Fly Up into the Night Air Read online

  "Raf is not a bad sort," interjected Griff. "He's been trying to help Peli."

  "Who is Peli?" asked Sister Grace.

  "He's a boy that Raf has been ... mentoring ... down on Dock Street. Peli saw the beating, and Raf says he's been threatened now, as well."

  "You must bring him here, immediately," pronounced Sister Grace, leaning forward to rap her knuckles on the table.

  "This is hardly the sort of place--"

  Harte was pretty certain that Sister Grace actually stamped, but it was hard to tell because the floor was stone. She interrupted him. "This is exactly the sort of place he should be. You will find him and bring him here. We shall protect him." Sister Grace was a bull in a field of heifers.

  Harte said the only thing he could, in the face of her determination. "Yes, Sister Grace."

  Stilian

  "Did you decide to come here when your brothers made you sleep in the barn?" Kit and Stilian were sitting cross-legged by the fire, looking at the books that they had borrowed from Angus's special collection.

  "I didn't know what to do at first. It was harvest, and I had to work like everyone else. But after we finished getting the crops in, we went back to school. Our teacher, Miss Gorse, noticed that I--that I wasn't washing very much, because my brothers wouldn't let me share the bath water. We have a big tub we haul into the kitchen, once a week. We warm water on the stove, and take turns. But after they threw me out, they wouldn't let me into the kitchen while they were bathing."

  "So you stank."

  Stilian closed his eyes. One of his earliest memories was watching his father and neighbors cut the wheat at harvest. He was too little to help, but his mother brought him out to the fields, when she and the other women brought food and water out to the men. The sun was high and hot, and the men's shirts were stained with dust and sweat. They took turns cracking jokes and laughing as they passed around earthenware jugs of water, baskets of biscuits, and apples. Stilian didn't understand their jokes, but he was excited by their good spirits and ran in circles around them and laughed too, until his father swung him up onto his shoulders. His father's shoulders were hard and he smelled of sweat, but Stilian cried when his father set him down and pushed him back to his mother.

  "I guess I kind of got used to it during the harvest. But Miss Gorse asked me why I wasn't washing, and I could tell that she liked me, so I told her that I could sometimes tell what my brothers were feeling, and that they didn't like it, and that I was sleeping in the barn. She got mad when I told her about the barn, but I made her promise that she wouldn't say anything to Father."

  Stilian got up to put a new log on the fire. "Our schoolhouse isn't like the big ones that they have in Bugport. It's one room for classes and another room with a pump and stove for the teacher to stay in during the school year. Anyway, Miss Gorse started letting me use her tub to wash up in, when I needed to, so I wouldn't smell so bad."

  "What did your brothers say about that?"

  "They didn't know. They probably thought I was washing in the horse trough or something. I left for home when everyone else did, and then circled back to the schoolhouse. Anyway, she figured out that I might be canny and told me about the school at Grayholme." Stilian paused. "Before that, I didn't know there was a place for people like me."

  Kit was silent for a moment, then grinned and poked Stilian in the stomach. "Just think, if you'd washed a little more often, we might never have met."

  * * *

  Justin found Judge Hugh at his desk, soon after arriving back at Blue House.

  "How did it go?" asked the judge.

  "Much as you thought it might. He was torn between getting rid of the wretched blasphemer and losing a farm hand. He never asked how the boy was doing. I did as you suggested and quoted him a price for transporting the boy home. That changed his tune soon enough."

  "I'd prefer it if you didn't mention that to the boy."

  * * *

  The matron came and found them in their attic haunt. "Stilian! Kit! Are you up there?" she called from the bottom of the stairs. "Judge Hugh wants to see you in his study."

  The boys tumbled down the stairs. "What's he want? Did he hear something?" Stilian asked.

  "You'll have to ask him that. But he didn't look like bad news, I don't think."

