Cry of the Nightbird Read online

  Dania slowly pushed herself to a seat, and the figure turned, looking down at her as he dried hand and blade on the folds of black cloth. She saw now what had so confused her earlier. There was a mask across the upper half of his face, covered in black feathers sweeping back from a hooked black-metal beak that covered the nose. Some of the feathers were long and waving like those in a fop’s hat, others were stiff and gleaming, raven’s feathers, or crow’s. Most were bent or worn, and the longer ones were tattered.

  “Are you alright?” he asked quietly, stowing his dagger somewhere behind his cloak.

  “Yes,” Dania whispered. “Thank you.”

  The masked man crouched, holding out a hand. “You were crying before he grabbed you.”

  She swallowed, and nodded, taking his hand. He pulled her to her feet. “You may have a bruised neck in the morning. You from the country?”

  She nodded.

  “Take my advice, lass. Don’t venture outside at night in these parts. I’m not everywhere at once. Where are you staying?”

  She pointed. “Not too far.”

  “I’ll walk you. Best you keep close.”

  She nodded, started forward, and stopped. “Who are you?”

  His mouth pulled into a hard smile. “People hereabouts call me Nightbird.”

  “You do this a lot?” she asked.

  “Depends. I like to help people, if that’s what you mean.”

  They began to walk in silence, but before long, she stopped again. She stared up at the moonlit eyes beyond the feathers and beak.

  “I think I’m pregnant,” she found herself whispering desperately.

  “That so?” His voice was level and caring. Sensible, even. Would a bird in the night be able to help her when no one else could? “Whose fault is that, d’you know?” he asked.

  Dania nodded slowly. “A nobleman. And he’s soon to be wed.”

  The Nightbird’s eyes tightened, and the mouth under the beak drew down. “Hmm. Which one?”

  She sniffed. “Ferlund of Cavernad. He—his father just died, and his father’s betrothal is going to him. It’s an important marriage, so I’m afraid that if I speak of this—”

  “Hush. I know how it is.” His voice had gone as cold as when he’d told the other man to run.

  “But what do I do?” she pressed, wondering why she thought he would know.

  “What would you like best to do?” he asked, voice gentle again, if a bit strained.

  “I—I think I should like to keep the child,” she admitted softly. “But I fear to. I fear to tell my parents, I fear how I should raise it if Ferlund denies me, and it seems he must deny me…”

  “If you wish to keep the child, keep the child,” the Nightbird said firmly. “As for the difficulty—what’s your name?”

  “Dania.”

  “Dania. Don’t be afraid. It will work out. It will be taken care of.”

  “Should I tell Ferlund?” She began walking again.

  “I wouldn’t say there’s much point to that. Keep it to yourself for now. And try to be at ease.” He snapped his fingers. “I’m betting Old Man Chance will hear you on this one. Keep on the watch for good fortune.”

  “I certainly had good fortune tonight.” She gave a sobbing laugh, swiping her sleeve across her eyes. “I don’t know what would have happened to me, but at best it’d have been awful. Thank you, Nightbird.”

  “You’re quite welcome.” The masked man sounded pleased. “Remember what I said about staying indoors at night, and I’m sure your luck will keep improving.”

  “I will,” she said, turning to bob a curtsy as she stopped in a doorway. “This is my place.”

  “Sleep well and safe.” The Nightbird bowed to her with a swish of his cloak, slipped away into the shadowy streets. She watched until the darkness hid him wholly.

  “Good night,” she whispered, and went inside.

  Cavernad seemed to cave in on Ferlund by the day, until his home’s network of halls, the town’s clusters of buildings, and even the scrubby and rugged wilderness, which had mere weeks ago been comfortable and expansive, felt downright claustrophobic. The sky itself seemed to tighten down upon him, its cloudless blue feeling as close as a fog, the warmth of the sun stifling as a cloth held over his face.

