A little oily man slides past me in a draught of cold air from the door. No one looks up; he slips through the clusters of people like a shadow. Hardly anyone seems to notice the way the Duke turns his head, sharply, or the way Columen doesn’t even wait for him to bow before he says, ‘What news?’
The little man speaks so softly it’s as if he’s only pronouncing the consonants, without any vowels at all. They’re speaking Evgard, of course, but I can just about read his lips. It’s easy: because somehow I already know what he’s going to say.
‘A band of Mereish traitors, my lords.’
The Duke nods. ‘And?’
‘They are occupying all of Arcaster, except the School. There are fires in the Ghist Quarter and one Trade Street is impassable. We estimate their numbers at something between fifty and two hundred.’
Columen glances at his father, then back at the man. ‘That’s as precise as you can be?’
‘I’m afraid so. The matter is complicated by the possibility of female fighters.’
‘Women?’ The Duke snorts. ‘In that case . . .’
‘I believe they are not to be underestimated, my lord.’ He clears his throat, addressing Columen as much as the Duke. ‘Although the attack is unprecedented, it isn’t entirely unexpected. Sooner or later we anticipated that they would launch some kind of attack. And the Mereish can be extremely clever and unconventional opponents.’
‘I see.’ The Duke jerks a thumb over his shoulder, dismissing him. Then he turns to Columen. ‘Give orders for all Mereish workers to be held in the dungeons, preferably in solitary confinement.’ Columen nods, running a finger along the wall of the model castle. ‘Check our supplies. Set guards in place to watch for anyone trying to scale the battlements. Set basins of water by the walls to show up vibrations from tunnelling. Make sure the women are safe.’
‘Yes, Father.’ Columen bows to him and turns away, but the Duke puts one hand on his arm and wrenches him back.
‘Your Mereish slave – where is he?’
Columen gives the briefest of glances down to his sleeve, at the Duke’s fist pulling the embroidery out of shape. Then he looks straight into his father’s eyes. ‘My slave? He’s already in the dungeons.’
The Duke lets go of him. ‘Good. Make sure he stays there.’ He clicks his fingers to a little huddle of armed men and they hurry towards him. ‘Now. I want an observation post on the Ghist Tower . . .’
Columen catches my eye as he walks towards the door. He inclines his head very slightly – come with me, don’t let anyone notice you – but doesn’t speak until we’re safely back in the gallery. Then he breathes out a long, slow sigh. He pulls me over to an alcove, where we’ll be out of sight. It’s got dark; there’s snow blowing in through the windows, settling on the floor like drifts of sand, glinting in the torchlight. He leans close to me, so near I can see the texture of his skin. ‘Argent, I have to carry out my father’s orders. I want you to go and find Iaspis – but stay out of sight. I’ve told my father you’re already in the dungeons.’ He smiles, searching my face with his eyes. ‘I know she’s insufferable, sometimes – but look after her, will you?’ I nod, without speaking. ‘Thank you.’
There’s a noise behind us as someone comes through the door, and Columen pulls me back against the wall. Once the coast is clear he looks at me again. ‘One more thing.’ He reaches round to the small of his back, pulling his cloak out of the way. His hand fumbles for a moment underneath the cloth. He’s looking down, with the concentrated look of someone who’s trying to locate something by touch. He tugs impatiently at the cloak, as though it’s in his way.
His dagger. Oh, shud – he’s getting out his dagger.
I try to step back, but there’s a wall in my way. I wait, frozen, feeling the stone press against my shoulder blades. The way he’s fumbling . . . he isn’t normally clumsy. Any moment now, he’ll have the blade in his hand. I feel cold wash over me, and the flat unyielding stone of the wall behind me, holding me there. I’m trapped. I should hit him, punch him in the windpipe, knock him out, before he has time –
But it’s too late.
He’s got it. I see his hand come round, the flash of a blade, and feel the raw clutch of panic in my gut. Has he – did he –? How does he know –? I don’t understand, but there’s nothing I can say. I squeeze my eyes shut and think, Go on, then. Do your duty.
When I open them again, he’s staring at me. He raises his eyebrows and shakes the knife at me as though he’s trying to attract my attention to it. He’s holding it in his left hand, hilt towards me. ‘Take it, idiot.’
