The Hawk And His Boy (16 page)

Grooms ran out to hold the horses’ reins as they clattered to a halt in the castle courtyard. Two hounds lollopped up and sniffed dutifully at every horse before making for Levoreth to slobber happily all over her hands. The old steward Radean emerged from the front door and tottered down the steps. Servants peered smiling from lamp-lit windows. The Callases were home.

The days whisked by in a whirl of activity. There was much to do before setting out for Hearne and the Autumn Fair. Melanor decided none of her dresses would do and, catching Hennen at an opportune time when he was sneaking a pork pie in the larder before supper, convinced the duke to part with the necessary gold.

“I think Levoreth could use a few new things, too,” said the duchess.

“You women are going to beggar the duchy,” said her husband, edging around so that he was standing between the duchess and the remains of the pork pie sitting on the shelf.

“Nonsense,” said his wife. “We’re the only reason the land hasn’t gone to ruin, with you buying up every horse in sight and paying a king’s ransom for whatever four-legged creature the Farrows trot through here.”

“What?” said the duke, foolishly rising to the bait. “Madame, you speak of things you know nothing of. Horses are the treasure of Dolan. That last colt—she’ll be faster than Min the Morn, or I’ll eat my best cloak—was worth every penny I paid.”

“And how much was that?”

“Er . . .”

“I don’t suppose you’ll grudge Levoreth and me a few pieces of gold.”

“A few pieces? Why, I know that just one of your dresses—”

“Hennen, you have crumbs on your chin,” she interrupted. “And we’ll need to get some shoes too. Several pairs each.”

“Oh, all right,” he said.

Levoreth would have smiled if she could have heard them, but she was walking down by the river Ciele. She did not care about new dresses and shoes. The few she had she was comfortable with, for they were faded and known, like old friends. Green and growing things fascinated her: the change of seasons, how the earth accepted the coming of the rain. And the homey parts of everyday life never ceased to tire her: the scent of bread baking, the cooing of a baby, the flicker of a hearth fire at the end of the day. And then there were horses. She was a Callas, through and through, in every best sense of the name. Every Callas loved horses.

One of the hounds had followed her from the castle and now was snuffling among the rocks by the river’s edge. Every once in a while, he would stop and raise his head to stare at her, as if to reassure himself of her presence. She sat down on a slab of rock. Light glittered on the water. The sun rode up the arch of a perfect sky. She leaned back, rested her head on her shawl, and slept.

She dreamt of a young girl standing on a savannah of grasses waving in the wind. The girl’s face was remote and still. Sadness pooled in the shadows under her gray eyes. Her hair streamed away from her in black tresses. She gazed away into the distance. The girl turned, slowly, to look at Levoreth.

Levoreth awoke with a start. The hound was nosing at her hand. It woofed happily when she scratched its head, and then it flopped down at her feet. She lay back and slept again.

This time, she dreamt of a winter sky. High overhead, a hawk floated on the wind, wings stretched wide. Its cry thrilled through the air, fierce and cruel. Far off across a snowy plain, a figure walked toward her. She could not tell if it were man or woman, as the distance was great. A roaring rose in her ears. Wind howled through the sky and whipped across the snow. A flurry of ice stung her skin. Indistinguishable at first, but then clearer and clearer, a voice called to her from far away.

Levoreth.

I am Levoreth Callas. He stopped for me, and I looked up. I chose to look up. I took his name.

Levoreth.

It is mine. I never wanted much.

This time, she awoke with a hand touching her shoulder. One of the maids from the castle was kneeling next to her. The hound sat up and yawned.

“Miss Levoreth,” said the maid. “Milady would like you to come for your fitting.”

“All right, girl,” she said. “Run back and tell her I’ll be along shortly.”

“Yes, miss.” And the maid scampered across the meadow toward the town walls.

