The Traitor Game

by B. R. Collins

  The snow isn’t as heavy as it was. At the moment it’s just a few drifting flakes here and there, glinting like grains of salt. As I stand still, letting my heart slow, Iaspis pushes herself awkwardly to her feet and goes to the battlements. She stares out over the whitened city towards the north and the marshes. Columen follows her without a word and stands silently at her side. It’s as if the snowball fight hasn’t happened. As if I’ve just imagined it.

  It’s so quiet. Below us somewhere, in the streets, someone calls and a cart goes past, but the sound’s swallowed up by the snow. Columen and Iaspis are motionless, bending forward over the battlements like figureheads. I’m beginning to feel chilly again. I go and lean on the battlement next to Columen and follow his gaze, to the dull white plane of the Flatlands and the low-hanging sheet of cloud. Nothing moves. The road leading to Than’s Lynn is just a faint seam of shadow, hardly visible. I turn and look ghistwards, away from Columen, towards Skyph. I stare until the whole world goes out of focus. Ryn. My father. My grandmother. My heird.

  But – I don’t know why – it doesn’t hurt as much as it should. Maybe because it seems so long and so far away. Or because Columen is there at my back; or because Iaspis smiled at me, only a moment ago, as though she liked me. Or maybe it’s because I’m wearing silk and fur and I’m warm and dry and I’m not hungry. The thought makes me sick. Ryn’s out there, somewhere, wearing her wet linen and soggy wool, aching with cold: and I’m here, wearing clothes that the Duke’s son gave me. I fix my eyes on the space where Skyph would be, if I could see it, and try to summon the misery I used to feel, the helpless rising emptiness that almost lifted me off my feet. But it’s like pressing on a wound that’s already closed. It just doesn’t hurt as much as it should.

  There’s a wind rising, tugging at us in little gusts that flick up snowflakes around our feet. Columen hunches his shoulders under his cloak and starts to move back towards the staircase. ‘Let’s go back down.’

  I follow him, turning away from Skyph. Deep in my gut something tugs at me, but I ignore it. Because, after all, inside there’ll be a fire and hot food, spiced wine, a nub of somnatis to help me sleep. And it’s easy, horribly easy, to go with him. As though Skyph never really existed. As though this is where I belong, with these rich, brutal, spoilt people. It makes me despise myself.

  We’re almost at the archway that leads to the staircase when Iaspis says, ‘Look.’ Her voice is so strange, so taut and flat, that it doesn’t sound like her.

  Columen looks back over his shoulder. ‘What?’

  Iaspis is bending forward, her hands clenched on the stones of the battlement. ‘I saw something. A light, outside the walls.’

  ‘Outside the walls?’ When Iaspis nods, Columen snorts gently. ‘In this weather? And the gates’ll be shut, anyway. It’s past curfew.’

  ‘I know. But there was something. Something moving.’

  ‘Just a stray animal. Or a beggar.’

  ‘No.’ Iaspis shakes her head, like a child that won’t back down. ‘I saw a light.’

  Columen frowns, walks back a few steps and casts a cursory glance down towards the walls. He shrugs. ‘There’s nothing –’ Then he looks down again. He cranes over the battlement and purses his lips in a sort of noiseless whistle. ‘You’re right.’

  Iaspis is on her toes, leaning precariously out across the battlement, bracing herself with her arms. ‘I said there was something. People.’

  Columen swings himself up on to the wall and sits with one leg dangling over the forty hycht drop. He holds on with his hands and tilts himself over, bending forward at such an angle it makes me swallow and look away.

  Iaspis says again, ‘There was something. I saw something. There’s definitely –’ But Columen holds up a hand and she goes quiet. A damp lock of hair falls across his eyes but he stays still, looking down so intently it’s like the world has frozen solid.

  ‘There was a raid yesterday, wasn’t there?’ He’s talking to Iaspis but he doesn’t look round.

  Iaspis laces her fingers together and shrugs jerkily. ‘I’m not sure . . . yes. They went to Minnon, I think. But they’d be back by now. Wouldn’t they?’ She looks up at him, suddenly eager. ‘Of course! It’s just the raiders coming home! They must have been delayed by the snow.’ She laughs. ‘For a moment I thought . . . They’re breaking curfew. I wonder if the gatekeepers will let them in.’ She leans over the battlements again to look, poised extravagantly on one leg like a dancer. ‘Cousin Aper will be livid if they don’t. Especially if they’ve captured any rebels.’

