The Hawk And His Boy (7 page)

“Your words pain me,” said Smede. “I’ve always had nothing but fondness for you, from the first day the Thieves Guild took you in—a wayward lad with an eagerness for fighting and all the sordid activity that carries on in our back alleys.”

“Activity that makes you and your betters quite rich,” said the Knife. “Blood on my blade is gold in the Guild’s coffer.”

“Gold offers more serene constancy than anything else in this world, be it noble titles, the love of a beautiful woman, honor at arms. To see it mount up in gleaming piles, to lock it up tight in strongboxes, to let it clink through your fingers, to tot the numbers up in fresh ink—purest joy! I fail to see why songs are not penned in its praise. Love, honor, valor—bah! Show me a bard and I’ll show you a babbling fool.”

“Why are you here, Smede? My stew is getting cold.”

“Ah yes. The Knife is known for getting to the point.” Smede wheezed once in honor of his own humor. “Economy of words. Being the Guild accountant, I should appreciate that.”

The little man lowered his voice.

“Plainly put,” he said, “the Guild has a job for you that must be done immediately. It’ll pay well, of course.”

“How much?” Ronan spooned up some stew and scowled at the accountant.

“Enough.”

“I said, how much?”

“The amount remains to be seen, but it’ll be generous. Rest assured. We have found ourselves yet another rich customer.” Smede appropriated the stool next to Ronan. “Perhaps I should have a mug of ale? I don’t drink the stuff often, but it might help me experience your degraded culture.” He signaled to the innkeeper for ale. “Ahh, not bad, not bad at all,” said the accountant. He licked foam off his lip with a pale tongue. “Poor man’s wine, isn’t it? Perhaps I should get away from my desk more, see the sights, take in the culture of our fair city Hearne? I’m sure you, my violent friend, know all the best spots and all the—”

“What’s the job?” said Ronan.

“The job? Yes, the job. Let me tell you about this job.”

Smede leaned close, whispering between sips of ale. Ronan listened and mopped up the last of his stew with chunks of bread. When he was finished speaking, Smede leaned back a bit unsteadily and gulped down the rest of his ale.

“That’s it?” said Ronan.

“That,” said Smede, “is it. An’ I seem to have run out of ale as well. Mebbe another mug? Innkeeper! S’more ale!”

“Why me? If there’s good gold in it, I don’t mind taking the job, but surely this is something more suited for—for—”

“For a n-nursemaid?” hiccupped Smede. The accountant buried his nose in his fresh mug of ale.

“Yes. A bleeding nursemaid.”

“Because you’re the Knife,” said Smede. He rubbed his nose and peered furtively around the room. “Because you’re the best, the absolute best an’ our customer wanted the best the Guild has to offer. Silent an’ swift! Most importantly on this job—silence! Discretion! Not a word to anyone! The best!” He banged his fist on the table. “The best, I tell you!”

“Right,” said Ronan. He shrugged.

“Innkeeper!” bawled Smede. “S’more ale!”

“My friend will be paying for my lunch,” said Ronan to the innkeeper.

“Lunch!” echoed Smede.

“Thank you, my friend.” Ronan clapped the little accountant on his shoulder. “Have some more ale.”

“S’more ale!” hollered Smede.

Ronan turned and left the inn.

He had not realized how far gone the day was. The sun was already past its zenith. There was a chill in the air. He flipped his collar up and strode along, not bothering to mind where he was going.

It was a strange job, to say the least. Definitely not the sort to boast about afterward. However, he could see the wisdom in having the likes of himself doing the job. He, more than anyone in the Guild, understood the need for discretion. Loose lips shed blood. He shook his head. Who’d have thought the regent of Hearne himself would be hiring the Thieves Guild to do his dirty work?

He found himself down on the docks. Waves crashed against the seawall. Gulls circled through the sky. A fishing boat was rounding the breakwater. He could hear its lines creaking in the wind. The sea was alive with light. Something shivered and tightened inside him.

