The Shadow at the Gate (61 page)

“Of course not,” said Jute.

They came to a landing. A stairway rose up past them.

“Here you are,” said Lano. He paused, fidgeting a bit, and then said, “I don’t suppose you’d do a wind spell, would you? Maybe call up a zephyr or a breeze to do your bidding?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know any spells,” said Jute, wishing that he did. Being able to call up a zephyr or a breeze to do his bidding sounded like a lot of fun.

“You don’t know a single one?” said the little boy in disbelief.

“Not one.”

“I suppose you can fly though, can’t you?”

“Um, no.”

“Worse and worse. I can do lots of spells. Nearly as many as a second year. Some of the second years aren’t all that bright.”

Lano hurried up the stairs with him, still chattering away. “I got into the Stone Tower because I could shape-shift and talk to animals. Farm animals, mostly. My pa’s a farmer and so was his before him. They could all shift, but they did it mostly to herd the sheep and such. Cows and chickens are the easiest, even though chickens don’t like talking about much besides food and who can lay the biggest egg and endlessly retelling the legend of the giant, blood-sucking fox and when’s he going to return. I can shift to most farm animals. Goats are chancy, of course. They can tell if you aren’t a goat and just go ahead and butt you or trample you and they’ll yell stuff like, ‘Take that, you stupid git!’ or ‘Get outta my way!’ I don’t like goats.”

They came to the door. Jute tried it. It was locked and the handle stung his hand.

“It’s locked,” said Lano helpfully.

“Yes, I know that.” Jute frowned and then thought of something. “I don’t suppose you know how to undo a locking spell, do you?”

Lano touched the door handle and winced.

“I don’t know,” he said. “If you get these things wrong, they can be messy.”

“Oh well, never mind. I suppose it’s the sort of spell that only second year students learn.”

“I didn’t say I couldn’t do it,” protested Lano. “Here, let me see.”

His hands hovered over the door handle and he muttered a few unintelligible words to himself.

“I’m afraid this is a good spell.”

“What about the hinges?”

“Oh? Oh, right. Um, I might be able to convince the pins to undo themselves. What’s the word? Aha. Um. . . that’s it. No—drat it. That’s not it. They won’t listen to me. They’re iron. Iron’s tricky.”

“You can’t do it,” said Jute.

“Uh, no.”

“If we only had something to knock the door down,” said Jute, glancing around the hallway. “The wood surely can’t be all that thick. If I only had an axe or something like that. You don’t happen to know a spell to create an axe, do you? No. I didn’t think so.”

“But I might be able to knock it down,” said Lano.

“How would you know a spell to knock it down, if you don’t even know a spell to unlock it?”

“No, I meant
I
might be able to knock it down.”

“How?”

“I’ll shape-shift into a goat. Just stay out of my way or I might feel inclined to butt you. You wouldn’t want that.”

Jute ducked into an alcove off the hall and then peeped out in time to see a small, mangy-looking goat gallop by. There was a stunning crash. The goat staggered away from the door and shook its head.

“Did it work?” said Jute.

The goat glared at him and looked as if it were considering having a go at him. Jute ducked back into the alcove. Once again, the goat galloped by. This time, the crash sounded splintery. There was another crash and more splinters as Ronan kicked out the hole in the door from the other side. He forced his way through. The hawk hopped after him.

“Where on earth did you find a goat?” said Ronan.

“That’s not a goat,” said the hawk.

There was a ripple in the air around the goat. It vanished, and Lano stood in front of them.

“Ow,” groaned the little boy. “I’m going to have a headache for a week.”

“Hurry, now,” said the hawk. “He’ll not be long in finding us.”

No one had to ask who the hawk meant by this, though Lano looked at him in wonder. Being able to talk to animals in their own tongue was one thing, but encountering an animal that spoke the language of man was a different matter.

They hurried to the stairs and looked down. From far below, they heard the sound of hurrying footsteps and voices. No one was visible on the stairs, but it seemed like the gloom deepened and was ascending toward them.

