The Hawk And His Boy (9 page)

Certain members of the clan had been known to kill for hire, but they were shunned by other Farrows. The most famous of these had been Janek Farrow the Blackhand, who had climbed the tower of Tatterbeg on the northern coast and fought the wizard Yone. Their struggle broke the tower into ruin. Dying, Yone had cursed Janek, that everyone Janek loved would be brought to heartbreak, ruin, and death. Janek fled to the east, determined to forget his family so that the wizard’s curse would not come to settle on them. He disappeared and was never heard of again. The other famous Farrow, of course, was Declan Farrow, son of Cullan Farrow, who had stolen his father’s sword.

The roan danced under Levoreth, drunk on sunlight and fresh air and the prospect of a lengthy and leisurely outing. Levoreth patted its neck and brooded on Declan Farrow and Farrows in general. Odds were, Declan Farrow was still alive, for the incident that had resulted in his disappearance had happened only fourteen years ago. He would still be a young man. At least, young by her standards, and Levoreth smiled to herself.

The road turned to the west. A few oaks grew in the rolling grasslands. They stood like sentinels of the Lome Forest, which lay miles further to the southeast. Crickets hidden in the grass rasped their music, buzzing cheerfully of the last days of summer. Occasionally, the hooves of the horses stirred them up into sight and then the little creatures would hop lazily away to safety.

Levoreth hummed under her breath, picking up the note of the crickets. Blackbirds swooped by with their wings flashing blue in the sunlight. She borrowed the melody of their song and wove it into her own. She pursed her lips and turned the tune into a whistle.

“Lovely,” said her aunt, riding near. “What is that, my dear? A folk song?”

“Just an old tune about the earth. I think they’re all based on the same handful of melodies.”

“It puts me in mind of green things. Rather like one of those songs the girls sing while out in the harvest.”

Levoreth smiled.

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE MOSAIC IN THE CEILING

With a sigh, Nio shut the book of Lascol and rose from his chair by the library fireplace. He put the book back on the shelf. The firelight flickered on his face as he stood a while in thought. A musty odor of parchment and leather filled the air—the scent of books, of time stopped and caught by words.

The book of Lascol contained an index of anything relevant to the subject of the anbeorun.
Aeled, Eorde, Brim,
and
Windan
. The guardians of fire, earth, sea, and wind. The four wanderers who had walked the world since the beginning of time, bulwarks against the Dark so that man and beast could live their lives in peace. It had taken years to track down everything referenced in the book, all the other books, the inscriptions in tombs and castles, even a tapestry in the manor of Duke Lannaslech in Harlech. Shadows, that had been a close one. If he had been discovered there, his life would have been forfeit. The lords of Harlech did not suffer strangers gladly, least of all a thief prowling their halls at night.

Forty years searching, and the final answers still eluded him. The information contained within the book had not proven to be enough. It was silent in several areas. Such as what could kill an anbeorun. Or what the origin of the anbeorun was. But at the end of the day, there was only one question that mattered:
What was in the box?

A noise drifted up from below in the house. Nio went to the door, opened it, and listened. The wihht had returned. He heard the front door close, and then there was silence.

The wihht was waiting for him in the hall at the foot of the stairs, motionless in the shadows. Only its eyes moved as Nio walked down the steps. The candles in their sconces on the walls flamed to life when Nio muttered a word.

Lig
.

Light.

It seemed there was more detail in the creature’s face, more pronounced cheekbones and a fuller nose. Odd. He put the matter from his mind. He was honest enough to realize he did not know everything about fashioning something as complex as a wihht. Little was written on the subject, for not many wizards had ever dared to fashion the darkness.

“What did you learn?” he asked.

The thing answered him with a hoarse voice that was strangely soft, as if it had no lungs to breathe with and so make normal speech.

“Many things were learned, master. What would you wish to hear?”

“Tell me about the fat man called the Juggler.”

“He cares for a band of children who live and work together. Without father or mother. Orphans. He works for—this group of thieves, this—” It paused, stumbling for the word.

“Guild.”

“Guild,” repeated the wihht.

“Go on.”

“The Juggler controls their lives.”

“Ah,” said the man. “He would’ve certainly known more than the boy. Describe the Juggler to me so I’ll know him when I see him.”

“This one is a short, fat man with a round face. A round face like the smaller sun that lights the night.”

“The moon. It’s called the moon.”

“A round face like the moon.”

“Does he have a real name, other than this Juggler nonsense?” asked Nio.

“This was not learned,” said the wihht.

“And what of the man called the Knife?”

“Less can be learned of this one.”

“Why?”

“He is feared, master.”

“Well,” said Nio, “there must be something you can tell me of him.”

“His name is Ronan and he comes from a town called Aum, in the duchy of Vo. No one believes that. But no one knows better.”

“Aum’s a ruin, a haunt of jackals and hoot owls. No one’s lived there for over three hundred years. He has a past that’s not to be found out and everyone be damned if he cares if they try. Arrogant of him. What else did you learn about him? This is of no use to me.”

“He is a tall man,” continued the wihht. “He is a man with dark features as if he has seen much sun. No one in this city is reckoned his equal with the sword or knife.”

“Weapons don’t concern me. What else?”

“That is all,” said the wihht.

“What? Not even where he lives?”

“No, master. That was not learned.”

“Friends, a lover, a favorite inn?”

“No, master. That was not learned.”

“Is that all you have to say?” said Nio. “We’ll have to start with the fat man. Curse the Guild! They’re a stealthy, sneaking bunch, and curse that paltry excuse of a regent for letting them flourish in his city! Speak of the rest of what you saw today. Maybe some trifle will come to light that might be of purpose.”

