by Rj Barker
“The king wants you,” she said, and my heart sank.
On my way to the tower I ran into my master as she limped across the courtyard.
“Girton, you look troubled.”
I gave her a curt nod and she pulled me to one side. In the Whisper-that-Flies-to-the-Ear I explained about the ambush and how I had been left with no choice but to use the black hammer, and what Boros had said to me. The faint lines and creases age had gifted her gave her a serious air. It belied the often impish sense of humour that had come to the fore as she got older—though there was nothing humorous about her now.
“I will deal with this,” she said and I glanced down. In her hand a slim tokolik knife had appeared, the kind that barely left a wound to find. It was so hot she wore only a skirt and short-sleeved jerkin and I wondered how she had hidden the knife. She never ceased to surprise.
“Not like that,” I said, closing my hand around hers. “Not yet. Boros has not said anything or I would be in chains. He is my friend, we have been friends a long time. He will see that, he will trust me.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I hope you are right. In the meantime, I will keep my eyes open for this assassin.”
“Master,” she looked up at me, eyes questioning, “do not be hasty. Come to me if you find anything and I will deal with it.”
She reached up and patted me on the cheek with a smile.
“Maybe I should call you master now, eh?”
“I left a message in scratch for the assassin.”
“It is unlikely this one will answer.”
“But worth a try. Now I must go, Master, Rufra wants me. Do nothing foolish.”
“But, Girton,” she said, bringing her hands up in the gesture of surprise, “like you, I am a fool.” She nodded her head toward the tower. “Go. I will still be alive when you return, and so will Boros.”
I left her and headed into the tower and up the stairs, now mostly free of slime though the place still stank abominably. Boros was waiting for me on the stairs in front of the rickety door we had fashioned, together, for the third floor, which Rufra was to use as his receiving room. Boros’s scarred face was unreadable but his eyes, which always showed so much of the turmoil within him, were hostile. As I came near he stopped me so he could whisper in my ear.
“If Nywulf trusted you, then I will honour that trust, for now, and play my part in front of the king. But believe me, if more misfortune falls on Rufra I will unmask you for what you are without a second thought.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Do not thank me, do not come close to me. You are dead to me from now on, Girton Mage-Bent, dead. I will not stand near you or with you.” He took a step back. “I cannot abide the stink.”
With that he walked into the throne room, leaving me feeling crushed and lonely in a way I had not felt since I was training at Maniyadoc Castle. Disappointed too, I had thought better of Boros, I had thought us closer, but such was the mania and fear the thought of sorcerers brought—people like me had, after all, almost laid the Tired Lands to waste. I took a deep breath and followed him in.
Though Rufra had made the third floor into a throne room, it was not much of one. Wood had been found to raise his chair a little above us and benches had been set up with a space in front for Gusteffa to perform. As I entered the dwarf gave me a small wave with her hand, using her fingers in the way of a small child. I grinned at her. She never failed to amuse me, but my grin felt false and nervous and I was sure someone would pick up on it. If Rufra did it was impossible to tell. He was flanked by Aydor, Celot and prince Vinwulf, and his face was a picture of misery.
“Boros tells me you decided to take a night-time excursion.”
“Aye,” I said.
“I did not allow this,” he sighed, and though I knew this was a piece of theatre—that he had allowed this, if only tacitly—I still felt resentful at knowing I was about to be scolded like a naughty child.
“You should punish them, Father,” said Vinwulf, almost unable to hide the smile on his face. Rufra turned from us to his son.
“This is a matter for adults.”
“I am fifteen,” said Vinwulf, drawing himself up to his full height. He was tall and broad for his age.
“Go with Gusteffa, Vinwulf, and make sure your sister, stepmother and new brother are kept safe.” I wondered, for a moment, if Vinwulf would rage at his father—he was a boy given to raging—but Gusteffa took his hand in hers and he let himself be led away. Rufra watched him go.