Levoreth sat for a moment, staring down at the river. Its liquid voice sang of the valley, of the heather on the hills graying into autumn, of the mists that rose in the mornings on the plain and melted away under the noonday sun. Through it all was the murmuring memory of rain, of the storms in the Mountains of Morn that brought life to the Mearh Dun.

“And the hope of rain, yet again,” said Levoreth out loud. The hound looked at her quizzically. “So it ever goes, and the years are preserved. May it ever be so and may the Dark never wake in Daghoron.” She scratched the dog’s ears, and it growled with pleasure. “Come, or Melanor will grow impatient and take it out on the poor tailor.”

The tailor proved accommodating to Melanor’s wishes, even though he sighed at her demand that all the clothes be finished in two days. He was a melancholy man with sad eyes and the air of an undertaker.

“Honestly,” whispered the duchess, “you’d think we were being fitted for our shrouds. But he’s positively the best tailor north of Hearne. Something terribly sad must’ve happened to him.”

“Or perhaps,” said Levoreth, “he has corns and his shoes are too tight.”

“You think so?” And the duchess spent the rest of the afternoon scrutinizing the poor man’s shoes until he grew so flustered that he jabbed Levoreth with a safety pin as he was measuring her for an evening gown.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

STARTING THE JOB

Ronan spent some time watching the comings and goings of the merchant Cypmann Galnes. He had heard of Galnes even before Arodilac Bridd had told him his story. The man was well-known among the merchants and traders of the city. He was wealthy, powerful, and equally comfortable among the nobility of Highneck Rise and the roughnecks of the docks. It wouldn’t do to anger a man who had the ear of the regent. Even if the regent was paying for the job.

Obviously, the man was aware of his daughter’s circumstance. And angry. The best thing would be to find out his habits and then rob his house when he wasn’t home. There was no need to anger him any further. Strange, though, that his daughter wanted the Bridd family ring for something. What was it Arodilac had said?

She wants something in exchange. But she won’t tell me what.

Strange.

It was raining—a chilly downpour, unseasonal but welcome enough to the gardens and greenery parched brown by summer—and this dreariness plunged him into a brooding study. The rain reduced the city to a blur of stone, punctuated by the glow of lights in windows—taverns, shops, homes—all promising warmth and respite from the damp and dark.

Water ran on the cobbled streets; it streamed from cornices and peaks and spouts. It flowed along through the gutters and gurgled down storm drains. In Mioja Square, in the heart of the city, the fountain began to overflow, sheeting water across the square. The vendors had already packed up their handbarrows and stalls and scurried away. Nobody shopped in weather like this.

Cypmann Galnes stalked across the square, oblivious to the rain and oblivious to the shadowy form of Ronan trailing behind him. As far as the thief could tell, they were the only two souls out in the city that morning. He flipped his collar up and shivered. Rain ran down his neck. A curse escaped his lips as he splashed through a puddle.

Normally, such a job would be given to one of the runners, one of the children fresh from the Juggler’s pack. Someone with enough brains to follow and keep their mouth shut, stay invisible, and hang about in doorways, waiting for someone else to move, someone else to think, someone else to act. But the instructions Smede passed on from the Silentman had been explicit. The regent wanted no one else from the Guild working on the job, no one else from the Guild even knowing about the job. The potential of embarrassment for the regency was too great.

Ronan smiled sourly to himself. He appreciated the trust that the Silentman obviously thought him worthy of. Still, he’d much rather be sitting in an inn somewhere, a mug of ale in hand.

We all have our jobs to do.

Almost, he stopped to turn around, to see who had whispered the words, but it was only his memory stirring. Darkness filled his eyes and he saw the chimney yawning open underneath him, filled with shadow. He felt dizzy, as if he were teetering on a height. As if he was the one falling. He strode on in the rain, shoulders hunched against the wet and the cold, and against the past.

Nothing personal, boy.

We all have our jobs to do.

