Fly Up into the Night Air Page 3

  Amalia placed a finger on the end of her nose. "That cloak isn't going to be enough to prove anything, I don't think. What you'll need is somebody to identify Brin--if he was there." She used her finger to draw an imaginary picture. "You need a likeness of him to show to people who might have seen him."

  "You could do that for me. You could draw him."

  "You're really determined to do this?"

  Harte was adamant. "I didn't study the law in order to be a gopher for the town council."

  "If you pursue this, you'll likely not be anything for the Walford's Crossing Town Council. I wouldn't try bringing a judge veritor into it, either. You know how the councilmen feel about the Canny. They would have no-one to gainsay them."

  "I don't care. I never wanted to work for them. That was Father's dream."

  Amalia gazed vaguely at the painting on the easel before her. It depicted the Bug River from a vantage point just behind shoulders of large raptor. She spoke softly. "It's a lot to ask, that I assist you in capsizing your career."

  Harte tried to catch her eye. "Aren't some things more important than a career? Please, Mother. Don't worry about me. Do it because the boy deserves justice."

  Amalia picked up her brush. "I'll think about it."

  Stilian

  The light had faded to blue and the air had cooled, when Stilian stopped to set up camp. He shivered as he rushed to settle Petar and collect wood for a fire. It was going to be cold tonight. The pale light of the crescent moon would only make it seem colder. As he worked, he thought of another cold, moonlit night, almost eight years before.

  * * *

  Stilian wondered if he was ever going to get anything to eat. After leading him out of the room with the wooden desks, the judge took Stilian down a corridor and into room that appeared to serve as a sort of watchman's duty lounge. Two sturdy young men in brown uniforms were playing cards at a table. Both stood when they saw the judge.

  "What can we do for you, Judge Veritor?" said the taller one.

  "I'm afraid that I need your help. Matt, would you please go and spell Justin in the applicant's hall? I must send him on an errand. Poul, would you please keep an eye on this young man until I get back? His name is Stilian."

  "Yes, Judge Veritor," they answered.

  The time passed pleasantly enough after the judge left Stilian with Poul, if slowly. Poul taught Stilian how to play Star and Hammer. Stilian won, until Poul grumbled, "You're young to be one of them. Never any point to playing cards with you lot, is there?" After that, Poul retreated to a cot set in a niche in the corner of the room and announced that he was taking a nap. "You might as well do the same." Never mind that his was the only cot. "Don't bother to try and explore. I'll hear you open the door, and I'll not be pleased to be wakened."

  After pacing for at least a bell, Stilian decided to try the door anyway. But before he could do so, it swung open to reveal Matt and another boy about Stilian's age. The boy had spare features and light brown hair that stuck up in tufts. He was dressed in a simple tunic and leggings with holes in them. Staring at the newcomer, Stilian wondered if anyone ever got anything to eat around here.

  "This is Kit. His application was just accepted. You're to room together tonight. Kit this is ..."

  "I'm Stilian." Kit nodded as Stilian eyed him.

  Matt stepped over to the cot and shook Poul's shoulder firmly. "Wake up Dunderhead!"

  Poul groaned and rolled to his feet. "Leave off. Can't a fellow get a little rest, now and then?"

  "When have you ever done anything to earn a rest? The judge wants you to take these two down to the kitchen and get them fed. Then deliver them to the matron to find a room in the dormitory. After that, you can spell me in the applicant's hall."

  "Aye, what you said."

  The kitchen was a wonder to Stilian--and to Kit too. Kit spun in round-eyed and ravenous awe. It wasn't so much the quality of the food as the quantity: a roasting pig in the walk-in hearth, chickens roasting in the hearth, more chickens hanging from the rafters waiting to be plucked, fresh loaves of bread cooling in a basket, cheeses in large rounds, and sacks of squash and yellow apples. Kit asked the cook how many lived in the dormitory.

