The Wicked Day (4 page)

“If you ask me,” said the ghost, peeking out of Jute’s knapsack, but the hawk glared at it and the ghost shut its mouth.

Jute stood in the rain with the hawk perched on his shoulder. The ghost peered over his other shoulder. All three of them watched Declan crisscross the field. He walked back and forth, his head bent toward the ground. Sometimes he halted and crouched down, his nose twitching like a dog’s. He circled the field in wider and wider sweeps until he made his way back to the other three.

“She went with them,” said Declan. “I’d bet my life on it. On a horse or in one of their wagons. East on the road.”

“East,” said the hawk. He shifted uneasily from claw to claw on Jute’s shoulder. “The land east of here isn’t such a safe place, until one gets to the duchy of Mizra.”

“I know,” said Declan. “I’ve heard the stories.”

“I haven’t,” said the ghost, perking up. “Or perhaps I have, but I’d like to hear them again.”

“But we have no choice,” said the hawk, his voice reluctant and resigned. “We must find her.”

They followed the road because, as Declan reasoned, the travelers that had so kindly taken his sister under their wing would probably leave her in the care of the first habitation they came to. And, as far as he remembered, there was a village several miles down the road.

“Ostfall, I think it’s called,” he said. “I’ve never been there myself, but I think it’s the last village before the foothills. Perhaps they left Giverny there.”

“Perhaps,” said the hawk.

Twilight had fallen and it was raining hard by the time they saw the lights of the village. Jute smelled wood smoke in the air. The sides of the valley had been growing higher as they walked, higher and closer together, as the valley narrowed and deepened at the same time. The road angled up a rise and, at the top, they found themselves looking down at the gleaming lights of what was undoubtedly a village.

“She might be there this moment,” said Declan.

“We could get a hot supper!” said Jute.

The hawk did not say anything, but only hunched his head deeper into the feathers of his chest, eyes closed against the rain. The road led them down through the darkening twilight. It was rutted with the passage of carts and horses and livestock from over the years. But the ruts now ran with water, and the hard-packed dirt of the road was slick with mud. Through the black shapes of trees, they saw the river coursing past. Rain hissed on its surface. A small covered bridge straddled the river. They paused for a moment under its shelter. Jute shivered. His clothes were drenched and he was cold. The rain drummed above them on the roof of the bridge.

“It’d be best, I think,” said the hawk, “if I were not seen. But I don’t fancy flying around in this weather, trying to find a dry roost.”

“How about my knapsack?” said Jute.

“Your knapsack?” The hawk blinked.

“It’s nice and dry inside, isn’t it, ghost?”

“Yes,” said the ghost. “Very nice and dry, thank you. What? I’m not sharing my knapsack with a bird. I’m allergic to feathers.”

“It’s not your knapsack.”

Jute lifted the flap of the knapsack and the hawk hopped inside. It was true. The interior of the knapsack was nice and dry. The ghost sneezed.

“You see? Feathers make me sneeze. I’ll break out in spots. My nose is swelling up. I can’t breathe. Go find your own knapsack.”

“Ghosts don’t need to breathe,” said the hawk. “You’re dead, in case you forgot.”

Past the bridge, the road ran along with the river on one side and a stonewall on the other. The wall was broken in places, and beyond it, dim in the rain and the darkness, the scraggly branches of an orchard were visible.

“Apples,” said Declan. “A great deal of the apples in Hearne come from this area.”

Jute became aware of a new sound. A dull roaring noise that was, at first, barely discernible over the sound of the wind and rain. It grew louder as they hurried down the road. It was a liquid, crashing roar that reminded him of the waves of the sea below the cliffs of Hearne. And then the stonewall rose higher and the road ended at the wall. A wood gate stood there, wide enough to admit an ox and cart. The gate was locked, and they could hear the sound of a chain rattling on the other side when Declan pushed against it. He stepped back and glanced up at the top of the stonewall.

“Looks climbable, doesn’t it?”

“Anything is,” said Jute.