Cypmann Galnes owned a warehouse near the harbor. Here, the city continued its hustle and bustle in spite of the rain. Water was a customary part of life, whether in the sea or raining from the sky. Even now, the docks swarmed with fishermen unloading the morning catch. Rain hissed on the swells rising and falling against the pilings. A schooner nosed up against the dock, its mainsail dropping with a clatter. Ronan could hear the calls of the sailors as ropes were flung and made fast. He huddled in an archway and watched as the merchant disappeared through a door down the street. A moment later, lamplight flickered from behind a window. The merchant would be there until late in the day. His routine was predictable. Ronan trudged away.

CHAPTER TWENTY

THE GAWINNS TAKE IN AN ORPHAN

They drove the mules hard. The twins no longer smiled and sang, even though Loy took to crooning wordlessly over the girl. She did not wake from her sleep. Her body grew thinner with each passing hour until it seemed she was only a collection of bones wrapped with skin. From time to time, Loy managed to trickle drops of honey and water between her lips.

“Her skin feels like fire,” he said. “And the wounds on her leg stink of rot.”

“Tomorrow morning we’ll be there,” said Murnan.

“Might be too late.”

“Aye,” said the other twin. “If these lazy mules of yours weren’t weighted so heavily, we’d make better time. Be there by nightfall.”

The twins both glared at the trader. He tried to stare them down but could not.

“All right!” he said. “Have it your way. It’ll mean less for all of us at journey’s end.”

After a hasty discussion they decided on the copper ingots, as well as a pair of silver cats that had caught Murnan’s eye in Damarkan.

“For a wedding,” he said to himself. “They’d have been a perfect wedding gift. Cwen loves cats.” But then he subsided into silence, for his thoughts turned to another wedding and the miller’s face staring up blindly at the sky.

They buried the copper and the cats at the foot of an oak in a dell near the river Rennet. It was beginning to rain. The mules stepped out eagerly, now that their burdens had been lightened.

“Ten hours,” said the trader.

It was closer to nine hours and just into night when they reached the gates of Hearne. The horses steamed with sweat in the light of the flaring lamps and the mules refused to move once they clattered under the stone arch. A young officer emerged from the guard tower.

“Sir—”

“I need a physician. Quickly, and the best you know!”

The officer raised his eyebrows.

“Physicians don’t just come for anyone, sir. Even in Hearne, only a few practice and they cost a—”

“What’s this?” said a voice behind the officer. A man sauntered down the steps of the guard tower. The young officer stepped to one side and saluted him.

“Murnan Col, is it not?” said the man.

“My lord?” said the trader.

The lamplight drew the man’s face out of shadow, revealing a bony visage with startling blue eyes and dark hair falling over his forehead.

“You sold me a pair of emeralds a year ago,” said the man. “Perfectly matched. Had them made into earrings for my wife.”

“Ah!” Murnan’s face lightened. “Owain Gawinn! My lord, surely fate has brought you here. I’m sorely in need of your assistance. I know a good physician’s hard to find, but not for the regent’s Lord Captain of Hearne.”

“For yourself, no doubt,” said Owain, though he didn’t mean it. His eyes had already noted the form cradled in Loy’s arms.

“Several days ago, my lord, as we came up from Damarkan, we arrived at a village on a tributary of the Rennet. A little place I’ve traded at before, pleasant and friendly folk. This time, however, when we entered the village we found a charnel house out of the worst nightmare! Every person slain except for this one poor girl we brought away, and she is gravely wounded. Perhaps it would be a kindness to let her die, seeing her people are gone, but who knows why one is left to live?”

The captain’s face had stilled at the trader’s words.

“How were the villagers killed?” he asked. His voice was quiet. “Did you take time to notice?”

Murnan’s face twisted in disgust. “Their bodies were disfigured by the birds and rats feeding, but it seemed they died in one of two ways. Some had deep wounds, thin and precise as if stabbed by knife or sword. Others had their throats torn out as if by a wild beast.”