“You need to take a harder rein with that boy,” I said. To the king’s left Aydor nodded but Rufra did not see. He was staring at me, anger making the corner of his mouth twitch.
“Boros also tells me that, while in Ceadoc Castle, you killed four men.”
“They attacked us,” said Boros. His voice sounded thin, unreal.
“Because you were not meant to be there,” growled Rufra.
“But …” began Boros. I could hear anger in his voice and cut him off. If he lost his temper there was no knowing what he may say, what he may reveal.
“We were meant to be there,” I said.
Rufra’s eyes snapped back to me and the anger he already felt at me for criticising his son flared, powered by the guilt he felt because he had sent us into Ceadoc and we had nearly died.
“And why do you say that, Girton Club-Foot?” He only ever used my full name as a way of slowing down his speech so he could hold his temper in check.
“It was a trap, King Rufra,” I said. Rufra sat back in his chair, relaxing slightly now he knew I was not going to accuse him of sending us out.
“How do you know this?”
“The room. It was chosen so I could not fight back, probably by the same assassin who tried to kill Voniss. And the men wore no armour.”
“Not everyone can afford armour,” said Rufra.
“No, but they were fighting men. I think they removed any armour they had so they could not be identified.”
“If they did not have time to find more armour,” Rufra was interested now, leaning forward and pulling on his beard as he spoke, “that means this was arranged in a hurry.”
“Probably,” I said.
“Which means we are watched,” said Rufra, “and watched closely.”
“I like nothing about this place,” said Boros. He looked at me when he said it.
“Neither do I,” said Rufra, “and later we must go to the formal announcing. We must be strong,” he said, standing. “Remember what Nywulf used to tell us when we were in training: you gain strength through togetherness. We must stand together.” I nodded. “Now, I must talk with Boros alone. He is to lead our honour guard, you can go, Girton. I have Celot here. Take Aydor and find Vinwulf. He has been lax in his training.”
“I saw him training this morning,” said Aydor.
Rufra shook his head.
“I meant you, not him.”
Aydor laughed, a huge grin on his face. “Aye, come on then, Girton, I’ll spar with you and we’ll let Vinwulf watch two real masters at work.”
As we set off down the stairs, Aydor chattering about how disappointed he was that he had missed the fight, I caught a smell that I recognised.
“Aydor,” I said, stopping him. “Breathe on me.”
“Do what?”
“Breathe on me.” He gave me an odd look before shrugging his shoulders and breathing hard in my face. There, that spicy scent, the same I had picked up from the men who attacked Boros and I.
“What have you eaten today, Aydor?”
“Soup, why? Do I have it on my face?” He scrubbed at his face and beard with a hand.
“You do, but that is not why I ask. The men who attacked us had eaten the same food as you. Where did you get it?”
“Highguard’s kitchen. It was good too, I had four helpings. Would have had more but they were miserly and wouldn’t let me.”
“Did you see anyone leave in a hurry while you were there?”
&nb
sp; “No, but I was busy with my soup.” I nodded, Aydor seldom had little time for anything else when he was eating.
“So the men who attacked us were highguard.”
“Not necessarily,” he said.
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s an open kitchen. Any guest can eat there. I saw men and women from at least four different retinues.”
“Fitchgrass piss.” I kicked at the step. “I thought I had found a clue.”
“Sorry,” he said, and we continued to walk down the stair. “You sure they were after you, not just thinking you were intruders?”
“Yes. I foiled the assassin’s attempt on Voniss. The best way to stop that happening again is to take me out of the picture. I bet if Boros had gone alone no one would have bothered him.”
“They’d probably run screaming if they met Boros alone in a dark corridor, think Dark Ungar had come after them.” As we left the tower and passed a slave bringing apples, he grabbed one and gave the boy a wink. “You should look for armour.”
“What?”
“Armour,” he said, gnawing on the apple with his few teeth. “You said they’d taken off their armour to attack you. Find the armour, find who sent them.”