  Captured any rebels . . . She means slaves. Mereish villagers, men, women, children. Hunted down and trapped, brought to Arcaster in chains, and then sent across the Judas floor or murdered in the Winter Games. Maybe they’re out there now, shivering, ankle-deep in snow, waiting to be shepherded through the gate. Maybe they’re people I know.

  Iaspis pulls her cloak more tightly round herself, her hands sinking into the fur. ‘Come on. Let’s go in. I’m cold.’

  But Columen doesn’t move. He’s grimacing to himself, still staring in the same direction, still leaning over the edge of the tower.

  ‘Come on. It’s only the raiders.’ When Columen doesn’t answer, she sighs. ‘Fine.’ She turns and strides towards the staircase, lifting her skirt clear of the snow. She shoots a glance over her shoulder. ‘I think I saw Aper’s cloak. The red one, with the gold thread embroidery. I’d know it anywhere.’

  ‘Yes.’ But he’s not agreeing, exactly.

  I clear my throat. ‘Have they – are there any – prisoners?’

  Columen shakes his head. ‘Not that I can see.’

  Iaspis hisses between her teeth. ‘None at all?’

  ‘No.’ Columen’s voice is steady and thoughtful. He hasn’t moved. There’s no reason to think he’s afraid, but there’s something about the concentration on his face, the force of his gaze, that makes me uneasy. ‘Not a single one. It’s unusual.’

  ‘Father won’t be pleased.’

  ‘No . . .’ He’s leaning forward, so still, so oddly, unyieldingly still that I can’t help thinking of a sail in a storm, stretched against the wind until it splits. ‘You’re right. It is Aper’s cloak.’

  ‘So let’s go in.’ Iaspis hugs herself and rotates in a circle. ‘I’m freezing.’

  ‘They’re letting them through the gates,’ Columen says, in a strange, pensive tone. He breathes out slowly. ‘They’ve let them in. I expect they recognised Aper’s cloak.’

  ‘Well, why shouldn’t they?’

  ‘No reason.’ Except that the words are so slow, so dreamy and distant, that they don’t mean what they should. They mean: they shouldn’t have let them in. They mean: something’s wrong. ‘The snow,’ he says, still in that strange detached tone, as though he’s reciting poetry. ‘The snow’s only just fallen. It wouldn’t have delayed them.’

  Iaspis puts her head on one side and wrinkles her nose. ‘You know what I mean.’ She heaves a great theatrical sigh. ‘I told you. I saw Aper’s cloak. It’s only the raiders. Why shouldn’t the gatekeepers let them in?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It’s just – odd.’

  Iaspis swings one foot, making a long shallow ditch in the snow. ‘Not really. Anyway, I’m going in. I’m hungry.’ She turns and walks briskly back towards the stairs. I watch her go through the archway, the hem of her dress leaving a brief smear of damp on the top step. I will her to look back at me, but she doesn’t. I close my eyes and try to see her face, the way she looked when she smiled at me; the way her eyes lit up, like amber, like firelight, like polished bronze.

  Columen gasps.

  When I open my eyes he’s already staring at me, face almost blue in the twilight, a hand clutching my wrist so hard it’s like the grip of a hawk. And the noise he made . . . I step forward, towards him, reaching for his shoulders, panicking, because it’s the grunt that men make when an arrow hits home, the surprise, the soft horrified in-breath of a man who sees a shaft comi
ng out of his breastbone without understanding how it got there. Columen isn’t hurt, I can see that; but his face has the look of someone who is. I babble something frantically in Mereish, Eir du gweuthed? Min lyshe, hath er badh? but before I can say it again in Evgard he’s running towards the stairs, pushing himself away from me so hard I stumble back against the wall behind me. I can hear him swearing, in a strange, pleading undertone that sounds more like a prayer: Oh foeda meretrix, oh cunnus, oh copulatus cunnus . . . He tears down the stairs so fast he skids on the third step and throws his arms out for balance, not pausing to grab the rope strung along the wall.