  "It varies depending on the time of year and the term, but around about 50 or so stay here. With the blue robes and servants, I feed about 70 every day."

  "I thought the Canny all lived at Grayholme. Why are there so many, here?"

  "Don't you know?" said Kit. "This is Blue House. This is where they train judges veritor."

  "That's right," said the cook. "It takes them two years before they can wear the heart and holly."

  Stilian must have looked like the village idiot. Then the light dawned. "Oh. The badge on the judge's tunic: it had a purple heart on it--and holly leaves."

  "I plan to be a judge veritor, when I've finished school," remarked Kit.

  "You'll be one of only a few, then." said the cook. "There's many more go to Grayholme than come back here for training. Now shoo, both of you. You can eat through there, in the dining hall." The boys grabbed their tin plates and passed into the empty hall.

  "Where is everyone?" Stilian asked.

  Kit shrugged. "Must be between terms. You're as hungry as I am."

  "Did your father bring you, or did you have to walk like I did?" Stilian asked.

  "My mother came with me. We walked together from Longfield. We haven't had a horse since Tallboy died."

  "We have four horses on our farm. But they're draft horses, so nobody rides 'em much. I walked here myself from Rosset's Grade. That is, I walked most of the way. I got a ride on a hay wagon from Talson."

  The boys talked while they munched the bread, apples, and cheese offered by the cook. They talked while the matron showed them the room where they were to stay. They talked until it was dark, and the moon swung lazily round to their window. On the farm, Stilian's brothers had never had much time for him. They were older, bigger, and well--dumber. Kit, it turned out, was the same age as Stilian, and he was skinny, too. But he was lucky; Kit had a mother to look out for him. When she figured out that Kit was canny, she reacted like it was a wonderful thing. Kit told him how they'd traveled together to the local Magistrate's office to ask about schooling at Grayholme. Then they'd planned the trip here to apply. Stilian wondered what his mother would have done, if she'd lived long enough to find out that he was canny.

  The room they were lodged in was simple and clean. It had two cots, two small chests, a small table, chairs, and a fireplace. There was a window on one side of the fireplace, which looked out onto a courtyard. It smelled of wood smoke, candles, and wool. Stilian would have thought it downright comfortable, if it hadn't been for the lack of wood for the fire and the steady draft from the window.

  When the boys finally started nodding and shivering at the same time, they decided to go to bed. It was too cold to undress, so they took off their boots and huddled under their blankets. Later, the wind came up and the air got colder and colder, until Stilian could see his breath in the moonlight flooding through the window.

  "Kit!" Stilian called softly, "Are you cold?"

  "I'm freezing!" whispered Kit.

  "We'll be warmer together."

  Harte

  Harte met Griff for a meal at the Ragged Crow. He talked rapidly, while he poked idly at a meat pie. "The plan is for Mother and I to visit Greer House on a social call, ostensibly to visit Miss Megan. While I'm there, I find a way to search for that cloak. Meanwhile, my mother will find an excuse to make a drawing of Brin. If I find the cloak, you and I will use the drawing to find a witness who can identify Brin. Then I'll have enough evidence to take to a magistrate. We'll get a warrant to remove the cloak from Greer House. Then--"

  "The sun will change direction and fly off into the heavens, leaving us all in darkness." Griff captured Harte's waving fork and placed it back on the table. "How can you possibly think this will work? There are so many holes, it
'll unravel like a moth-eaten blanket. Even if you get into Greer House long enough to look around without having to engage yourself to marry Miss Greer, how are you going to arrange to be alone long enough to search the place? How is your mother going to draw a likeness of Brin? He probably won't even be there."

  "What would you do?" Harte pointed his fork at Griff.

  "I would talk to the victim again--you said he was called Raf, right?--and see if he will confirm the description of the cloak, before I'd go haring off to throw myself under a loaded dray."

  Harte began to sort his carrots to one side and peas to another. "Why is it that everyone thinks I'm out to destroy myself?"

  "Aren't you? What do you hope to get out of this?"