‘What?’
‘You don’t have one. And I don’t like the thought of you going unarmed.’ He glances round, biting his lip. ‘I don’t think the castle’s in any real danger – but just in case. Go on. Take it.’
I reach out and take it. I want to laugh. I can feel how expensive it is just from the weight, the way it fits into my hand. It feels right. ‘Thank you.’
Columen grins briefly and shakes his head. ‘It’s good to know you’ve got it.’ I look down at the snow eddying round my feet and wait for him to leave. But instead, unexpectedly, he puts the heel of one hand on my forehead. ‘Be careful, Argent.’ He pushes, so I can feel the bones of his wrist against my skull, a firm, enigmatic pressure. Then he drops his hand and turns, without waiting for me to reply.
I watch him leave. My heart gives a funny jerk, like regret, or shame. Then I turn in the opposite direction, towards the corridor that will take me out on to the walls.
The city’s burning. As I come out on to the battlements I can smell it: the heavy, harsh smoke of burning wool and blackwood. I wipe snow off my face and my hand comes away dark grey with ash. You can even see the glow of the warehouses, off to the ghist, staining the sky red. There are men on the walls, pointing, yelling back to each other, loosing off arrows at things I can’t see. No one stops me as I go past.
The keep is surrounded by guardsmen, looking uneasy. You can hear the sounds of the siege more clearly from here: yells and screams, the rumble of the fires in the distance, a regular banging, an occasional clang. The men look at me suspiciously as I approach; but they’ve already seen me with Columen, and when I say, ‘Message from the Duke,’ – my voice hardly shaking at all – they shift aside without challenging me. I’ve still got Columen’s dagger in my hand. The hilt is slick with sweat and I can feel my pulse beating in my fingers. I ignore my fear and make myself walk into the gatehouse as though I have every right to be there.
The siegers are using a battering ram. It won’t work – the gate is far too thick, and anyway there’s a portcullis – but the noise makes the whole keep ring and echo unbearably. As I go down the steps towards the gate I can see things shake, blurring round the edges as they vibrate.
It’s too loud for the men on duty to talk to one another; they sit stolidly on benches at the side of the room. They don’t flinch at the sound of the battering ram, but the swords leaning against the wall opposite them shudder and ring at every blow. A couple of the men look at me curiously as I walk past, and I force myself to meet their eyes, the way Columen would, with that cool assumption of superiority. It works: they look away. I don’t know exactly where I’m going – I haven’t been through the main gate since the night they brought us here – but I follow the noise, making sure I don’t frown or look round too much. Now I’m getting closer it’s hard to distinguish between the battering ram and my heartbeat: my whole body is jolting.
There are only a couple of men on guard in the space directly in front of the gate. They’re pacing, axes slung over their shoulders, but somehow they look less jumpy than the men in the chamber I came through, and you can see why. The noise is overwhelming, a continual dull thud that sets your teeth humming, but the door is hardly moving. And in front of that there’s the portcullis, rooted in the stone. Even the lever that raises it is as sturdy as a broadsword. The keep won’t fall. The castle’s safe. The gate could last out th
e winter.
Unless someone opened it from inside.
The men look up as I approach. One of them stops pacing and stands in my way, legs spread. He looks down at me, chin tilted back, axe balanced on the leather pad on his shoulder. I say, ‘The Duke wants you. In the inner room.’ I have to shout to make myself heard; it makes me feel breathless.
The man runs his tongue along his front teeth and flicks a quick look at his partner. ‘Can’t leave our post, sonny,’ he says. ‘Captain’s orders.’ It takes me a moment to realise he’s talking about Columen.
I nearly say, ‘Please – it won’t take long –’ but I realise just in time that’s wrong. Instead I shrug. ‘The Duke said to go.’ I ought to turn and start to leave, but I can’t bring myself to.
He frowns. ‘More than my life’s worth, boy.’
I shrug again, but this time my shoulders are too tight to move properly. ‘He said to go. That’s all.’ My voice is too high; I sound like a girl.
‘Desert my post? I don’t think so.’
‘It was an order.’