“He’s coming,” said the hawk, “and he isn’t alone. What has happened to this place? The Dark has some secret foothold here, I fear. A pox on all wizards!”

“Boy,” said Ronan, turning to Lano. “Is there a way out of this place other than down the stairs?”

“Well, there’s the back stairs. They aren’t used much except by the servants and us boys. You have to go all the way up to the attic to reach them from here—as far as I know—and then they only go halfway down to the sixth floor.”

“And then how do you go from there?”

“Well, the main stairs, of course.”

They dashed up the stairs. The stairs narrowed and narrowed until they came to a small, cramped landing. They found themselves before a shabby door that looked as if it had not been opened in a long time.

The attic was not like any other attic Jute had ever seen, and Jute had seen quite a few attics during his days as a thief. Not that such occasions had been a part of belonging to the Juggler’s band, as their official duties had always been restricted to pickpocketing, thieving from the market barrow carts, and other such things. However, he and Lena and several other children had sometimes spent their free time breaking into houses. He had spent many a happy hour investigating the contents of unfamiliar attics.

The attic of the Stone Tower, however, was a different affair. A gloomy light illumined the place, though it was difficult to say where the light came from. It seemed imbued in the wood planking and the beams that ran through the ceiling like the ribs of some gigantic animal. The attic was enormous. It stretched away in all directions. Jute could not see any walls in any direction.

“It’s best not to talk to the ghosts here,” said Lano.

“Why’s that?” said Ronan.

“Even a single word. It gives them the right to follow you. My friend Gewose once made the mistake of asking a ghost up here if it knew the time. It followed him after he left the attic. Wouldn’t leave him for days. Stayed up all night by his bed telling him stories about dust and moonlight and how much space there is between the end of one minute and the beginning of another. The conversation about the minute went on for two days, but it was mostly one-sided.”

“Right,” said Ronan. “No talking to ghosts.”

Dust rose in the air with their footsteps. The space was filled with odd stacks and shapes: old boxes piled high until they towered and teetered overhead, gaunt outlines of furniture stripped away by time until they resembled more the skeletons of strange beasts rather than couches and wardrobes and armoires and bookcases.

The ghosts began to appear. At first, they looked like a trick of the gloom and shadows, but then they resolved into shapes as if heartened by the presence of the living. They seemed to be mostly old men, though Jute did glimpse two boys crouching over what looked like a game of marbles.

“Splendid day, isn’t it?” said one ghost, drifting closer to Jute.

“They’ll never answer,” said a second ghost. “It’s most uncouth.”

“Where’s that staircase?” said the hawk.

“I’m not sure,” said Lano. “I know it’s up here somewhere.”

“Everything is up here somewhere,” said a ghost. “Everything. Depending on your point of view.”

“That’s just perfect.” The hawk scowled at the little boy. “You might’ve mentioned that before. We could spend the next hour searching this place and never be wiser.”

“What’s one hour when they’re free for the taking?” said a ghost.

“The answer’s simple,” said Ronan. “I’m surprised, master hawk, you haven’t thought of it yourself.”

“Oh?” said the hawk. “How’s that?”

“Yes,” agreed another ghost. “Do tell.”

“We’ll ask a ghost.”

“That’s what we shouldn’t do,” said Lano hastily.

“Capital plan,” said a ghost. “Don’t listen to the little squit. He’s obviously inbred. Looks suspiciously like a goat, too.”

“Excellent,” said another.

“Brilliant bird,” said a third. “Sound thinking. I almost like him.”

“But who’s going to ask?” said Jute. “I don’t want a ghost following me around for the next week. Things are strange enough as they are.”

“Things can always get worse,” said a ghost. “Why, I could tell you a story that would curdle your blood like rancid milk on a hot summer day. By the way, what is milk? I’ve forgotten.”

“I think our little friend should ask,” said the hawk. “After all, we’re guests under his roof.”