The regent.

Who’d have thought it?

CHAPTER NINE

FEN AWAKE

Fen desperately wanted to stay asleep. It was so much more comfortable in the darkness. The darkness was soft, and she had the notion that waking up might prove to be painful.

It’ll be bright,
she thought.
The sun in my eyes will be bright and I’ll blink and squint like one of those little barn owls caught outside in the daylight. They must hate that.

The barn.

Something about the barn. Something dreadful had happened in the barn. And then she was no longer able to hold onto sleep. She drifted up through the depths, growing lighter and unbearably lighter with each exhalation. Her body shivered alive with agony. Her leg was burning. She opened her eyes and remembered. A shriek burst from her lips, but she bit down hard the instant it escaped her mouth. She lay trembling and listening. There was only silence. Morning sunlight slanted down through cracks in the wall. Dust gleamed, hanging in the light.

Fen was able to inch her way up by getting her left foot onto the axle of the harrow. She stood up as slowly as she possibly could. The spike slid greasily through the hole in her thigh. Tears ran from her eyes and her teeth chattered. Her body quivered in agony. She could not see for her tears.

She must have blacked out again, for the next thing she knew she was lying face down in the hay. From the slant of the sunbeams she could see it was late afternoon. She looked up. For a moment she thought Hafall was alive, stirring from his nap just inside the barn door. The shape of his body, shadowed by the light outside, moved and seemed almost to rise. Fen limped forward, and the crows stooping over the corpse rose in a flutter of wings. They hopped away, croaking in irritation at her. Sobbing, she stumbled after them, scooping up dust, straw, anything to throw at them. But her left arm was numb and would not obey her. She tripped and fell flat on her face. Behind her, the crows settled back to their meal.

Movement caught her attention across the yard. A pair of rats rocked back on their haunches and stared at her with beady-eyed malevolence. They were crouched over a body lying across the threshold of the miller’s house: a tall man with a head of hair nearly white blond in the sunlight. The same color as her hair, but stained and spiked with blood.

She could not breathe. Her heart was bursting, too big to be held within her small chest, and she screamed and screamed and screamed until the world dulled down into gray around her, until there was nothing except the sound of her voice dying away into a whimper of nothing that no one heard, that meant nothing within the darkness falling on what could have been a perfect sunlit day.

CHAPTER TEN

THE EDUCATION OF NIO

Nio stomped up the tower stairs. He slammed the door shut and stalked to a window. From there he could look from his house out over most of Hearne. And beyond. East. Something there had drawn his attention for the past few months. First in a dream and then, whenever he was within the tower, in unconscious habit.

Tonight, though, he glared out over the city. He saw nothing. The stone walls, the brick houses faded by so many summers’ suns, the heights of Highneck Rise mounting toward the higher cliffs crowned with the regent’s castle, the broken hulk of the university standing in a jumble of spires and towers and turrets huddled in ruins over the secrets they still held. Everything was washed pale in the light of the moon. It was all a blur, for rage does not sharpen sight, as some are wont to say; it merely blinds.

The work of half his life lost in one night. Stolen from this room by a boy. Years of study, of tracking down forgotten tomes to find a single line of text, a casual reference in a book of history moldering in a dusty library. It had taken him three years alone to get into the royal tombs of Harth—forbidden to all but the ruling line and the deaf and dumb servitors that guarded those tombs—just for the sake of one fresco fading into incomprehensibility on the wall of Oruso Oran II’s mausoleum.

All lost.

Stolen by a boy.

Stolen by the Thieves Guild.

How had they known?

The boy stared back at him in his memory. Skin white with fear, eyes hollowed with shadow, the gaunt face and even gaunter body. A skeleton. Nio ground his teeth together. His hands curled into fists. The boy would be a skeleton when he was finished with him. He would flay the flesh from him. He would break his bones with his bare hands. He would—

No.