The wihht’s hoarse voice mumbled on. A picture emerged of children flitting through the marketplace, of sunlight painful in the wihht’s eyes, of small hands filching from barrows and the pockets of unsuspecting passersby. Men in taverns, gossiping over tankards of ale, of hidden things and the long arm of the regent, the Guard of the city and their captain Owain Gawinn. Locks, wards, streets, and doors. Roofs, back alleys, walls, and grappling hooks. The Silentman, rumored to be hidden in his labyrinth of tunnels under the city. Travelers from distant lands. Merchants, traders, noblemen. The Autumn Fair approaching. An inn called the Goose and Gold. After a while, the wihht ran out of words and stood silent before Nio. The moon glanced in through the window over the front door.

“Tell me more about the inn you mentioned,” said Nio.

At that same moment, there came a knock on the door. For a second, Nio froze and then he jumped to his feet. His mind feathered forward and he felt a familiar presence at the door—impatience, age, someone tapping their foot and grumbling. Severan and another. One of the other so-called scholars from the digging party in the university ruins.

“Quick,” he said to the wihht. “Into the closet there. Don’t make a sound until I release you!” The creature obeyed and Nio locked the closet door behind it. At the front door again came the knock.

“Coming!” he called.

Severan stood on the threshold. Water dripped from his nose. It was raining and dark outside. A fat little man bobbed up and down behind him.

“Catch our deaths of cold, Nio, waiting for you,” said Severan. “It’s bad enough breathing dust and mold in that confounded ruin day after day.”

“Come in,” said Nio, forcing himself to be agreeable. “Ablendan, I haven’t seen you for some days. I’m surprised you tore yourself away from your beloved rubble.”

“Well worth choking on mold,” said the little man, “seeing the find we made today. Amazing! Haven’t seen anything like it before. With what we’ve found, I tell you, we’re one step closer to finding the
Gerecednes
! Why do you stay cooped up in this dreary house, poring over your books? You don’t know what you’re missing.”

They clumped into the front hall and hung their cloaks over some pegs on the wall. Severan stopped and turned, his nose twitching.

“What’s that smell in here?” he asked. “Almost like mice dying in the walls, but worse.”

“It’s worse in the cellar,” returned Nio. “There’s an open drain into the city sewers and I’m afraid the rains have stirred some muck up. You’ll get used to it after a while.”

“No sign of the boy?”

“He vanished. I can’t fathom how he managed it. Clever wretches, these thieves.”

Severan shook his head. “At any rate, no one will be able to open that blasted box. Probably just rubbish inside once the thing’s open. It’s not like it was a book. Now that would’ve been a loss.”

The two arrivals suggested some bread and cheese and maybe a mug of hot ale to take the chill off. Nio agreed with as much goodwill as he could muster. In the kitchen, Severan stuck his nose around the door leading down into the cellar. He sneezed and frowned, but said nothing.

“What brings you out from your beloved ruin?” asked Nio. “And what’s this find you speak of?” He sipped from his mug and watched Severan over the rim.

“A mosaic,” said Ablendan. “We were digging in the west wing, just past that hallway with all those wretched dog wards—can hardly take a step through the place without some cursed hound appearing and chasing you from here to the moon. We were puttering about there and the floor gave way, revealing a blocked-up stairwell. So down we went, shone the lantern around, and there it was! Covers the whole ceiling.”

“There are many mosaics in the university,” said Nio.

“Ah,” returned Severan. “But this one moves.”

“Some kind of warding spell?”

“No,” said the other. “The mosaic doesn’t pose any detectable danger. Rather, its stones rearrange themselves according to what’s said aloud in the room. At first we thought it was just a beautiful but pointless decoration. The stones shifted and flowed around each other as we stood below gazing up and gabbing back and forth all the while in a confusion of talk. It was only after we fell silent that the mosaic ceased its movement. Then, when one of us spoke singly, the stones moved with his speech.”

“So stones move to the sound of a voice, like pigeons fluttering around Mioja Square at a child’s yell.” Nio shrugged. “Interesting, yes. Unique, yes, but hardly worth rushing all the way through the city in the rain to tell me. More cheese?”

“No, no,” said Ablendan. “Yes, more cheese. The mosaic’s much more than that. It shows you what you speak of, as if a mirror of your words.”

“Is this true?” asked Nio, turning to Severan.

Severan nodded. “As far as we can tell, the older the tongue, the more precise the picture. I spoke about my cottage, naming the earth beneath it, the moor, and the sea beyond, giving such names as I know are bound into the land, and the stones of the mosaic rearranged themselves so as to show me my old place far up the coast of Lannaslech in Harlech, with moon flowers growing up its walls and onto the roof as I know they must be at this late summer’s time.”

“Amazing!” said Nio, startled despite himself.

“It shows the exact present,” said Ablendan, “for old Adlig, on a whim, described us and soon there we were, gazing up at ourselves, blinking and gaping just as we were doing at the moment. A lot of fools we looked.”

“This mosaic could be a powerful tool!”

“It could be,” acknowledged Severan. “But the picture it shows is warped, as if seen through a crooked glass. Happily, though, we think you might have the key to this problem. Part of the key, at least.”

“My possession of such a key is unwitting. What is this thing you think I have?”

“It’s a guess on my part,” said Severan. “Only a guess, but one I’m convinced will prove sound. Upon each of the four walls of the room are smaller mosaics inlaid, high up on the wall, just out of arm’s reach—one for each of the walls. They are fashioned of the same stones but lifeless and unmoving in their pieces, while the large mosaic shifts at the sound of our voices. Naturally, this drew our attention and we noticed that a border framed each of the four smaller mosaics—”

“That’s why!” broke in Ablendan. “That’s why we thought you might have the answer! And then, we’ll ask it to show us the
Gerecednes
!”