  "I've been bored stiff, since I came home. I hate working for the council. I want to do something--just because it's right."

  Griff sighed. "What do you want me to do?"

  "You had a good idea. Let's go to see Raf again."

  * * *

  Sister Marta informed that Raf was asleep when Harte and Griff arrived at the hospital. She escorted them down the long row to his cot, as she had when Harte visited the first time. Harte felt the cold of the stone flagstones seeping through his boots. He felt assaulted by the smell of the place: two parts vinegar to one part vomit. But Griff seemed unaware of the smell as he smiled at the sister.

  "What did Sister Grace say to you in that note, anyway," she said. "He's not the long lost son of a merchant prince. Nobody will pay you to advocate for him."

  "I know. This is Patrol Leader Tarren of the watch. He's assisting me with the investigation."

  The sister gave Griff a long look. "Yes. Master Griff is known to us."

  Harte glanced at Griff and raised his eyebrows. "Apparently, I'm not the only one fond of hopeless pursuits."

  Griff shrugged and looked steadily back at the sister. Harte made a mental note to ask Griff about his connection to the hospital. The sister leaned down to tuck in the edge of Raf's blanket and Harte's shifted his attention to the boy. Raf looked worse than he had the first day. His bruises had deepened and turned shades of green and yellow. His right eye was still swollen shut. In addition, his breathing had a catch in it.

  "Don't tire him out. He's not feeling well today," said Sister Marta, as she turned away.

  "Thank you, Sister," called Griff.

  "Raf, I'm sorry to bother you. But we need to ask you some additional questions. Raf! Will you look at me?" Harte shook Raf's shoulder, gently. "I want to talk to you."

  Raf opened his good eye. "I'm tired." He coughed weakly. "What do you want?"

  "Raf, what was the man who kicked you wearing? Was there anything distinctive about it?"

  "Hobnailed boots. He were wearing hobnailed boots."

  "Yes. What else was he wearing? What color were his clothes?"

  "It were dark. I couldn't see his togs, because he were wearing a cloak. Fancy thing with a black and white, striped collar."

  "No, I guess you wouldn't be able to see his clothes, in that case." Harte straightened up and sent a triumphant look towards Griff. "Go back to sleep, Raf."

  "I don't see why you need me, Harte," complained Griff. "You do all the talking."

  "You're my witness." Harte grinned. "And you're good with the sisters."

  He caught the hint of a smile on Griff's face as they walked out through the tiled lobby.

  Stilian

  Stilian peered out of his tent at the pouring rain. It hardly seemed worth getting up. He looked around for Petar, and found the cob with his head down, nibbling late season grass under a tree. "It seems you're resigned to your fate," he muttered. Stilian slid back down into his blanket roll and prepared to wait out the rain. Walford's Crossing would have to wait for better weather. He patted the letter folded in his pocket. Hugh would have to wait too. Everyone would have to wait.

  * * *

  Stilian and Kit were retrieved by the matron the next morning and told that they should wash up and go down to the dining hall, where they would meet with Judge Hugh.

  "Who's Judge Hugh?" Stilian asked.

  "Why, he's the man who brought you here yesterday! Not like him not to tell you his name. Some of them judges get so used to Judge Veritor this and Judge Veritor that, they forget they have a name like a normal person. But Judge Hugh's not like that. He says, 'it's incumbent on the Canny to try to make normal people feel at ease.'"

  When Kit and Stilian arrived at the Dining Hall, Judge Hugh was already seated at a table with a group of mostly older men and a few middle-aged women, all in dark blue. Another table had a group of watchmen in brown uniforms. A table by the door to the kitchen held another group of plainer looking people, some of whom Stilian recognized from the day before, including the matron and cook. Judge Hugh must have been watching for them; when they came in, he stood up and motioned them over to his table.