“Sometimes, Aydor,” I said, clapping him on the back, “you are a genius.”
“All the time, actually,” he replied with a grin as we walked toward where Vinwulf practised. “Just few people see it.” Then he threw his apple core at Vinwulf, bouncing it off the back of his head. “Stop prancing around with that sword, boy,” he shouted. “Girton and I are here to show you how it should be done.”
Much could be said about Prince Vinwulf—that he was rude, unpleasant and even, on occasion, cruel—but it was hard to fault his skills with a weapon. His primary weapons tutors were Aydor, Celot and myself and he had picked up the best of all of us. He could not beat us, not yet, but I had no doubt one day he would best us all, and not merely because he was young while we got older. A fierce mind worked behind his washed-out grey eyes. I only wished it was a kinder one.
As we fenced, Anareth came out from under Voniss’s skirts. She copied our movements with a stick, twisting and turning, sometimes with me and sometimes with Aydor. For a girl of six, she was not half bad—though I noticed she rarely moved more than a few paces away from Voniss. After an hour Aydor called a halt to our practice and Vinwulf left with him to find food. Voniss called me over as I was about to leave. She sat with her babe sleeping soundly in her arms. Voniss leaned forward, wincing.
“Are you in pain, Voniss?”
“Childbirth is always painful for a woman, Girton, and falling off a mount did not help.”
“I apologise. I—” She waved my apology away.
“No need, I jest with you. You saved my life and you saved Aydon’s life. Rufra and I owe you more than we can ever repay.”
“You should tell him that.”
“He knows,” she said, quietly, “and I think in some way it only adds to a debt he already feels is unpayable.”
“I do not ask for it to be paid.”
“He knows that too,” she said, “but that is not why I asked you to come over, Girton.” She leant in close. “Would you speak to Anareth? She will speak to no one since the attack. Sometimes I see her with her stuffed mount, Hilla, whispering to it, but if she sees me she ceases to speak. She clings to me—will not leave—but she will not speak. I wondered if you would try.” I nodded. “Thank you, but do not do it now. She is happy playing.”
Voniss pointed at the princess, who was pretending to scamper her stuffed mount around her in a circle. The thing was well loved and leaking straw from the many places it had been stitched where Vinwulf had pierced it with his sword: something I had told Rufra to beat out of the boy, but he had simply made excuses for him. “High spirits, Girton. The boy has just lost his mother, Girton.” Always something.
“I will speak to her, Voniss.”
“Good. Also, the Festival Lords wish to see you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. Is that so strange?”
“In all honesty, yes. I have never heard of them wishing to see anyone who is not Blessed. I’d expect to be called by Xus the unseen before I would meet the Festival Lords.”
“Well, let us hope that is not the case. They have asked particularly for you, I received their messenger this morning.”
“The messenger could not come to me?”
“It is not how it is done.” She shrugged. “Say you will go, please.”
I stared out into the shanty city beyond the portcullis gate.
“Could they not give their message to you to give to me?”
“I have left Festival now, Girton. As I said, it is not the way things are done.”
“Very well. Did they say when?”
“At your convenience, which is not now, Girton. It will be the announcing of the Blessed in the main hall soon. You should go and get changed for that.”
“And wash,” I said.
“Yes,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “I was going to suggest it.”
Chapter 10
I had been warned in advance about the announcing of the blessed. This was a ceremony to begin the election of a new high king. Each candidate or king with a vote would be brought forward and announced to the high king’s household. As Rufra was nominally expected to win we would be brought in first, which was both a blessing and a curse: a blessing because it would give me a good look at everyone who was gathered here and a chance to weigh them up; a curse because I would have to stand still pretending I cared about the Tired Lands’ great and good for hours. Then I would have to be polite to them as they made small talk with Rufra afterwards. I had hoped my master would come with us but she had cried off, saying she was tired and needed to sleep.