  And let’s just be frank with ourself, if we can be with no one else, he thought, staring in blank surprise at the servant who informed him that the lady Nanine of Rirsmouth had most tragically asphyxiated. With the way everything’s going around here, there may well be such a cloth pressed to your face before long, with something nasty doubtless soaked into the warp and waft.

  “I see,” Ferlund said woodenly. He paused, attempting to find something appropriate. My condolences? A strange thing to say to his own servant. I’m sorry to hear that? He wasn’t particularly. It wasn’t as though he wanted her death, but he couldn’t manage to feel the tragedy of it. Of course, he hadn’t managed to feel much of anything for some while, besides deader by the day.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. Please send Rirsmouth my condolences,” he murmured. The servant said something and moved off. Ferlund sighed. He supposed he was going to have to write a letter now. But not yet. Please, not just yet. He would go riding, first, to sort out all that this might mean for him personally. He took his sword and sheath from the foot of the bed where he’d dropped them, and slid it onto his belt. He’d gotten into the habit of carrying it everywhere he went, of late.

  He had become adept at slipping into the stables, saddling up, and riding out before anyone could catch or question him. No one seemed to try as hard as they ought to have to catch him, though. Perhaps they could tell that it had become his sole refuge.

  As he rode out of town to the west, toward the cliffs—he always wound up there, at the end; might as well get it over with sooner than later—the movement and the mild summer breeze began to clear the cobwebs from his mind. Nanine of Rirsmouth was out of the picture. For the first time in what felt like ages, the closeness seemed to crack. The betrothal was off. He had gained some space to breathe. He took a deep breath of the warm summer air, and he felt greyness lifting from his bones.

  He might still be a target of assassination. In fact, it seemed probable. Perhaps now that another noble was dead—suspicious timing, even if not an over-suspicious cause—his advisors would take his murmured misgivings about the circumstances of his father’s death as more than the wistful protests of a son who could see no folly in his father. Perhaps now they would agree that someone was trying to keep Cavernad and Rirsmouth from consummating their frail alliance.

  Ferlund scanned the stands of wiry trees, reaching down to check that his sword was free in its scabbard. An assassination attempt would not catch him unawares, at least. He raked back his loose hair into a tail. The tightening of the strands against his scalp as he tied it off seemed to pull his brain further into wakefulness.

  Think, he ordered himself. Who is the next likely target in this plot? Does Rirsmouth have any other eligible women to extend to me? Who would be most interested in keeping our fiefdoms un-united?

  Rirsmouth had no other eligible females, unless they wanted to knock off a husband to free one up, and he doubted this alliance was so important to them as to jeopardize any others. As for who might be behind this, the duke of Graeme stood to lose the most stability, should Rirsmouth and Cavernad stop pecking at one another, but guessing the obvious and proving it were two vastly different things.

  So who might the next target be? Or would their enemy be content to see their alliance remain fragile, and leave well enough alone with two dead? But the duke—or whoever was behind the assassinations—would know that an orphaned lord of sixteen, an only child with no other family close enough for comfort, would have to marry, and quickly. Cavernad needed allies and heirs. What if his next choice displeased the man as much? Who would die then? And if it was him? What kind of turmoil as third cousins scrambled to substantiate a claim to the title? Surely that wo
uldn’t benefit the duke, who had no known relation to him; if anyone were to be slated to die, it probably wouldn’t be him, then. That was something, at least. But it still presented a prickly thorn to dance around as he did go seeking an alliance.

  The duke has a daughter, Ferlund recalled, tapping his fingers against the ridge of the saddle. Yes, Carthia, Chartia, something with a C; a little carrot-haired creature of, what, how many years? Eleven? Surely she couldn’t be marriageable yet. But the duke might at least be thinking to set down an agreement. Surely the duke has bigger targets in mind. Cavernad isn’t big enough for him to spend a daughter on me, is it?

  It was at least big enough that someone, quite probably the duke, found it worth hiring assassins over, the lord reminded himself. And the duke had two older sons, and a younger son and daughter besides. He could afford to throw them around a bit. The question then was, did Ferlund have it in him to consider an alliance with the man who had quite probably been behind his father’s death?