  Raising his voice he announced, "Ladies and Gentlemen, let me introduce our new friends, Stilian and Kit. They will be staying with us for a little while, until we can send them on their way to Grayholme." Putting his arms on their shoulders, he explained, "Between terms we don't stand on ceremony. We all eat together in the Dining Hall. Meals are at seven, twelve, and six bells."

  Stilian wasn't sure why anyone would want to stand on ceremony--or why they weren't standing on him today--but he paid special attention to the meal times, as he planned to do some catching up with regards to eating. Then Judge Hugh took them over to the staff table, because, he said, "You'll probably get fed better over here. Less competition." He winked at Stilian, as he turned to go back his own table.

  Kit smirked as he sprawled next to Stilian. "You are hungry. Steady, but sort of cool, like a still pond. Maybe I'll start calling you Still. Judge Hugh is nice. He feels like a warm bath." He closed his eyes. "Or a hot spring--in a garden."

  Stilian wasn't used to people talking about feelings, much less the kind of feelings that meant you were canny. "My father didn't like it if I talked like that. He said it wasn't proper." Kit opened his eyes and looked at Stilian sharply, but didn't say anything.

  "We're used to it," said the matron. "Won't nobody mind in Blue House, so long as you're nice about it. But you'd best keep it quiet-like, when you're out and about. Even in Bugport, there are some folks that don't much care for it. Makes 'em uncomfortable wondering what you know about 'em."

  As they were finishing their breakfast, Judge Hugh came over to stand the end of their table. "Kit, your application is complete. We can send you on to Grayholme as soon there's a shipment or courier ready to go that direction. But Stilian, I still have to get your father's permission. We don't need to feed anyone's paranoia about stealing children. I sent a courier with a note and an application to the watch office in Rosset's Grade, but he will take a few days to get there and a few days to get back. That's assuming your father signs the application right away. You're going to have to wait here for a week or more, I should think." He faced Kit. "That leaves you with a choice, Kit. You can go to Grayholme now. Or, if you want, you can stay here until I get Stilian's application in order, and the two of you can travel together."

  Kit turned incandescent as soon as the Judge mentioned the school at Grayholme. But he took a sharp breath and looked at Stilian with wide eyes when the Judge said that Stilian had to stay. "Still's ma is dead, you know." Kit paused and shifted his gaze to the Judge. "And I think his da hit him or something. What happens if he won't sign the application?"

  The judge lowered a knee onto the polished parquet floor and examined Stilian at close range, his face grave. Stilian felt his face grow hot and decided to check the floor for cracks. "I see," said the Judge, nodding. "There are other things we might try. But let's cross that bridge when we come to it." He turned his gaze to Kit. "You're staying here to wait with Stilian, I take it."

  Kit's face was set. "Yes. I want to go to school, but I'll wait for Still."

  "Well!" said Ju
dge Hugh, putting a hand on the table and pushing himself slowly to his feet. "That's settled."

  * * *

  For the next few days, Stilian and Kit mostly talked or played games in one of the empty classrooms. They tried to get into the library, but one of the judges told them that it was for faculty and law students only, and that they would probably find it boring. Stilian knew the man was annoyed by their laughing and talking, but he didn't say anything.

  On the fourth day of their stay, they were poking idly around amidst the stacks of old desks and chairs in the attic of the classroom wing trying to decide what to do, when Stilian heard a commotion in the courtyard. He and Kit looked down through a dormer window and saw young men pouring through the big gates and into the dormitory wing on the other side of the courtyard. There was a large wagon with the livery of the postal service on it parked inside the gate. A rowdy group laughing loudly as unloaded boxes and trunks. The students were returning to Blue House.

  "I wonder if they ever get tired of school? Look how old they are. Why, they're practically middle-aged," said Kit.

  "You can't wait to go to school at Grayholme."

  "Yes, but I'm not like most kids. Most kids in Longfield hated school. I had to pretend that I did too, so they wouldn't pick on me. Did they tease you?"

  "Sometimes. It was mostly because I was skinny and not very good at games."