Fly Up into the Night Air (11 page)

* * *

Councilman Hardy had moved on to more entertaining pursuits when Harte spotted Councilman Greer returning from a trip to the yard. "Stilian, there's Greer's father, Councilman Greer. Do you want to meet him?" He took Stilian's elbow and turned him towards the councilman.

Stilian frowned. "The father of the accused?"

"He hasn't been accused of anything yet, and you must not let on that you know anything!"

"Certainly not. By all means, introduce me." He strode briskly towards the councilman. Harte hurried to catch up. Councilman Greer's eyes widened when he saw the blue tunic of the judge veritor.

"Councilman Greer. This is Judge Veritor Cast. He is staying with my family while he visits Walford's Crossing. Judge Cast, may I present Councilman Magistrate Greer."

Councilman Greer frowned. "Good evening, Judge. I was not aware of your visit. Is there some business that brings you here?"

"Walford's Crossing is a stop on my circuit, Councilman."

"I don't recall having met you before."

"No, I am new to this circuit."

"Your predecessor--I'm afraid I can't recall his name--his practice was to come when called. He took care to inform the council of his plans."

Harte was appalled at the councilman's manner. Stilian's face merely took on a stonier quality. "I suspect he found larger communities tiring. That is not unusual among the Canny."

"Better for all of us, I should think, if that were the case with all of you."

"Why, Councilman? Do you find my visit inconveniently timed?" Stilian's tone was light, but his face hard.

Councilman Greer's cheeks flushed. "What are you implying?"

Harte hastily interjected. "I'm sure the judge did not mean to imply anything, Councilman. Stilian, I see your wine glass is empty. If you'd like to follow me, I'm sure we can remedy that." Harte took Stilian's arm and guided him away from the councilman.

When they were out of sight of the councilman, Stilian's face softened. "It would have been better had you not used my given name, Harte. I'm afraid you may have given life to the councilman's fears of conspiracy."

Harte felt the blood drain from his head.

"Steady. I know you did not mean to do it," said Stilian.

"I had no idea he was so prejudiced."

Stilian peered into his empty glass. "He's hardly unique."

* * *

Hours later, Harte was slumped on a three-legged stool by the bonfire listening to the last revelers sing, when he discovered a slightly swaying judge looming by his side.

"Judge Veritor, sir! I'd have thought you'd have escaped by new--now."

"D'you know that the consumption of spirits'll con-sid-er-a-bly reduce a canny person's range and sens-i-tiv-ity?"

"No." Harte said, looking up at Stilian. Perhaps it was the flickering light, but his face seemed softer than usual. "I was not aware of that ... int'resting fact. Remind me to send you a couple of bottles of my father's blest--best."

"Yur too kind."

"Do they ming such in Grayholme?" Harte giggled. "No, do people like t'sing in Grayholme?"

"We sing all the time. Every day. Singers are highly honored in Grayholme."

Harte giggled. "Like the sisters?"

"Not so much like the sisters."

"I got an idea. Let's get those bottles of my father's, right now. Father's bottles. We can go have a glass in my sitting room, by the fire. It's getting clod--cold out here. These people are drunk."

"Thas a fine idea."

Harte stood up carefully. "Go up. I'll get the spirits and meet you in my rooms. I have to clear my head."

* * *

In Harte's sitting room, there was a comfortable couch in front of the fireplace. When Harte arrived, Stilian was putting a new log on the blaze.

"That feels good," Harte said, turning his backside to the fire. "You could have called the maid to do that."

"What for?"

When Stilian finished with the fire, Harte handed him a pair of wine glasses. "Hold these, while I open this bottle. Here." He poured them each a glass. "To fairness and justice for all, no matter who--who their fathers are."

"Fairness and justice for all fathers' sons," said Stilian, smiling.

"All fathers' sons." Harte touched his glass to Stilian's.

"Sit down, sir."

"I believe I will." Stillian sat down heavily, holding his glass with both hands. "Do you know, you are a very good dancer."

"Why thank you! It's one of few accomplishments."

"You are too modest. That Greer girl. D'you know she loves you?"

"I need another drink." Harte got up and poured himself another glass.

"You evade the question."

"No, I'm preparing to respond." Harte sipped his wine and spoke slowly. "Yes. I believe I do know that she loves me. But you see, she knows that she cannot have me, because ... because I do not want her. But I care for her very much."

Stilian looked into his glass. "You must take care that you do not hurt her."

"She knows that she cannot have me."

"She can still be hurt."

Harte closed his eyes. "Everyone can be hurt. May I ask you something, Judge Veritor?"

"I'm not judging now."

"Yes, yes. But can I ask you something?"

"Please proceed."

"Is there someone that you miss--particularly--back at Grayholme?"

"Are you asking whether I'm bonded?"

"Is that what you call it there? We engage. Engage to be married." He leapt up, nearly landing in the fire, and swept out an imaginary sword. He raised it to an elaborate salute. "It's like going into battle."

Stilian smiled at Harte. "I'm not bonded." His smile faded at the edges. "I was, but he died."

Harte collapsed back onto the couch and was quiet for a time, digesting this.

"You said he."

"Yes," answered Stilian.

"Relationships of that type are accepted among the canny?"

"Yes, and acknowledged."

"I did not know that," said Harte, closing his eyes. He pictured his father in his magistrate's robe standing next him. Harte wore the formal suit of a bridegroom. A tall white-haired gentleman led a veiled bride towards the alter. When they reached the waiting pair, the white-haired man reached up to unveil the bride. The veil lifted to reveal Stilian's stern visage. Harte put his hands to his head and shook it from side to side.

"We don't speak of it much outside of Grayholme. Some would condemn that which they don't understand," said Stilian.

"Why did you tell me?"

Stilian glanced at Harte. "You ... had need of knowing."

"I had need of knowing." Harte's rested his head on the back of the couch. "I need ..."

Stilian waited to find out what it was that Harte needed, but no information was forthcoming. "You need sleep, my drunken friend." He got up from the couch, painstakingly extracted Harte's wine glass from his hand, and put it aside. He knelt on the floor and pulled Harte's boots off, then lifted Harte's legs and swiveled them onto the couch. He got a blanket from the bed and laid it over the sleeping figure, then leaned over and kissed Harte on the forehead, nearly falling over in the process, before leaving the room.

* * *

Dear Hugh,

Kit and Stilian have arrived at Grayholme. I'm sorry this letter has been so delayed. I have watched for a dray or merchant train every day, but none passed through the gap until today.

Oh my beloved, I hardly know whether to thank you or curse you! We have not seen such a pair for a long time. They shine brightly indeed. They arrived in the morning, traipsing up to the front gate by themselves and demanding to see "the mistress" as soon as possible. Don't worry, the drays arrived some hours later, as scheduled. They had persuaded their temporary guardians to let them walk ahead from Bug Station. To have young legs again! In any case, by the time they made it to the gate, I was already on my way down. Their excitement at arriving, their joy in one another's company, the trepidation about what they would find--all were all apparent from at least two hundred feet away. I'm sure our stronger talents knew they were on their way from Market Square. They are bellows to each other's fires. I confess, I thought briefly of housing them separately, but rejected the idea as cruel. Needless to say, we started them on dampening and shielding exercises immediately.

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?"