She slept a lot now.
At least, as Rufra’s Heartblade, I was spared the misery of wearing a formal kilt, if not the misery of a formal procession.
Once I was in my full Death’s Jester motley, armour hidden beneath it, face carefully made up, I joined the rest of Rufra’s court. Voniss was spared the procession, having just given birth, and as Anareth refused to leave her side the princess was also missing. Celot had stayed with the women, together with most of Rufra’s guard. Thirty accompanied us. I took my place at Rufra’s side and Xus made a playful bite at the king’s mount, Balance. Rufra tightened his reins, stopping his mount joining in the game. Boros was on the king’s other side, holding the bonemount with its mismatched antlers. Aydor rode behind him with Dinay, the child hero of Gwyre, who now, as a grown woman, headed Rufra’s heavy cavalry.
“Control your animal, Girton, the whole of Ceadoc will be watching us.”
“Dead gods, Rufra,” said Aydor, “may as well ask me to stop drinking as ask anyone to control Xus.”
A smile brushed Rufra’s lips, though only for a moment.
“Forward,” said the king, and the portcullis rose with the grating of complaining metal and seldom-used gearing. Outside, the town of Ceadoc waited and Landsmen lined the route we were to take. There were people waiting again, dirty, ragged, unhappy looking people who watched us with wide eyes and thin, pock-marked faces.
They did not speak.
They looked hungry.
Many times I had ridden in procession with Rufra, and even when not in procession simply to ride with Rufra through Maniyadoc was to be subject to cheers and shouts. His people loved him.
Ceadoc met us only with silence.
The Landsmen who lined our route, in the rare moments they actually looked at us, were openly resentful. But the people only stared. Part of me wished they would shout abuse at us, anything other than this oppressive silence. The entire route from the Low Tower to the main gate was thinly lined with the people of Ceadoc and not one said a word. It was only as we rode into the cold shadow of the gate, mount claws echoing from the heavy stones around us, that I realised why. At first I had thought them unfriendly, even hateful, but
I had never seen a mob act like this before. Hate would have ended with rubbish or stones being thrown at us and there was none of that. No, the people of Ceadoc were scared.
I did not think it was fear of us in particular. I think it was normal for them, that here, in this place and for whatever reason, fear was a way of life. I glanced over at Rufra, who rode with his head down, his teeth chewing on his bottom lip in a gesture I recognised as either deep thought or frustration, and understood his reasoning for being here a little better. The Rufra I knew had not fled completely. He looked at a people cowed and scared and could not bear it, and that must be why he wished to be high king. Not for power, not to push his ways on the land—though no doubt he would. He wanted these people to stop being frightened and, as Xus trotted along the cobbles, I found myself sitting a little taller in my saddle.
“Careful of Xus,” I said as I handed his reins to a stablehand. “He bites.”
“I know,” said the stablehand as I passed over the rein. Xus let out a low growl, as if to ensure the man knew his place, and then let himself be led after Balance towards the high king’s stables.
Formed up, we walked into the main hall behind Rufra. At the door we gave up our weapons, although as Heartblade I was allowed to keep mine, for all the use it was. To bare a blade before the throne of the high king was a crime punishable by anything from whipping to immediate death, depending on the largesse of whoever sat on the throne. On one side of the processional path it seemed every priest in the Tired Lands was lined up, singing moansongs of death in a bid to drown out the Children of Arnst who were arrayed opposite them in black rags and filth, wailing tunelessly for the dead yet to come.
As welcoming fanfares went it was a poor one.
Fires burned, failing to heat the massive stone space even though the air outside was scorching. As we entered, air was sucked out through the huge doors, swirling the smoke from the fires and round into our faces and we had to fight not to cough. We made our way forward to be greeted with tears streaming down our faces and the whole procession had more of the air of a funeral than a king’s entrance to a great court. I was desperate to wipe at my face but Rufra did not, so I did not.