  He drew his mount to a stop, staring down into the ravine—the ravine—and trying to think what his father would want of him. Father would want the line to survive. Father would want Cavernad to prosper. Father would want him to do what was best for the fiefdom. And vengeance? He would probably call it a costly business, muddying the already muddy-enough world of politics. He’d always said that no good came of biting the hand that knifed you in the back; there were ways to turn ‘round and gain ground, even using the blow as momentum.

  But they killed you, Father. Surely that’s not what you were talking about. And even if you could stand to lie murdered and un-avenged… can I stand it?

  Dania flashed into his mind, and he pushed her out again. But he closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face. For the safety of Cavernad, for the safety of his people, he could stand a lot, he supposed. But to leave his father’s death unpaid for? Was that not asking too much? Was that not too much to stand?

  When a decision is too difficult for you to make heads or tails of it, his father had once told him seriously, and your advisors are only mucking it up for the worse, give the situation to someone else. What, a young Ferlund had asked, did his father mean by that? Imagine, boy, that it’s one of our people coming to you with a case he wants you to settle. See the story on someone else’s lips, and judge of it as if it were not your own.

  What then, would he say, if the case were not his own? If a farmer came to the lord of Cavernad, asking what was right: to strike up a blood-feud with a neighbor who had (un-provably, but indubitably) slain one of his own kin? Or to make good with the neighbor while it was possible, for the peace of Cavernad and the safety of his children?

  Ferlund bowed his head under the weight of the judgement, gazing down the steep and shaley slope. “I would say…” he murmured. “I would have to say…” He stopped, then, his gaze snapping up to stare into the sky, the sky now so far from closed in upon him. His back straightened, and he felt more alive than he had since before the old lord’s death.

  “I would say, justice should be done before the laws of the land. I would say, seek first the proof.”

  “Set it down,” Joreth told Wren, nodding toward the trunk at the foot of his bed. She carefully set the tray of food where he indicated, and gave a curtsy. He was shirtless and stitching in his chair again, just as the first time she’d brought food up to him, and it was just as difficult not to stare now as it had been then.

  “Anything to tell me?” he murmured, watching his needlework as he asked.

  “I’ve heard little ill, sir,” she said quietly, pleased at the fact. “Cook’s had much good to say since the budget went back up. Well, she says it as insults, sort of, but she never says anything good without making it half-bad, not of anyone, sir. And Flicker’s out drinking away his gain; that’s the only time he’s ever happy, you know, when he’s pulled a fine job and has all the gin and girls he could like for a few weeks. He’ll turn down every job you offer until he’s broke and badmouthing again, sir, but at least with twenty-five silver he’ll keep shut-up for a good couple of months.”

  “Hmm, good,” Joreth said, not seeming to pay much heed. He held up his project—a thick cloak that seemed to have been torn in a couple places—and inspected his handiwork by the light coming in the window.

  “Say,” he asked, settling the dark cloth back across his lap and once again plying his needle, “how quick are your hands?”

  Wren blinked. “Quick? Sir?”

  “Can you pick pockets?”

  “Yes, sir… not that I make much of a habit of it, but aye, the men have taught me a trick or two over the years. Sleight of hand is one.”

  “Excellent. Ah, what are the others, if I may ask?”

  “Well, it isn’t much…” Wren ducked her head. Honesty, remember, she told herself. Honesty in all things. “A lot of the men like teaching things, if you ask; especially if they’ve had a bit of drink but not too much. I know some of knife fighting, some of throwing knives. Some of fighting with blows, some of moving quiet-like, and some of poisons. I can read and write in plain letters or any of the cyphers. I can make myself up in a false face, I know the use of the garrote wire and the blow dart, I can pick some locks, and I can hold my own at dice and cards.”

  Joreth had paused in his sewing, and was staring at her now. Those grey eyes were so lovely. “Is that a fact. How… handy. We must play a round of Chance’s Daughters some time.”