  I’m running after him, calling out in Evgard now, ‘What’s wrong? Columen? What’s going on?’ But he doesn’t answer. I propel myself down the steps after him, fighting to stay on my feet, but I can’t catch him up.

  It’s not till we’re halfway down the spiral staircase that I start to understand; and even then it’s only because he pushes past Iaspis and says, ‘Get my father, Iaspis, get him now – I don’t think those people were raiders –’ without looking back at her, so that the words bounce back off the stone.

  ‘What? Columen! What do you mean?’ She grabs for him but he’s already out of reach. She hurries down another few steps, then she comes to a halt, pressing one hand against the wall beside her. Her other hand is spread on the front of the bodice of her dress, the tendons white under her skin. She calls again, ‘Columen . . . ?’ but there’s no reply.

  I don’t dare to push past. ‘Excuse me, my lady.’ I wait for her to move, but instead she turns to me, with a sort of helpless, wondering stare. ‘Let me get past. Please. I have to go with Columen.’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘I don’t know. Please. I need to get past.’

  ‘What does he mean, they’re not raiders? Who else could they be?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ But as I’m saying it the answer comes to me, and a little treacherous hope uncurls in my mind like a leaf. What if . . . ? They could be Mereish. They could be one of our companies. But in Arcaster . . .

  ‘Well, what did he say? Why does he think there’s something wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know. Please –’

  ‘Why should I get our father? What should I tell him?’

  ‘Iaspis. Get out of my way. Now.’ I’m half horrified, half excited by the power in my voice. I can’t imagine talking to Columen like that. But Iaspis doesn’t flinch. Unexpectedly she moves out of my way without saying anything. I’m so close to her I can see a pulse beating in the dent above her collarbone, as fast as an insect’s wings. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Argent –’

  I’m already three steps below her, but there’s something in her voice that makes me turn. For one thing, she’s never said my name before.

  She clears her throat. ‘Come back. When you know what’s going on. Come and find me.’ It’s almost an order – but not quite.

  I swallow. ‘Iaspis – you should do what Columen said. Go and find your father. Tell him what’s happened.’ I still expect her to look disdainfully at me – who are you to tell me what to do, slave? – but she nods and gives me a tiny, unbelievable smile. For a moment I’m tempted to run back up the stairs, put my arms round her, reassure her. But I haven’t got time. I have to find Columen.

  I don’t know where I’m going to look – I don’t know where he was going – but when I come out of the stairwell I take a turning at random and I’m in luck. I’m on the lower level of the castle walls, and a long way ahead of me I can see Columen sprinting though the flurries of snow, a man-at-arms at his heels. They’re going towards the keep. I run as fast as I can, trying to ignore the scrape of cold air at the back of my throat, the ache in my calves. But even though I’m pushing myself as hard as I can, they disappear into the keep before I can get to them. When I finally reach the door and push it open, Columen’s in the middle of a sentence, surrounded by a group of soldiers, some in chain mail, others still half-dressed and bleary. He breaks off and whips round to face me. Then, as one of the soldiers reaches out to grab me, he gestures with one hand. ‘Leave him alone, idiot! He’s one of ours.’ He turns back without meeting my eyes. ‘I want men on the battlements. Archers. And boiling lead, hot sand, dropping-stones, you all know the drill. Anything you can think of. Kill them, maim them, whatever, as long as you stop them. If the keep falls, the whole castle falls. Clear?’

  The men nod, exchange glances, shuffle a little. One of them clears his throat. ‘What about the town?’

  ‘It’s too late for that. But they’re only peasants. If we can hold the castle, there’s nothing to worry about. They’ll be sloping off back to Marydd before the week’s out.’ Columen’s voice has a kind of casual authority that I envy in spite of myself. It’s as though he’s enjoying himself. ‘Any questions? Good. Get to your places. I’ll send a messenger as soon as I know more.’ He holds one hand in the air, not dismissing them yet. ‘Just – keep them out. Whatever it takes. That’s all.’

  A pause, full of the rank smell of the hearth and men’s bodies, new snow, bloodlust and fear. Then Columen turns on his heel, easy now, as though he’s done what’s needed. He walks through the door without looking back.

