The Hawk And His Boy (6 page)

Early faded memories of Hearne. The face of a woman who he himself had not even remembered. He clutched at the memory, frantic to examine her face for a second more, but the memory was gone, washed away by the pull of Nio’s will. A summer sky with a hawk circling far overhead. The jumble of city streets and alleyways, mapped in his mind into impressions of angles, distance, time. This wall was climbable, this one was not. This door here never locked properly. Shops, taverns, and houses. The passing gilt carriages of the titled and wealthy. Faces of children. Lena and the twins. Dirty, tearful, laughing, cringing in fear. Hungry. Always hungry. Shadows.

Dimly, he was aware of Nio sorting through his memories, pausing on some but discarding most as quickly as they came up. An image of the Juggler floated to the surface—the first time he had met him, running down an alleyway from an irate shopkeeper. Nio seized on the memory. Questions came quickly, and Jute heard himself begin to speak of recent years.

The Juggler. Hunched over his kidney and onions every morning in the Goose and Gold. Stinking like a brewery. Malevolently eyeing his children—his imps if in a good mood, the shadowspawn if in a bad mood, blows and curses if drunk—as they slunk past him for another day of lifting purses in Highneck Rise. Another day in the markets and streets of the city.

The Thieves Guild. A grimace crossed Nio’s face.

Careful.

Just as quickly as it had come, the voice was gone.

“The Juggler works for the Thieves Guild?”

Jute could not help himself. His voice continued, numb with hopelessness and the cold. The Thieves Guild. The little man named Smede who came every Sunday afternoon and drank a mug of ale with the Juggler and then took away a pouch of gold and silver. The fear on the Juggler’s face. Whispers among the children. Memories of the older ones who left the Juggler’s ranks to work for the smashers or the men who ran the docks. Or the few who went higher on the hill. Highneck Rise. Somewhere, it was rumored, somewhere higher on the hill of Hearne, there lived the Silentman, the head of the Thieves Guild. He ruled from a court hidden beneath the city streets. The Court of the Guild.

“Was this job for the Silentman?”

Yes.

Nio’s eyes glittered in triumph.

“How do you know that?”

Ronan of Aum. The Knife. The hand of the Silentman. Walking through the door of the Goose and Gold. Silence falling over the room, followed by nervous chatter, glances flicking at the man dressed in black. The Knife. The Juggler’s face slack with fear. Sitting at a table with morning sunlight slanting down. The Juggler’s hand on his shoulder, forcing him forward. The Knife staring at him, leaning forward. A plate of bread and cheese going stale on the table between them. The details. Gone over again and again. The manor. Up a wall, down a chimney, into a sleeping house guarded by ward spells.

No matter,
the Juggler had said.
Jute can handle wards.
He’s silent
.

“He knew the house,” said Nio, grinding his teeth together. “How could that be?”

Once inside the hall, the door at the far end. Up the stairs and into a small room. That’s where the box is. Somewhere in that room. It isn’t a large place so it shouldn’t be difficult to find the thing. Somewhere inside, a box the length of a forearm, made of black mahogany as hard as stone and fastened with catch and hinges of silver. A hawk’s head carved on top, with the moon and the sun rising and setting behind. And if you open the thing, it’ll be my knife in your gullet. Just stow it in your bag and back up the chimney with you.

Careful.

Nio hissed and spun away from the boy. “By the Dark!” he said. “Who has undone me?!” He turned back to Jute, his face twisted with anger. “Did you open the box!?”

Careful.

No. He told me he would kill me if I did. Kill me. He did kill me.

“Did he tell you what was inside the box?”

No.

“What did you do after you found the box?”

Back down the stairs. Step by step by step. Back through the sleeping house. Tiptoeing silent as a mouse. Up the chimney toward the man waiting on the roof. But he wouldn’t let me up. Darkness was creeping up the chimney after me. He made me hand the box up first. He took it away from me. And then the poisoned needle. And darkness. I fell.

“You’ve told me everything, boy?” Nio’s face was inches away from his own.

Yes.

Yes.

The man snapped a word and the horrible, cold grip released him. Jute collapsed on the ground and sobbed with relief. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the darkness of the thing subside beside him. Jute crawled forward. His body ached. The thing beside him kept pace. He could hear Nio stalking back and forth, muttering to himself and sometimes addressing the boy.

“What shall I do with you now?” said the man.

Jute heard his footsteps crunching this way and that on the broken flagstones.

“I realize you were just a tool, but you pose a problem for me. But how could they have known? No one else knew except for my fellow scholars, and it’s unthinkable they would consort with the Thieves Guild. Unthinkable! What would the Guild want with it except for money? They must have been hired—but by whom? You know too much, boy, whether you realize that or not. We can’t have that. Besides, I think our friend here is hungry, in his own peculiar way. Perhaps that will be best for all involved.”

A wet tendril of darkness wavered out from the thing next to Jute and licked at him. He shied away from it, crawling forward mindlessly. His bones ached. A memory of sky faded through his mind. The summer sky of long ago, when he was a small child. His first memory. A hawk floated far overhead, black and remote against the expanse.

“The problem with the Guild,” said Nio, “is they consider themselves free of any obligation to Tormay. To any of the lands of Tormay. Do you understand the repellence of that? Those who live in Tormay are obligated to Tormay, and this—this box that you stole—involves obligation of the highest sort. If the Guild was hired, they could’ve been hired by anyone. Anyone with enough gold to satisfy the Silentman. The fool! But who could have known? A secret uncovered at the cost of many years! Who is my enemy? Is my shadow conspiring against me?”

Jute felt a different sort of stone underneath his fingertips. He inched forward. The darkness in the cellar seemed to be growing thicker. He could not see. The thing shambling next to him muttered damply.

