The Shadow at the Gate (43 page)

The gardener stumbled into a walk, stopped, and abruptly sat down. His head slumped and he began to snore. Behind him, the two kitchen boys toppled over onto the grass. One turned over to pillow his head on his arm. The hawk fluttered down and settled on Jute’s shoulder. The bird’s head turned this way and that, as if he were trying to hear something.

Evil awakes.

“What do you mean?” said Jute, looking around uneasily.

Look down into the city,
said the hawk in his mind.
Someone has been whispering through the night. Old words of power. Someone has fed an old, evil spell with fresh blood. Nudged it into a design of fresh purpose. And now it falls hard on the city.

Highneck Rise was like an island rising up out of a gray sea that lay thick and still, without advantage of wave to stir its depths. Fog lay all around them. The only sign of the city below was a single tower like a skeletal hand reaching up out of the water.

“That’s the tower in the old university,” said Jute. He shivered. “I fell from there.”

Aye.

“What is the spell? What is it doing?”

The hawk did not answer, but the nervous pressure of his claws set Jute hurrying down the street. Down toward the city below. It was odd. The sun was rising, but where was the early bustle of the morning, of tradesmen on their deliveries, of servants going about their chores?

They came to a corner where the road curved around a fountain. Water murmured and flowed from a stone urn. An old man sat there on a bench. Jute slowed at the sight of him, for the hawk’s claws had tightened again as if the bird saw menace in the aged frame.

“He’s asleep,” said Jute.

No. It is the spell.

The old man’s head rested on his chest. A snore rasped in the air.

“You see? He’s just sleeping.”

Despite his own words, Jute tiptoed past the old man. The hawk seemed to chuckle inside his mind.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” said Jute. “What happened last night? Who was she?”

Levoreth’s face formed in Jute’s mind as if in answer to his question. But there was an indistinctness to it. The face was a jumble of earth. Stone molded with damp clay, two gray pebbles pressed in as eyes, a bundle of green vines woven about the head to serve as hair. And yet it seemed alive, filled with breath and purpose. The gray pebbles stared back at him.

You see more clearly now. But we will speak of her later. This is not the time for conversation.

“I’m not taking another step until you tell me what’s going on.”

Stubborn boy. Must I contend with you the rest of my days?

Something dealt Jute a blow on the back of his head. A wing. Feathers as hard as a blast of wind.

We must leave this city as swiftly as possible. The longer you stay here the sooner death will find you. The lady did not draw forth all the poison with her. Something remains within the walls. The telling of who you are will be long, and we simply do not have time.

The weight was gone from his shoulder. With one stroke of his wings, the hawk mounted up into the air. Soon, he was only a speck in the sky that, turning toward the east and the rising sun, became silvered with light until it blurred away into nothingness. There was only sky.

“Wait!”

Get to the gates and then gone. There is sorcery in the air and it compels all to fall asleep. Yet, as they sleep, the Dark is stirring awake.

Jute suddenly heard a noise. It was a soft sort of creak. Apart from the sudden catch of his breath, it was the only sound he could hear. Just ahead, the street descended toward the sprawl of the city below. Down into the fog, and Jute was standing on the edge of it. The creaking sound was coming closer. Jute dashed across the street and crouched behind a tree. He held his breath. A shape began to appear in the fog. It was a hulking mass, as tall as it was wide, creaking on and on as if an endless sigh. But then, just as Jute was about to scream and climb the tree, the thing emerged fully from the fog. It was a cart piled with fresh bread, pulled by a donkey. A baker’s lad slept on the cart’s seat, head nodding and reins straggling from his hands. The donkey ambled along. As the cart passed by, Jute sidled out and snatched a loaf of bread.

You should not take another man’s labor.

“Says who?” said Jute, his mouth stuffed with bread. He turned to watch the cart crawl up the street. Odd. First the old man drowsing by the fountain, and then the baker’s lad.