  “I would love to dice with you, sir.” Wren bit her lip so as not to smile.

  “Well.” He rubbed his jaw, rough and grey with stubble. “Well. Gracious. However did Hezune manage to land those bruises on you, anyway?”

  Wren ducked her head. “He was the boss, sir. And I doubt I’d have fared so well, come to a fight. I’m not so good as all that.”

  Joreth shook his head. “Well. At any event, returning to the matter I was speaking of. Do you think you could slip something into someone’s pocket as easily as you could slip it out?”

  “I don’t see why not, sir.”

  “Excellent.” He reached back under his pillow and pulled a couple items from it. “Here.”

  She held out her hands, and he dropped two copper pieces into them. Why two?

  “Can I trust you with coin?” he asked.

  She looked up. “Yes sir, of course, sir!”

  “Good. The one is yours, payment for this past week of good service. The other goes into the pocket of a certain person whom I shall instruct you on finding. Once you have done so, return, tell me all you did and all you witnessed, and there will be a second copper waiting for you.” He smiled. “And I’ll see if I can’t win it back with a few rolls of Chance.”

  She grinned back at him, tucking the coppers into separate pockets. “Look to your own purse, sir. You can trust me with coin, but not with dice. I learned from the best cheaters.”

  He laughed, then, and told her how to find the target. She filed his instructions carefully in her mind, and left with a bubbling sense of warmth. The warmth only grew as she trotted barefoot down the streets; it was the sort of day that pretended summer was still in full force, for all it was the tail end of the fair days. The cobbles were pleasantly warm, and the clouds were few and far between.

  She found the market square he’d called most likely, and began trotting up and down the lanes of farmers and their fruits and vegetables. It was not so crowded with vendors as it had been but a few days ago, but it was still more full than one would find this corner at any other time of year.

  With no luck among the farmers, she began making her way up and down the more pleasurable rows of wares, with the game tables, sweets-sellers, food vendors, and hawkers of cloth and jewelry and other pretty things that came to take advantage of the crowds that collected around the harvest-time farmer’s fairs.

  She kept her hands in her pockets, fingers wrapped around the coppers, keeping them safe from pickpockets as she contemplated what she might spend her coin on. With difficulty, sh
e pulled her eyes away from several rows of jewel-hilted knives—she could tell the gems were false and the blades of poor quality, but they were still such pretty things—and searched the faces of the crowd. It was hard to focus on the people when there was so much else to stare at, but she had a job to do.

  She spotted a very blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl of about fourteen, made her way to her side, and began to chat with her. Upon finding that the girl’s name was Tennape, she politely made her way out of the conversation and on down the row. A few more times she did such, with similar result. Late morning rolled to late afternoon, and Wren was beginning to think of giving up, buying herself a pastry and going home—and returning the copper to Joreth to prove her good faith—when she spotted the palest of fair hair within a shop of fine cloth.

  Wren made her way towards the target, pulling a hand from her pocket to run her fingers over a roll of dark red velvet. She watched the girl’s eyes out of the corner of her own, and yes, they were cornflower blue. Melancholy, too, and not even looking at the pink-and-gold patterned silk she touched.

  “Hello,” Wren said.

  The girl glanced at her, unsmiling, and gave a nod.

  “You from around here?”

  The girl shook her head. “Cavernad,” she answered softly, almost sadly.

  Wren smiled. This might be the one. “You here for the fair?”

  A nod.

  “How d’you like the city?”

  A pause. “There’s… a lot of nice things here, that’s for sure and true.”

  Wren nodded. “Aye, and more so at fair time.” The girl clearly hated the city. “My name’s Wren,” she went on. “What’s yours?”

  “Dania,” the girl said, and Wren smiled again.

  The shopkeeper, a thin, older woman, called back from near the front of the shop. “Watch your purse, country-girl. Chits like your little friend there walk off with anything that fits in their pockets.”