

“What’s that? The ghost? Not one of his interminable lectures, is it?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

A servant appeared with mugs and a pitcher of hot ale. Jute wrapped his hands around his mug and felt the warmth work its way into his fingers. He closed his eyes. The rich honey scent of the ale drifted up into his face.

“What about Harth?” asked Rane.

“Harth!” said Owain, spitting out the word as if it were a curse. “Declan Farrow rode south a week ago. We should have heard word by now, but there’s been only silence. He raised Vo for us, but as for Harth and Vomaro?” He shrugged. “We’ll fight without them, gentlemen. We have no other choice. The walls of this city are stout, built tall and of sturdy stone, but. . .”

Owain’s voice trailed off and he stared down at the map on his desk. The flames flickered on the hearth behind him. The shadows in the room wavered in response. There was ice on the window, and beyond it, the yellow moon slid through the sky. Out of the corner of his eye, Jute thought he saw something dark crouched by the door. He blinked and there was nothing there.

“. . . but,” said the duke of Harlech, picking up where Owain had left off, “our enemy is more than just numbers. Much more. The Dark leads them. The walls of this city might keep out an army, if we are determined to spend our lives well, but will walls keep out the Dark? He is coming this way in sure and steady step, and we do not know him in full. Our ignorance is his strength. Our lack of knowledge could prove our downfall.”

“And what of our enemy within the walls?” said the hawk.

The back of Jute’s neck prickled uncomfortably. His heart lurched. He had forgotten. He had chosen to forget. The hawk fluttered over onto the back of his chair. He could smell the dry, clean scent of the bird’s feathers and he felt the momentary touch of the hawk’s beak at his ear. His heart slowed and steadied into peace.

“Who do you speak of?” said the duke of Harlech, his voice sharp.

There was a moment of silence. Owain stirred uncomfortably in his chair. The shadows on the walls tiptoed closer as if they made sure to hear what might be said.

“We have a bit of a problem,” said Owain slowly. “Not that an enemy army marching on the city isn’t problem enough. I hadn’t spoken of it yet because, well, to put it bluntly, the regent is no longer the regent.”

“What do you mean, man?” said the duke. “Stop talking nonsense. Nimman Botrell still rules in Hearne, doesn’t he?”

“What he means to say,” said Jute, “is that Botrell is dead. His body has been taken by a wihht. He might look and sound like the regent, but he is anything but.”

“Goodness gracious!” Severan sat bolt upright. “No one bothered to tell me this. You speak of Nio? Curse his black heart. There are wihhts and there are wihhts. This is no ordinary wihht. No indeed.” He shook his head. “He was the best of us. The quickest learner. He could intuit the words of older languages that hid behind younger words. I was three years his elder, but he probably knew more after his first year than I did after my four. The Dark caught him. A long, long line thrown out across the years, pulled in so slowly that he was probably never aware of the hook until it no longer mattered.” Severan attempted to smile, but he could not. “And now he’s the regent. They’re one and the same. Something different.”

“What do you mean?” said Owain.

“Wihhts like this one eat people. But they don’t just eat them. They become them. They eat their flesh and take into themselves all the knowledge and power of their victims. They can even look like their victims if they choose. Our regent, I’m afraid, has become something with a great deal of power. Something that has been talking to the Dark for a great many years.”

“Inside this city,” said the duke of Harlech. He stood up abruptly, his hand moving unconsciously to the hilt of his sword. “What’s stopping us from going up to the castle—that’s where he is, isn’t he?—and pulling the place down on top of him? I’ve found that evil things don’t do well with a great pile of stone on top of them.”

“I don’t think that would work with him,” said his brother.

“I have men watching the castle,” said Owain. “Day and night. I’m afraid they haven’t been able to get that close. Funny thing about it. The wards around the castle have become rather touchy.”

“Touchy?” said Jute. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“The important thing is, we’ve still got an eye on him. The regent—hang it—whatever he is now, he hasn’t stirred from the place. We’ll know as soon as he makes a move.”

“And then what?” said the duke.

No one had an answer for him. The fire crackled on the hearth. The duke crossed to the desk and poured himself another mug of mulled ale. He drained it in one gulp.

“Well,” he said, “I’m off to see to my men. Severan, I’ll speak with you later.”

Rane stood up and followed him out. The door closed behind them.

“Good grief,” mumbled Severan.

“I don’t like fighting on two fronts,” said Owain. He leaned back in his chair, frowning. “I’m a soldier. I don’t know anything about magic, nor do I want to. Yet it seems we need magic to answer magic. We have the wind himself and his hawk sitting here, as well as a wizard of your repute, and yet we can’t figure out how to deal with this wihht creature?”

“And the ghost,” said the ghost. “Don’t forget the ghost. I know plenty of magic, let me tell you.”

“Perhaps, then,” said the hawk, “we should send you to deal with the wihht.”

“I don’t know that much,” said the ghost hastily. "I've forgotten a lot."

“And he isn’t just this wihht!” Owain slammed his fist on the desk. “He’s the Silentman. Blast Botrell’s withered, greedy little soul. He’s got the bloody Thieves Guild at his beck and call. The last thing I need is every basher and cutthroat in the city running amuck while we’re fighting an army at the walls. Hearne will go up in flames without the enemy even setting foot within the gates.”

“The enemy’s already here,” said the hawk.

As if to underscore Owain’s words, a knock tattooed on the door, which swung open. An officer poked his head in and saluted.

“My lord Gawinn,” he said. “The lieutenant of the watch and my lord the duke of Thule request your presence on the wall.”

“Very well.”

Owain turned in the doorway as he shrugged on his cloak.

“I trust you can think of something,” he said, his gaze on Jute. His eyes were bleak. “I haven't had much faith in the fact that you are the wind. I never believed all those old stories about the anbeorun, but I do now, and it is out of desperation, Jute. I hope you don’t forget that.” He nodded at them, and then shut the door behind him.

“Splendid,” said the ghost, rubbing its hands together. “We’re all here, just like old times. I can’t say I’ve missed any of you, but this is nice. Nice indeed.”

“We have a little time,” said Jute. He rose and stood by the fireplace. The heat of the flames felt delightful on his hands and face. He supposed he didn’t need things like heat and food and rest anymore, but it didn’t mean that they weren’t enjoyable. He closed his eyes. He could feel the wind blowing outside, roaming about the stone walls, wandering through the rain, looking for him. With an effort, he opened his eyes. They were all watching him. Severan, the ghost, and the hawk. Firelight reflected from the eyes of the old man and the hawk. The ghost, however, was just a dim form in the flickering light.