He shakes his head. He says, with more conviction, ‘You’ll have to tell the Duke I’ve been told to stay here.’ He swings his axe off his shoulder and starts to pace again.
I clench my fists, feeling the nails bite into my palms. I don’t know what to do. I can’t just go. Not now. Not while I can hear the battering ram, not while I know that the Mereish rebels are just the other side of the wall, a few hycht away. I may not get another chance. I start to say, ‘But he –’
Unexpectedly the other man speaks. ‘Tell him, mate? You don’t tell the Duke anything. Least of all that you won’t do what he says.’ He shoots a look over his shoulder, at the door, the trembling portcullis. ‘You’d better go. I’ll stay here.’
The man whistles unhappily through his teeth. ‘The Captain said two of us. At all times, he said –’
‘And the Duke’s saying he wants to see you. So scarper.’ The second man winks at me. ‘This young ’un can help me keep watch. He’s one of the Captain’s men, too.’ He aims a casual kick at the portcullis. ‘Nothing happening here. Except getting a headache.’
‘You sure?’
‘I said, didn’t I? Go on. Shog off.’
I swallow. ‘I think – I think he meant both of you.’ But as soon as I say it I know it’s a mistake. They turn to look at me in unison, suddenly suspicious.
‘What, and leave the gate completely unguarded?’
‘Oh – well, maybe not. I wasn’t sure. No, of course, he can’t have done. Sorry.’ I’m stammering, trying to pretend I’m just a kid who’s got confused. I’ve given myself away. I’ve messed it up. ‘He just said – the guard . . .’ If they guess . . . I’ll end up in the dungeons. Or worse.
But unbelievably they swap a glance and relax. The first man shakes his head. ‘Next time you take a message, you make sure you’re clear what it means, all right? You could get yourself into trouble like that.’
‘Yes.’
‘Right.’ He hefts his axe again and gives a sort of salute to his partner, punching the air in front of him. ‘Back as soon as I can. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’ Then he’s out of the door, and I’m left with the other man and the merciless, incessant pounding of the battering ram against the gate. There must be hundreds of them, to keep that up this long. A whole company.
The man looks at me, working his jaw from side to side. ‘You are the Captain’s man, right? You were here with him, when he was giving orders?’
‘Yes.’ I can feel the fear rising now. I swallow and stare him out; in the end he looks away, but he’s still frowning.
‘And what did the Duke say, exactly?’
‘That he wanted to see the man on guard at the gate.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘No.’ My heart is beating so fast it’s painful. The air feels too thick, like freezing soup: it’s hard to breathe in.
‘Right.’ He takes a few steps away and runs a flat rough palm across the grille of the portcullis. He shoots a quick look back at me. ‘You – you’re the Mereish kid, aren’t you?’
Now. I should do it now, while he has his back to me . . . but I don’t. ‘Only half,’ I say. ‘My mother was from Petra Caeca.’ My hands are cold and clammy. Go on, go on . . . but I can’t move. There’s a new, deeper note to the banging, a kind of scraping, straining groan.
He nods and rubs at his hair. Then suddenly he swings round and smashes his fists against the metal bars. ‘This bloody noise! It gets inside your head. I can’t hear myself think.’ He leans his forehead on the portcullis, letting his hands droop over the bars to the other side.
I walk towards him, clutching Columen’s dagger so tightly my fingers have gone numb. I see him notice the movement and start to turn round. I see one of his hands twitching for his axe. I see him try to back away. I see the look on his face.
And then there’s nothing, only the noise, the pounding that goes on and on, and the blood. So much blood, on my hands and the floor and his clothes. And someone making a noise like they’re drowning, and at first I think it’s him – impossibly, appallingly still alive – until I realise it’s me, retching and choking and whimpering like an animal. I try to stand up, but somehow I can only get to my knees and then my legs don’t work any more. I crawl away, smearing blood across the paving-stones. Something clinks as I move. It’s the dagger, still in my hand, dark and stained and sticky. I put it down. I push at the floor with both hands, taking deep breaths. I have to stand up. I have to raise the portcullis. I have to open the gate.
I stand up. I’m shaking, but I’m on my feet. I step over the body and pull at the lever for the portcullis, dragging the handle down. It’s counter-weighted but all the same it takes all my strength to get it to move, and I heave at it urgently, because I know I don’t have much time. But when the mechanism bites it rises up smoothly, without even grazing the wall on either side. Now there’s only the gate.