I think this spell does not affect animals. And with humans, this is something different than sleep. Whatever it is, the whole city lies in thrall, between slumber and waking, where the mind is dangerously open in dreams. And through these dreams comes the Dark. What a strange sorcery. I have never seen such in all my years. An odd similarity with the principle of weaving wihhts. . . Run, boy! Into the fog and out of this accursed city. They draw near!

Jute ran.

Right as he plunged into the fog, a figure rose up out of the gray gloom. It reached for him with long hands and even longer fingers. Its mouth snarled open in a face that had no other features. Jute dodged too late. The hands reached for his throat. But at that moment, a blurring arrow of feathers pierced the fog and struck the dark face. The figure staggered back with a shriek.

Run!

Jute ran. Behind him, the hawk surged back into the air. Darkness dripped from its claws. The street descended more steeply into the fog, plunging down into the city. Walls rose up out of the murk. Jute looked back, sobbing for breath. No one was there. But the fog hemmed him in on all sides. A crowd could have been gathered around him, running silent and watching, and he would not have seen them.

Why? I used to be a thief. Just a thief. Steal, keep the Juggler happy, eat, sleep. Live.

Keep yourself alive and I shall tell you your tale tomorrow.

Where are you?

I am near.
The hawk’s voice was grim.
Run.

From the sudden levelness of the ground, Jute knew he was no longer in Highneck Rise. He was down in the city itself. He couldn’t see for sure, but the odors were different now. Grime, work, the dusty scent of beeswax. He was somewhere near the chandlers’ district. Something creaked open in front of him. A door, suspended in the fog. No—set within a wall. Something rushed out of the door at him. Jute screamed and flung himself to one side. The thing came after him in silence. It had too many arms. Jute darted down an alley.

The wind last night. What if I. . .?

No!

Why not?

Luck was with you beyond measure last night. If the lady had not been there, you would have unmade yourself. Yourself and all of this city. The wind is not so easily tamed. Even I cannot do what she did to you. It would mean both our deaths.

Something hissed in the fog before him. An answering call came from behind. He was trapped.

Take to the wall!

Jute hurled himself at the wall on one side of the alley. His fingers slipped on the stone. It was slick with moisture from the fog. But there, just a few steps further, was a gutter pipe. He was halfway up the pipe in no time at all. Maybe the fog wouldn’t be as thick higher up on the roof. They wouldn’t catch him on the roofs. Whatever they were.

Something grabbed his ankle and yanked down. Jute screamed, sliding back down the pipe. Desperately, he wedged his fingers behind the pipe. He kicked out with his other leg. His heel smacked into something rubbery. The thing glared up at him with eyes like holes gouged in shadow. He kicked harder, furious and terrified all at the same time. The thing fell away with a shriek. Jute scrambled over the edge of the roof.

This way.

The hawk shot past him, appearing out of the fog and vanishing just as quickly, wings outstretched. He ran after the bird.

Most of the buildings in Hearne butted up against other buildings, so that it was almost possible to walk from one end of the city to the other without setting foot on the ground. Jute knew. He had tried it before, he and Lena and a few other children, one summer day when the Juggler had been snoring off a drunken binge in his room. The only problem was that getting across the city in such a fashion meant taking a lot of detours and roundabouts. You couldn’t go straight. It also helped if you could see where you were going.

Turn right at this next crest. Hurry! Several of them have gained the roof behind you.

Jute ran along the crest. He could hear tiles snapping under footfalls somewhere behind him and then slate sliding away to shatter in sudden cracks of noise on the street below.

What are they?

I know them now, for I’ve tasted their blood. Dreams and shadow. The dreams of men twisted into thread and woven with shadow. This is an ancient spell. I would have thought that there was no one in this land with the knowledge. There is dreadful power afoot this day.

They’re like that thing in the cellar?

Jute ran down a slope, arms windmilling to keep his balance. Moss grew in the valley where the two roofs joined. He slipped on it and went down hard.