With an effort, he stilled the tumult in his mind. Such thoughts would not serve him now. He needed to think. It had all been so close, just within his grasp. If only he had been able to figure out how to open the box.

He would find them. He would find them all. This so-called Knife, the enforcer of the Guild. The fat man. What had the boy called him? Oh yes—the Juggler. They would tell him everything, once he had found them. They would beg his permission to speak. They would give him more threads to follow, until he had made his way to the center of their web and discovered what was there to be found.

It had begun forty years ago. When he had been a student under Eald Gelaeran in the Stone Tower, far to the north of Hearne, on the Thule coast. There, the last true library of magic existed, preserved since the destruction of the university in Hearne. For the tower was a school of wizards, a secret place not known to many. Those who did know had no cause to share such knowledge with others. The tower could be found only if one already knew it was there. The place was woven about with spells. Travelers who came along the moors tended to find themselves on twisting paths and heading east or south or straight over the cliffs into the sea when they meant to go north.

He had been a quiet boy, even for the Stone Tower. The other students spent their free time playing on the moor or climbing the rocky cliffs there that fell down to the sea. He never joined them, and they, in the unthinking manner of boys, were cruel with their words and actions. But he taught them otherwise with his fists and later with the aptitude he demonstrated in learning magic. It is unwise to bully someone who can enspell spiders and send them swarming over your sleeping body at night.

He learned quickly, much more quickly than he let on to those who taught in the Stone Tower, for there was an innate cunning in him that cautioned against revelations of any kind. When he saw the old wizards were soon reaching the limits of what they were willing to teach, he determined to find his own manner of study. This he did by stealing into the private library of Eald Gelaeran and reading the books there page by page, stolen minute by stolen minute.

One day, Eald Gelaeran set out on a journey to Harth. Nio surmised the wizard would be gone for at least a month, traveling as he did by ship to Hearne and then further south to Harth by horse. On the day the old curmudgeon set sail, Nio crept into his library and stole a book. The book of Willan Run.

He did not know why he chose the book out of all the others.

For thirty days and thirty nights, the book of Willan Run lay open before him. Strange spells worked their way into his memory. Incantations muttered beneath his fingertips. Shreds of forgotten history wrote themselves across the pages: old wars and rumors of wars in far-off lands, countries he had never heard of before that seemed to have no part in Tormay and its eight duchies. Much of what he read he did not understand. He did not concern himself over this, however, for his mind was hungry and he stored the words in his memory.

On the tenth day, he turned a page and heard the sea, smelled the green earth, felt the wind on his brow, and was warmed by the heat of the fire. He read of the four ancient anbeorun—the stillpoints—those beings of power who walk the boundaries of the world of man and beast and keep watch against the Dark. Four words spoken in the first language, in the tongue that is called
gelicnes
.

The four words spoken became the four beings who ruled and held sway over all the
feorh
—all of the essences of what is. Everything was theirs to command, from the creatures of the sky, earth, and sea, to the foundations of stone, wood, water, and flame.

Nio’s imagination was caught. He devoured the rest of the book by candlelight at night, or in the afternoons, lying on his stomach and hidden in the tall grasses on the moor. The book went back onto the desk in Eald Gelaeran’s library even before the white sail was seen beating its way up the Thulish coast.

He dreamed of the anbeorun. He dreamed of what he did not know. The dreams filled him with a longing for wide open spaces, higher fields, and places from which one may stand and see things more clearly. And he dreamed of power. Thrones and dominions. The heights that ascend above and beyond all else.

But dreams are dangerous things. They are not to be indulged lightly or deemed just the perfume of sleep’s flower. In dreams, the sleeping self reaches for things beyond normal life. It ventures through unknown lands and, without realizing, disturbs the thoughts of others who make their home in dreams just as man makes his home in the world. With certain of such creatures it is perilous to draw their attention.