  Judge Hugh was reading some papers at his desk when they went in. "Ah, boys. Thank you for coming. I've received some good news." He smiled tiredly at Stilian and tapped on an envelope on his blotter. "Justin returned today from Rosset's Grade. Your father has signed the application for Grayholme. You are both our responsibility now--at least so long as you stay in school. Your father decided to do what was best for you."

  Stilian didn't quite know what to do with his face, but Kit jumped into the air as high as he could. "Yahoo!"

  Stilian mustered a wobbly smile through stinging eyes.

  "When can we leave?" asked Kit.

  "Tomorrow, if you want. There's a train of drays due to take supplies out to Grayholme in the morning. We'll be sorry to see you go."

  * * *

  Kit jumped off the back of the supply wagon and jogged along side. Their route towards Grayholme followed a rutted track along the Bug River as it flowed slowly through the last of the inland plain. Later, as the river picked up speed and prepared to rush through Windy Gap to the sea, they would split off and climb the shoulder of the coastal range to the shelf where the small community of Grayholme perched between hill and mountain, above the Gap.

  "Did you see that eagle snatch a fish right out of the water? I wish I could fly like that." Kit threw out his arms and swooped.

  Stilian laughed and swung his legs back and forth off the back of the heavy dray. Between his dancing feet and waving arms, Kit looked younger than his fifteen years. Joy seemed to radiate off him like steam from a boiling pot. It left Stilian warm and a little breathless.

  "Matron told me they make kites at Grayholme out of silk and reed that are so big they can lift a man right off the ground. They fly them from the hillside over Windy Gap."

  "Right off the ground!"

  "That's what she said." Kit frowned. "She might have been pulling my leg."

  Stilian laughed. "Who could kid about a thing like that?"

  They neared the end of the second day of a four day journey. The Coastals looked closer and higher with every mile. Their driver, Bran, one of the teamsters who was responsible for the big drays that carried supplies over this route, said they would see Windy Gap tomorrow, and start the day-long climb to Grayholme the morning after that. "You might as well get off and trot on up from there, for you'll surely go faster than these heavy lugs--even after we add extra teams at Bug Station."

  Later, as the setting sun turned the sky orange behind the Coastals, they made camp by the river, and the men built a bonfire to ward off the late autumn chill.

  "Won't be long now before those mountains'll be wearing a winter shawl," said Bran. "Once the snow comes, there will be no more wagons up the Ramp, 'til the thaw. You'll not see us for three months or more."

  The next day was long. They reached Bug Station, where fresh horses were corralled at the bottom of the Ramp, after sundown. Kit insisted on setting out their blanket rolls under a wagon, saying that he wanted to "see Grayholme as the sun rises."

  Bran chuckled, "You'll be back in the station lookin' for a warm bunk, soon as that fire dies down, I'm thinkin'." But Kit was not dissuaded. That night was cold indeed, and Stilian woke to find Kit fitted around him like a spoon to melon. The sun was rising and had turned the Coastals pink. Just barely visible, far up the hillside, at the base of the nearest peak, the morning sun warmed the gray stone walls and towers of a toy castle.

  "Kit! Wake up. Look, look!"

  After a morning wash and a last farewell to the now raucous Bug, the boys made lunch packets from the teamster's supplies and set off up the Ramp to Grayholme.

  Harte

  Griff
delivered a note from Sister Grace as Harte was sitting in the solar with his breakfast tray.

  "Will you eat?" Harte asked.

  "I cannot. I'm due at Watch House." Griff handed Harte the note. "From Sister Grace."

  Dear Mr. Walford,

  I am sorry to inform you that Raf joined our Lord this morning, around four bells. We must turn our efforts towards the living now.

  Where is Peli?

  Sister Grace

  "Shit! You know about this?"

  Griff nodded. Harte crumpled the note and threw it on the floor. He pushed his tray away and closed his eyes for a moment. "I suppose he'll be buried in the pauper's field."

  "Likely, already has been. The sisters don't wait around when there's no family."

  "Oh no, he had a family. He just wasn't telling us about them. Maybe he told Peli."