The wihht? Similar, but different. A wihht is held together by the strength of its master. These creatures that hunt you are held together by the malice of men’s dreams.

The roof materials were changing from slate to clay tile. Cheaper. And weaker. He put his foot right through one, all the way down to his knee.

Run!

A blot of darkness crawled over the roof peak above Jute. It convulsed and separated into three figures that lurched down the roof toward him. They were skeletal, like limbs broken off a dead tree and reassembled into caricatures of life. Frantically, Jute heaved forward, yanking his leg out. He staggered down the slope. Clay tiles cracked underfoot like eggshells. His body felt too heavy, as if the fog had acquired weight and lay across his shoulders. As one, the three creatures behind him hissed.

You let the fear of them into your mind. This gives them power.

The hawk shot out of the fog. Skimming the roof, the bird crashed through the three creatures. Limbs snapped as if they were dry branches, but the last of the things clutched at the hawk as it fell. Feathers fluttered down. The hawk beat his way back up into the fog. He seemed to stagger through the air.

Leap!

Except there was no next roof.

Leap!

Jute leapt. Out into nothing except fog. His arms and legs flailed and, for a brief moment, it felt as if the air thickened and became thick enough to swim through. The wind rushed past him. He tried to catch it in his fingers, but he fell. Something hit him hard. Everything went black for a second. Jute sprawled face down on the ground. Not the ground. Another roof. He could taste blood in his mouth.

Get off the roof. Use the gable window.

Jute staggered to his feet. The gable window was further down the roof. The casement was not locked. He scrambled over the sill and shut the casement behind, locking himself into a silence stale with the scent of dust. He was in an attic jumbled with rubbish. Everything was covered in dust. There was no door. Something thudded on the roof overhead. Jute looked around frantically. Surely there was a door. Every room had a door. Something scrabbled back and forth on the roof. He stared up at the ceiling. The claws scratched in agitation above him.

You’re a thief. Thieves find doors.

There, visible under the dust disturbed by his feet, was a groove in the planking. A trapdoor. But there was no handle. Jute dug at the wood with his fingertips until they bled. The latch on the gable window rattled. The wood shifted under his hands and the trapdoor lifted up. Behind him, glass shattered.

Jute leapt down a stairway into a bedroom, crowded with a rumpled bed and sour with the smell of sleep. The trapdoor fell shut with a crash. Floorboards creaked overhead. The bedroom door opened into a hall. He could smell fried fish and onions. The hall ended in stairs.

Careful.

Jute tiptoed down the stairs. A ward whispered through his mind, spelled somewhere into the house. This was not a rich man’s house. And if it was not a rich man’s house, then he gambled good odds that the only ward would be the one woven into the main outside door. Behind him, the stairs creaked.

He hurried down a hall and found himself in the kitchen. The air was choked with the scent of fried fish. Coals glinted on the hearth, under a pan full of charred fish. A table stood in the middle of the room. On the far side was a door. Several children sat at the table, slumbering over their bread and butter. A man snored into his greasy slab of fish at the end of the table. His shadow lay across the stone floor. It rippled as Jute stepped through it.

Careful. These creatures that hunt you spring from the dreams of man, and this man dreams.

Something squirmed in the man’s shadow. It wriggled up like a water snake lifting its head from a stream. Jute sprang for the door with a shriek. The ward came alive the moment he touched the doorknob. It was an inexpensive ward. The kind bought for a copper and no guarantees. It was designed to guard against intruders coming into the house, not out of the house. But the ward went off with a vengeance when he turned the knob. Jute threw up his hands as he ran out the door, cringing, shoulders tensed for an explosion of flames or something equally horrible. However, there were no flames, no quicksand underfoot, no stone hands bursting out of the ground to grab his ankles. Instead, the ward howled. It yelled and hollered and shouted. On any other day, Jute would have laughed. Not today.