It’s hard to lift the bars. I hadn’t realised how heavy they are. And every time I try to get hold of one, the door crashes and judders inwards, knocking me back. I wrench at the bars with hands that stick to the metal, hearing my own voice saying, ‘Please, please, please –’ I’m almost sobbing with desperation and tiredness. If they find me here, like this, before I’ve opened the gate . . .
I link my hands around the lower bar and push it up, straining every muscle, holding my breath – and just as I’m about to give up I see the edge of the metal ease over the top of the bracket that holds it in place. I muster all the force I can and drag it towards me. It’s too heavy to hold and I drop it on the floor with a resonant thump that sounds like it’s cracked the flagstones. But it’s out. I’ve done it.
I set my hand to the other one, ready to summon the last of my energy. But without warning the wood splits under my hand, tearing itself apart. I’m knocked backwards, off my feet; my head hits the wall and I’m on the floor. There’s shouting, and the noise of something cracking. The pounding stops. Suddenly there are people filling the room, pouring through the broken gate.
I hear my own language, surrounding me, like I’ve come home.
I open my eyes, and they’re there, the Company, flowing into the keep like floodwater, yelling to each other. A couple of them look round, or up at the raised portcullis, but most of them have disappeared before I can pick them out, sliding in single file into the stairwell or through the door, swords drawn. Mereish words come out of the babble – varesh, warrim, gweuthed – and I want to cry. I’ve done it. I’ve let them in. I shut my eyes again and my face is wet. I don’t wipe it because of the blood on my hands.
‘Argent!’
I look up, blinking. In the torchlight it’s hard to see faces clearly, but the voice . . . I’d know the voice anywhere, even if it wasn’t saying my name. My heart gives a little frightened jump, because I don’t dare to let myself hope, to let myself believe –
Ryn.
Neither of us move
s. Then, inexplicably, we’re in each other’s arms. I must have got up from the floor. She must have stepped forward. But it’s as if there was nothing in between seeing her and touching her, as if whatever brought us together was something else, like a blade and a lodestone leaping towards each other.
I’m crying properly now, closing my eyes and pressing my face into the warmth of her shoulder, and her hands are digging into my back, pulling me even closer, as though she’ll never let me go. ‘Argent, min levthe, min heird . . . we thought you were dead, Argenshya, you shudfargtte, we thought you were dead.’
‘Who are you calling shudfargtte, wormface?’ I say, and we laugh helplessly, both of us still fighting tears.
Ryn pulls away and looks into my face, keeping hold of my arms. ‘What are you doing here, anyway? How did you – what happened – should you be –?’ She puts her hands on her forehead and shakes her head. ‘I mean . . . oh, ageirt, there’s no time to talk now.’ She glances round. We’ve been left behind; we’re the only people in the chamber, except for the body on the floor. ‘Why are –?’ She grimaces, staring at the blood. Then she looks back at me and her face changes. I see her take in the stains on my hands, the dark red smears on my clothes that could be rust or marsh-reed pollen. ‘Varesh meither, Argent . . . you opened the doors for us?’
I nod.
She gives me a long, steady look. I can’t read her expression. Then she takes my face in her hands, as if I’m a child, and kisses me deliberately on the mouth. She steps back. ‘You did well.’
‘Did I?’
‘Of course.’ She looks at my hands again and adds, ‘You killed the guard?’
‘Yes – I –’
‘That’s all right. You had to.’ She nods at the dagger beside the corpse. ‘You should keep that. You’ll need it.’ When I don’t move she bends, picks it up, offers it to me. ‘Take it, Argesha. We’ll show these bloody murdering bastards a thing or two.’
She turns and walks towards the doorway that will take her up the staircase on to the walls. It’s only then that I notice the stains on her clothes, the patches of dirt and ash and blood. There’s a clot of something in her hair, something yellow and fatty, like tallow; her boots have a tidemark of dark above the ankles. And her knife is as dull and wet with blood as mine is. A kind of dread begins to gnaw at my breastbone, chewing at me.
The Traitor Game Page 15