  "She is unrelenting, you know," said Griff.

  Harte rubbed his forehead. "I had that impression. Can you get away tonight? It seems we must deliver Peli into ... sanctuary, before we do anything else."

  "I can meet you at the Ragged Crow at six bells. How are your social plans coming?"

  "We will go to Greer House on Saturday. The solstice party is the following week."

  Griff nodded. "Good."

  After Griff left, Harte closed his eyes and remembered his grandfather's death the year before. It was like Parliament had convened in Walford's Crossing. Luminaries from the capital and every community of size had visited to pay their respects and follow the funeral train out to the cemetery on Camp Hill. Street vendors sold sausages to the crowd. Raf's burial in the pre-dawn darkness would have been very different. He saw a cloaked and hooded man leaning on a shovel and a pair of sisters pushing a dog cart.

  * * *

  Harte arrived at the Ragged Crow early that night. He took a place at the bar and motioned to the barkeep for an ale. The place was full with a mixed crowd: a group of woolen merchants, a table of woodworkers powdered with saw dust, a teamster in a wide-brimmed hat, the usual journeymen, some shopkeepers and clerks--many stopping by for a tipple after closing their businesses for the day. He had run into his father on the way out the door. His father had asked where Harte was going.

  "The Ragged Crow. I'll be out late tonight."

  "I can't see what you find appealing about that place. The people who drink there are not of your station. How can you expect to advance yourself, if you spend more time with them than with your own kind?"

  "Father, what do you know about my kind? Maybe they are my kind. I'd rather spend my time with people who work for a living than spend it scratching the backs of the wrinkled old goats in the council. Anyway, I'm meeting a friend there."

  "Those old goats supply your coin--and I'm one of them. You'd do well to remember it."

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way."

  His father had turned and walked into the house without replying. Now, Harte sat watching the men laughing, talking, playing cards, and felt himself removed from the crowd, as if he were watching them through the wrinkling air over a fire.

  "Are you going to buy me one, or do I have to part with my own hard-earned coin." Griff settled onto a stool next to Harte.

  Harte waived at the barkeep again. "Don't I always?"

  "In truth, you do. It's one reason I bide with you."

  Harte's halfhearted attempt at a rejoinder was drowned out by a burst of laughter from a card table across the room. A group of men rose and settled their cloaks around them, before heading out into the December evening. One of them was Brin Greer. His cloak did not have a striped, fir collar, but it was fur-lined and warm. Harte noted, however, that Brin was wearing hobnailed boots--as were a number of his companions. They were a popular affectation of wealthy youth that was designed primarily, Harte suspected, to irritate their elders. Harte's own boots were lightweight, pointed at the toe, and highly polished. He stared down at them, thoughtfully.

  "Just how many of those have you had?" Griff asked, pointing at Harte's ale. "Don't you think it might be interesting to follow them?" He nodded towards the departing group.

  Harte perked up. "Yes, actually, it would." He put some coins on the bar. "Let's do it."

  They worked their way through the crowd to the door and out into the cold. "I hope Peli has someplace warm to stay tonight," said Harte.

  Griff rolled his eyes. "Sister Grace will warm our hides if we don't find him."

  It seemed that Greer and company were headed down towards Dock Street. Harte and Griff sauntered town the hill behind them, trying to look as relaxed and unhurried as possible, while keeping the group in sight. When they got to Dock Street, the group turned towards the Red Rooster. But they passed it and continued on. Harte pulled Griff into an empty doorway.

  "Would you continue to follow them? I want to know where they go and what sort of entertainment they find. While you do that, I want to visit the Angry Cock again to see if the anyone has seen Peli."

  Griff stifled a snort at Harte's use of the notorious tavern's nickname. "Sure. I'll meet you back here in an hour or two. You don't seem to need my assistance in that place, anyway."

  Harte swallowed a retort at Griff's jibe. "Good. Stay well back. Don't let them scent you."