  I turn to follow.

  ‘Mereish traitors.’ The man who’s spoken is only a hycht away, and he’s looking at me. He grimaces and hawks a great gobbet of spit into the rushes by my feet. ‘Thieves and murderers, all of you.’ He jerks his head in the direction of the town. ‘Proud of them, are you, white boy? Out there, massacring innocent people, raping virgins? Like the idea of it, do you?’

  ‘Are they –?’ But I can’t ask. I’m shaking, but not with fear. Does he mean –? Is it a company of Mereish fighters? I stare at him, speechless.

  His mouth curls; he wipes a fleck of spit off his chin with the back of his hand. ‘They won’t get in, cimex. We’ll see to that. You heard the Captain – we’ll pour molten lead on them if they try.’ He leans closer. ‘Ever seen someone with burning sand inside their clothes? You should see them dance.’

  I walk blindly back out into the snow and run a couple of steps to catch up with Columen. My stomach’s churning – with fear, and dread, and something else, something that could almost be excitement. I lick my lips and try to say, ‘Columen – who is it? What’s going on?’ but he starts to speak before I do.

  ‘They murdered the gatekeepers, Argent.’ He’s looking straight ahead, into the falling snowflakes, as though he can see someone there. ‘That’s what I saw. The gates opened, and stayed open. Then I saw them throw out a couple of bodies . . . something red on the snow. And more of them, all in white, coming out of the shadow at the base of the city walls. Like maggots when you turn a corpse over. Swarming. All in white. To blend in with the snow, I suppose.’ He turns to look at me now, one hand against his forehead, wiping away the drops of melt-water in his hair. ‘I don’t know how many there are. Enough to take the city, I think.’ He waits, as if he’s asked a question. When I don’t answer he shrugs. ‘It’s not a bad plan – ambush the raiders, take their clothes, rely on the gatekeepers’ incompetence to get you through the gate.’ He laughs, without amusement. ‘Aper’s cloak – Iaspis was right. Everyone in the city would know it a mile off. And in this weather no one looks at your face.’

  I look at him sideways. ‘Are they – they’re Mereish, aren’t they?’

  ‘I think so.’ He chews his lip. ‘That’s a point, actually. Father should put all the Mereish slaves in the dungeons. Stop anyone opening the gate from inside.’

  ‘In the dungeons?’ A swift blade of panic stabs under my ribs. No. I’ve seen those dungeons. I’m not going back there. My eyes go to Columen’s back, the place under his cloak where he keeps his dagger.

  He reaches out, a brief touch on my arm. ‘Not you, fool. You can stay with me. I won’t let them lock you up.’ He smiles, narrowing his eyes. ‘Anyway, someone who knows Mereish might be useful.’

  We duck through a low archway and
along a low, chilly gallery. If I concentrated I could probably work out where we’re going, but my head’s too full of other things. A company of Mereish fighters. In Arcaster. In my mind’s eye I can see my father, the day Ryn’s brother went away to join the White Company, shaking his head. Whatever makes you happy, lad. Just don’t tell yourself it’ll do us any good . . . and later, when he thought I was asleep, Boys with iron swords, that’s all they are. Rabbit-hunters . . . But he was wrong. They’re here; somehow they’re powerful enough, or desperate enough, to attack an Evgard fortress. And if the keep fell – they’d be here, in the castle, to free the slaves, to depose the Duke . . . My heartbeat roars in my ears.

  Columen unlocks a little door behind a curtain and pulls me through. I come out, blinking, into a wide windowless hall, smoky and bare. In the middle of the room there’s a huge, detailed model of Arcaster – the castle, the School, the Quarters . . . like the most elaborate toy in the world. But I don’t see it at first, because the room’s full of people, mainly men, in small groups, talking in harsh whispers. The Duke is there, bending over the streets of the miniature Arcaster. He looks up, beckons Columen over, and this time Columen gives me a small cautionary push to warn me not to follow him. I stand near the wall, in the shadows, trying to listen to the conversations going on around me. The news must have spread like the water-sickness, but all the same no one knows exactly what’s going on. I catch fragments of speech: ‘Rebels – got through the gate – how many days’ stores do we – waited for the snow to . . .’