He touched the wall and listened. The rain ran down his face and he wiped at his eyes. He shivered, remembering another time when he had listened to a wall. Another time when Declan had asked him to climb a wall. It had not been so long ago.

“There aren’t any wards here,” he said.

“Aye,” said Declan. “It’s silent enough.”

But the silence was broken by a voice on the other side of the gate.

“Who’s there? Name yerself, or by all, I’ll set the hounds on ye!”

“Just some travelers,” said Declan. “We’re passing through.”

“We don’t want no strangers here.” The voice paused to hiccup. “G’wan with ye! Ain’t but an hour back t’ Rowanbell. Ye go there fer the night. We don’t open the gate ‘tween sundown an’ sunup. Now, git!”

Jute heard a growl and the scrabble of paws against the gate.

“Dogs,” he said. “He’ll set them on us.”

Declan shook his head and then raised his voice.

“Listen, friend. We’re tired and hungry. All we want is a hot meal and a good mug of ale. Unless there’s no ale to be had in this village.”

There was a pause and then the man on the other side of the gate spoke again.

“A good mug of ale,” said the voice mournfully. “That’s a precious thing.”

“The best,” said Declan, winking at Jute. “It warms the bones on a cold night. Keeps the heart stout.”

“That it does,” said the voice. “That it does. Here, now. . .”

The voice trailed off, and then the gate swung open to the accompaniment of many grumbles (from the old gatekeeper), growls (from his two dogs), and creaking groans (from the gate hinges, which were obviously in need of oiling). The old man peered at them, clutching a rusty pike. An oilskin hood on his head streamed with rain. The two dogs pushed past him and sniffed at Jute and Declan, tails wagging.

“Git down, Flurry! Git down, I say! Off, Digger. Don’t ye fear, son. They ain’t gonna harm ye, not less I sez.”

“I’m not afraid of dogs,” said Jute with some dignity. He petted both of the dogs and then wiped their slobber off on his pants when the old gatekeeper was not looking.

“I ain’t one to complain,” said the old man, “but I get chilled out here, right down to my socks. An’ there’s them that don’t appreciate what I do, if you know what I mean. It’s the little things that mean much. A good mutton sandwich, a hot mug of ale. Ale, that means something.”

“It does,” said Declan.

“Got the best brewer in the Rennet Valley,” said the old man. “Right here in our town. Name of Esne. Now, jest hurry along, an’ afore you’ve set down for yer supper, tell her ta send the potboy with a bottle. It’s terribly dry out here.”

“We’ll do that,” said Declan.

“Mebbe two bottles. Thank ye.”

“By the way, did a party traveling to Mizra pass this way recently? Quite a large group, I’d imagine.”

“Don’t recollect,” said the old man, drawing himself up. “I just keep the gate, see? You send them bottles along, you hear?”

And with that, he ducked into a shed by the gate and slammed the door shut.

“Thank goodness he’s gone,” said the ghost from inside Jute’s knapsack. “I thought he’d never shut up. I hate it when people babble on.”

“You don’t suppose,” said Jute, “you don’t suppose it’d be better to go to Rowanbell?”

“Rowanbell? No. It’s in the opposite direction of where we want to go. Half a day’s journey.”

“But he said it was only—”

“People say all sorts of things. Especially old drunkards.”

Past the town, an indistinct, dark mass of cliffs loomed against the night sky. The strange sound Jute had noticed before seemed louder now, and he thought he could see movement on the face of the cliffs.

“Sounds like a waterfall,” said Declan. “I think the Rennet comes down from the heights somewhere near here. It’s a cold, fast river in the mountains.”

Jute thought the town a mean and miserable place in comparison to Hearne. The main street was a muddy track pocked with puddles and the fragrant leavings of livestock. The shabby houses crowded together as if seeking warmth from the rain and the cold. Smoke blew from chimneys, shredded into tatters by the wind. Behind a few shuttered windows here and there, light glimmered.

“I’m glad I don’t live here,” said Jute. “It stinks of cows.”

