Fly Up into the Night Air (12 page)

* * *

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."

"
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.