Free The Hawk And His Boy by Christopher Bunn Page B

information contained within the book had not proven to be enough. It was silent in several areas. Such as what could kill an anbeorun. Or what the origin of the anbeorun was. But at the end of the day, there was only one question that mattered: What was in the box?
    A noise drifted up from below in the house. Nio went to the door, opened it, and listened. The wihht had returned. He heard the front door close, and then there was silence.
    The wihht was waiting for him in the hall at the foot of the stairs, motionless in the shadows. Only its eyes moved as Nio walked down the steps. The candles in their sconces on the walls flamed to life when Nio muttered a word.
    Lig .
    Light.
    It seemed there was more detail in the creature’s face, more pronounced cheekbones and a fuller nose. Odd. He put the matter from his mind. He was honest enough to realize he did not know everything about fashioning something as complex as a wihht. Little was written on the subject, for not many wizards had ever dared to fashion the darkness.
    “What did you learn?” he asked.
    The thing answered him with a hoarse voice that was strangely soft, as if it had no lungs to breathe with and so make normal speech.
    “Many things were learned, master. What would you wish to hear?”
    “Tell me about the fat man called the Juggler.”
    “He cares for a band of children who live and work together. Without father or mother. Orphans. He works for—this group of thieves, this—” It paused, stumbling for the word.
    “Guild.”
    “Guild,” repeated the wihht.
    “Go on.”
    “The Juggler controls their lives.”
    “Ah,” said the man. “He would’ve certainly known more than the boy. Describe the Juggler to me so I’ll know him when I see him.”
    “This one is a short, fat man with a round face. A round face like the smaller sun that lights the night.”
    “The moon. It’s called the moon.”
    “A round face like the moon.”
    “Does he have a real name, other than this Juggler nonsense?” asked Nio.
    “This was not learned,” said the wihht.
    “And what of the man called the Knife?”
    “Less can be learned of this one.”
    “Why?”
    “He is feared, master.”
    “Well,” said Nio, “there must be something you can tell me of him.”
    “His name is Ronan and he comes from a town called Aum, in the duchy of Vo. No one believes that. But no one knows better.”
    “Aum’s a ruin, a haunt of jackals and hoot owls. No one’s lived there for over three hundred years. He has a past that’s not to be found out and everyone be damned if he cares if they try. Arrogant of him. What else did you learn about him? This is of no use to me.”
    “He is a tall man,” continued the wihht. “He is a man with dark features as if he has seen much sun. No one in this city is reckoned his equal with the sword or knife.”
    “Weapons don’t concern me. What else?”
    “That is all,” said the wihht.
    “What? Not even where he lives?”
    “No, master. That was not learned.”
    “Friends, a lover, a favorite inn?”
    “No, master. That was not learned.”
    “Is that all you have to say?” said Nio. “We’ll have to start with the fat man. Curse the Guild! They’re a stealthy, sneaking bunch, and curse that paltry excuse of a regent for letting them flourish in his city! Speak of the rest of what you saw today. Maybe some trifle will come to light that might be of purpose.”
    The wihht’s hoarse voice mumbled on. A picture emerged of children flitting through the marketplace, of sunlight painful in the wihht’s eyes, of small hands filching from barrows and the pockets of unsuspecting passersby. Men in taverns, gossiping over tankards of ale, of hidden things and the long arm of the regent, the Guard of the city and their captain Owain Gawinn. Locks, wards, streets, and doors. Roofs, back alleys, walls, and grappling hooks. The Silentman, rumored to be hidden in his labyrinth of tunnels under the city. Travelers from distant lands.