“You think so?” said a ghost. “Not that I’ve anything against this snot-nosed twit, but he doesn’t strike me as a decent conversationalist, if you know what I mean. Probably all screaming and wailing and rushing about with his eyes bugging out whenever you come popping up from under the bed. That’s how he’ll behave, I daresay. It’s enough to put anyone off. Now yourself, or this tall fellow with the sword, you both look like you’ve some staying power.”

“Excellent idea,” said Ronan, ignoring the ghost. “Let’s have the boy ask.”

“I won’t!” said Lano, crossing his arms and trying to look stern.

“You will,” said the hawk. “Look, boy, death is coming up the stairs. If we waste more time here, several of us’ll be dead before the hour’s out, including you.”

“And I suppose one of us could die a bit sooner,” added Ronan. He tapped thoughtfully on the hilt of his sword.

“It isn’t fair,” said Lano in despair. “Oh, very well.” He gulped and then addressed a scrawny old ghost hovering nearby. “Excuse me, sir?”

“Yes, what’s that?” said the ghost, startled on being singled out.

“Um, do you know where the stairs are that lead down into the servants’ quarters? My friends—” Here, Lano shot a dirty look over his shoulder at the rest of them. “My friends and I need to find them in a hurry.”

“Of course,” said the ghost in delight. “My dear boy, nothing could be simpler. I’ll take you there myself. The back stairs, you say? Come to think of it, I haven’t been down those stairs in a hundred years. I might have a jaunt and come along with you.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” groaned the little boy.

“Stairs, you know, exciting stuff,” said the ghost. “Rise and run. Rise and run. Rise and run. Or is it run and rise? All depends on where you start first, I suppose. For the life of me—between you and me, I’m not all that alive—I can’t remember who invented stairs. It’s one of those puzzlers that keeps you up at night, just thinking about it. Did one fellow invent the rise and then some other fellow, unconnected to the first fellow, invent the run?”

“We have yet to move from this spot,” said the hawk. “Advise your ghost that time is of the utmost importance.”

“He’s not my ghost,” said Lano, but he then sternly addressed the ghost. “Sir, we need to get to those stairs. Time’s running out.”

“It is?” said the ghost. “I had no idea. Upon my soul. This bears some consideration. Do you know how much time is left?”

“Don’t be a blithering nitwit,” said another ghost. “It’s not an issue of how much is left. Time itself is running out, don’t you see? It’s running out the door, but whether it’s a dog or a man or something else entirely, I don’t know. Interesting problem, though. What do you think?”

This last question was addressed to Jute who, feeling dizzy from all this talk, unthinkingly opened his mouth to reply.

“I don’t know,” said Jute.

“That’s torn it,” said Ronan. “Now we have two of ‘em.”

“I’m sorry!” wailed Jute. “I wasn’t thinking!”

“Precisely,” said the hawk.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said the second ghost, greatly pleased at this turn of events. “Admitting that one doesn’t know a thing is the mark of a careful thinker. In my career as a professor in the Stone Tower—at least, I think I was a professor. Perhaps I was the cook?—I found that my worst students were those who thought they knew the answers. The best students were those who admitted their ignorance and then allowed me to correct the handicap. Not that such handicaps are always correctable, mind you, for youthful ignorance is a condition that isn’t easily reversible.”

“I think,” said Ronan, “that I will soon prefer death to this babbling. Where are those blasted stairs?”

“My dear sir,” protested a fat ghost, “you malign death with such a remark. It isn’t such a bad state of affairs. You should try it sometime. The company, of course, leaves a bit to be desired.”

“Shut yer trap, fatty,” said another ghost.

“Where are the back stairs!” shouted Lano.

“You needn’t bellow so,” said the scrawny ghost. “I heard you the first time. You don’t think just because I’m ghost that I have a bad memory, do you? With some ghosts, you’d be correct. But that’s due to the fact that as you are in life, so you are in death.”