  Still smiling, Griff slipped off into the night. Harte glanced up and down the street, then took a breath and marched into the Red Rooster. It was as crowded as before with men from all stations and walks of life. The men at the tables mostly ignored the newcomer, but the line of men standing at the bar turned to look at Harte. A few even made a show of looking Harte up and down. One burly young tough stared directly into Harte's eyes until Harte blinked and looked away. Harte took a place at the other end of the bar and waited for the barkeep.

  "You again? What'll you have tonight? Ale or somewhat stronger?"

  "Ale, please, and some information."

  "I've drinks to pour. Why don't you bother someone else?" He looked at Harte speculatively. "There's a few here tonight might care for a private chat with a shiny bird like you."

  Harte leaned forward and spoke quietly. "I just want to know if you've seen that boy again--Peli."

  "Nope, haven't noticed him." The barkeep left to answer a wave from a customer.

  Harte was looking around the room to see if there was some place less conspicuous where he could wait to see if the boy appeared, when an oily tenor spoke up near his right ear. "If it's boys you're looking for, I can show you a fine selection."

  "What? No, I don't want--I'm looking for a particular boy. It's important that I find him." The man standing next to Harte was thick-waisted, with a sunken chest and thin arms. His clothes were expensive and stylish, but exaggerated.

  "I'm sure I could find another just like him. What are you looking for? Let me guess: blond, skinny, smooth-chested? Or maybe with a cute little trail leading down here?" The man slowly ran his finger down Harte's belly until it rested gently on his crotch.

  Harte's face heated, and he stepped backward. "Please keep your hands to yourself, sir. I do not require your assistance in any way."

  There was a grunt from behind Harte and a languid drawl. "Careful now. That was my foot you just trod on." The man stepped around into view. He was tall, lean, and dressed plainly but expensively, in black. The collar of his cloak was trimmed in soft leather. His black hair was longer than the fashion and contrasted sharply with his pale skin. "Mr. Blud," the man said, "I don't think this fellow's in need of your services. In fact, I don't think anyone here is in need of your services. Perhaps you should try another establishment--" He paused. "Now." Mr. Blud shrugged and turned to leave. The newcomer watched as Mr. Blud made his way out the door and then sighed.

  "I'm sorry about that. I hope you don't hold my little establishment guilty for his offense? Perhaps I could compensate you for enduring Mr. Blud with another drink?" He caught the barkeep's eye and pointed at Harte's mug.

  "You are the owner?" Ha
rte asked.

  "I have that honor."

  "I see. Perhaps you can help me. My name is Harte Walford. I'm looking--"

  "For a boy. So I heard. Perhaps it would be better if we were in a more private place before you use that phrase again. It leads to misunderstandings." He nodded at Harte's drink. "Why don't you bring that with you, and we can have a little chat." He led the way through a curtain in the back of the room and up a stairway to a heavy door. He removed a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. "After you. You'll find a couch along the left-hand wall. Please be seated, while I light a lantern." He stepped past Harte and moved confidently into the dark. Harte heard the sound of a match and saw the flare of a lantern. He blinked in the sudden light and looked around. The room was large, but had a low ceiling. Heavy wooden beams crossed to form a pattern of inset squares above. The sides of the beams were carved with figures, human and animal, engaged in various natural pursuits. In between the beams, the ceiling was painted dark blue and punctuated with small white and yellow stars. The floor was covered in intricately patterned rugs of red, tan, and dark blue. On the other side of the room was a fireplace, with a rectangle of tile mosaic before it, and a polished mantelpiece above it--also fancifully carved. Harte found himself standing in front of a leather covered, maroon couch.

  "Sit, please sit." The tall man moved gracefully to the far end of the room, picked up a small table and set it down in front of Harte. He mimed setting a drink down on the table. May I offer you something to eat, Mr. Walford? Or should I say, Presenter Advocate Walford?"

  Harte was so engrossed in examining the exotic setting that he took a moment to register the use of his name and title. "You know who I am. But you, sir, have not done me the honor of introducing yourself."