“Well, it’s home to these folks,” said Declan. “A roof over your head and a way to make a living are good things. I expect they don’t mind the smell. That must be the inn. We’ll have supper and perhaps hear word of Giverny.”

A faded and peeling sign over the door displayed what looked like a huge man carrying an axe. The windows were shuttered against the night, but they could hear the sounds of laughter and voices inside.

“I can’t make out what it reads,” said Declan, “Probably the Executioner’s Inn or something equally morbid. These rural spots seem to enjoy being morbid. Now, both of you, master hawk, and you, ghost, don’t make a sound. We’re strangers enough here without the added weight of a talking bird and a ghost. And Jute, no talk of the wind or the Dark or what we’re about. It’s best to keep your mouth shut around folks you don’t know.”

Declan pushed open the door and they entered. Conversations paused and then resumed. Jute was aware of faces turning toward them, blurred in the gloom, glancing and then looking away. A fire crackled on the hearth. The delightful smell of ale and roasting meat filled the air. But of even more interest to Jute was the warmth that worked its way through his damp clothes and into his body. They found an empty table in one corner. Jute untied his sodden cloak. His fingers were stiff and cold. He shoved his knapsack under the table.

“Careful,” said a voice. He wasn’t sure if it was the ghost or the hawk.

“What’ll it be?”

A woman stood by their table, a dirty apron around her waist and a platter tucked under one arm. Her graying hair was tied back in a ponytail and her pinched face was smudged with flour.

“What do you have?” said Declan.

“Stew. Roast pork. Mulled ale or a cheap red outta Vomaro.”

“Stew and ale. For both of us. And a bottle of ale for the old fellow at the gate.”

She scowled. “He’s already had his for the night. I don’t brew ale just to keep him pickled.”

She threaded her way back through the crowded room.

“That must’ve been Esne,” said Jute. “I hope her ale is sweeter than her face.”

“I would appreciate some air,” said a voice under their table.

“Sorry,” said Jute. He bent down and undid the front of the knapsack. He straightened up and, as he did, he noticed three men crouched around a table near the fireplace. They were whispering and furtively looking over at them.

“Declan? Those men near the fireplace are watching us.”

“Aye. I saw them. Always take notice of those around you before they take notice of you. They’re probably harmless, just curious about strangers. Or they might be interested in robbing us. In either case, we’ll be fine. There’s nothing like a good fight after a hot meal.”

“We heard stories about the fights you were in. About the people you’d killed. The Juggler told us, so that—so that. . .” Jute reddened and shut his mouth.

“So that you’d behave?” Declan smiled, but his eyes were cold. “Behave, work hard for the Juggler, or the Knife’d come one night to slit your throat? Was that it? I never set out to work for the Guild. When I was your age, all I ever dreamed about was being a hero. Fighting dragons and monsters. Defeating evil wizards. Discovering lost treasure and rescuing fair maidens. All those things from the old stories. I wasn’t much older than you when I set out on my first adventure. But real adventures aren’t like those in the stories. They’re hard and painful, and they usually end badly. Mine did.”

“Here ye are.”

The woman Esne plunked down a covered tureen, two bowls, and a loaf of brown bread. She put her hands on her hips and surveyed Declan.

“Just passing through, stranger?”

“As you say,” said Declan. He twitched the top off the tureen and sniffed appreciatively. “Let’s have at it, Jute.” He ladled out two bowls. The stew was in reality soup, consisting of broth in which floated a few chunks of potato and carrot, as well as some infrequent bits of beef. Jute did not care. It was food, and it was hot.

“Ye ain’t been in Ostfall afore,” said Esne. “I reckon. I don’t forget faces. There isn’t cause for strangers in these parts.”

“Our first time.” Declan smiled at her. “I’m sure the area has much to offer by daylight. Excellent stew. By the way, did a party ride through earlier today? Horsemen, a couple of wagons?”

“Aye, they did. Right passel of ‘em. But he didna stop. He never does.”

“He?”