“Our friend grows impatient.” The footsteps turned and Nio’s voice sharpened. “Boy!”

Jute’s fingers reached into space. The hole in the floor. A stench of rotting sewage filled his nostrils. Nio called out a phrase—words that flung themselves through the air. The thing of water and darkness reached out a dripping hand toward Jute. And the boy threw himself forward, down into the hole. Behind him, he heard a wet gibbering and the furious shout of the man.

He splashed down into swiftly coursing water and was swept under. Tumbling around, he banged his head against stone. He bobbed up to the surface, choking and spitting. The roar of the torrent was in his ears. It was all he could do to keep his head above water. The rains, he thought dazedly. All the early rains. Summer has barely ended. Such strange weather.

He almost blacked out when the current slammed him into a stone bulwark that split the flow into two channels. His body spun off into the left-hand channel. The course angled down sharply, and he found himself careening along at a tremendous speed. Years of flow had worn the stonework of the sewers smooth and, even though he tried to slow himself, he could not gain any purchase on the sides of the channel. The current swept him under again.

I’m going to die, he thought.

No.
For once, the voice sounded anxious.

Hold on.

Why?

Faster and faster now. There was no time for thought anymore. He fought his way to the surface for a gulp of air, and then the last of his strength was gone. Resigned, he curled himself into a ball, face tucked between his knees and hands laced around his ankles. Lights flared in his head—blots of scarlet and white pulsing with the beat of his heart. His lungs burned.

Hold on.

I can’t.

You can.

It’s always been like this.

What has?

Life.

Not anymore.

All at once, the sounds changed. Another sort of roar presented itself. The rhythmic surge of the surf. Growing louder. His mind groped to understand. The sea? And then he was tumbling through the air. Air. Rushing around him. His mouth flew open from sheer surprise and he sucked in cool air. He had one instant of a spinning view of the night sky, speckled with stars and ribboned with clouds. The moon stared down, her light gleaming on the sea and trailing off toward a horizon where dark sky and even darker sea met.

He hit the water hard, like a massive slap, and he was under but already fighting up toward the surface. He broke back into the air and treaded water, gasping. The cliffs of Hearne towered far overhead. Moonlight shone on a waterfall spouting from the mouth of the sewer high up on the cliff face. Wearily, the boy swam through the waves to the foot of the cliff and pulled himself up onto the rocks. He found a stretch of sand and, too tired to even feel the wet and the cold, fell fast asleep.

High overhead, a speck of black turned and wheeled against the night sky. The speck grew closer, gaining form as it neared—a hawk. He settled on top of a rock near the sleeping boy with a flutter of wings. Motionless, the hawk stared out at the sea.

CHAPTER EIGHT

NURSEMAID WORK

Ronan added the numbers up in his head. He frowned at his mug of ale. The numbers didn’t add up. Not yet, at least. One or two more jobs might do the trick. Well-paid jobs, of course.

Supplies wouldn’t come cheap. Warm clothing, furs, and skins, though he could certainly hunt and cure his own. That would take time and it had been years since he’d done such a thing. Line and hooks for fishing. Timbers for building a cottage. There weren’t many trees growing on the Flessoray Islands, not as far as he knew. He’d never built a cottage before but he had a fair idea of how to do it. It couldn’t be that hard, could it? Timbers for the frame, rocks for the walls—plenty enough of those on the islands—and turf over the top in layer after layer to keep out the wind and the weather. The timbers would have to be sailed over from Averlay. That would be expensive. Perhaps he could build a cottage entirely out of stone.

He sighed and took a drink of ale. A sailboat would be necessary as well. Maybe he could just sail the timbers out to the islands himself. He added the numbers up again in his head. It just wasn’t enough. Even with the money coming to him for the chimney job. A dependable sailboat would cost a lot of gold. The sea wasn’t his element. Not that he minded taking risks. You just didn’t take risks with the sea.

“More ale?” said the innkeeper.

Ronan shook his head. The innkeeper swirled a dirty rag over the countertop and grunted something. It might have been about stingy thieves, or it might have not.

Perhaps if he did some freelancing on the side? The Guild was quiet these days. But the Silentman frowned on his men going off to earn a bit on the side. Thieves didn’t obey the laws of Hearne, but they had to obey the laws of the Guild.

Maybe he could tutor a young noble in fencing. That wasn’t thievery. Surely the Silentman wouldn’t expect his piece of the pie from a swordsmanship lesson. There wasn’t a better hand at the sword in the whole city. Except for Owain Gawinn. Perhaps. The Gawinns were known for their swordsmanship. Even his father had thought highly of the Gawinns.

Someone at the table in the far corner called for the innkeeper. The kitchen door behind the counter swung open and the scent of roasting meat wafted through the air. Beef and onions. Fresh bread. His stomach rumbled and he remembered he hadn’t eaten yet that day.

“Lunch ready?”

The innkeeper nodded at him as he passed by with a pitcher of ale.

“Just on,” the man said.

Stew. He inhaled appreciatively over the bowl when it came. There were still some good things left in life.

“That’ll be a copper,” said the innkeeper.

“Maybe with a loaf of bread it’ll be.”

The innkeeper grunted sourly but brought him the bread. It was fresh. Ronan tore off a hunk and dipped it into the stew.

Someone cleared their throat behind him.

Ronan sighed. “Can’t it wait, Smede?”

“No, it can’t. How did you know it was me?”

Ronan turned. Smede took a step back. He was a little man with a large nose and small hands that were always either rubbing together or investigating the surfaces of his nose, which was understandable as it was the only large thing Smede had in his possession.

“You smell of dust and ink and all the other nasty smells accountants smell of, molding away in your piles of parchments and gold. I’m eating lunch. Go away. The less I see your ghastly face, the better my life is. You disturb my digestion.”