by Rj Barker
Behind me Aydor grumbled, “Dark Ungar’s blood, someone should poke a hole in the ceiling of this place, let the smoke out.” I heard the jingling of armour as he wiped at his face, Aydor cared nothing for propriety.
Gamelon waited for us, surrounded by more of the banners of red-headed Darsese in repose, and this time his gaggle of children and dwarves was arrayed behind him in neat lines. The singing of the priests stopped abruptly and then the wailing of the Children of Arnst slowly drew to a close, though stray yelps continued to interrupt the silence. With Gamelon stood Neander, now wearing the traditional mask of a high priest, festooned with lizard feathers and with a long curled and pointed nose that was brightly striped. By them stood a man in the most elaborate armour I had ever seen. At the hard points of shoulder and elbow antlers had been worked into the armour so their points made sharp edges that could be used in combat, but he did not have the face of a fighter. Maybe he once had, now he looked like he ate too well and drank too much. Some would have thought him kin to Aydor, but Aydor walked like a warrior and this man did not, he had the rat eyes and suspicious face of a politician. I guessed him for Torvir ap Genyyth, head of the highguard. By him, in plain green armour, wearing a wide helm that had the white tree inlaid on it in enamel, was Fureth, Trunk of the Landsmen. He made no attempt to hide his dislike of us, though it was me in particular he seemed to focus on, not the king who threatened his power.
“Rufra, pretender to the high throne,” said Gamelon, and I felt myself bristling, though I knew it was not an insult, only the official title. “You stand before the representatives of Ceadoc. Take your knees.” He did, and we followed suit, the stone of the floor cold through the black trousers of my motley.
“I present myself to the high throne, having proven myself worthy in war and peace,” said Rufra.
Neander stepped forward.
“Then rise, Rufra ap Vthyr of Maniyadoc and the Long Tides, as you have been judged worthy. Bring only good omens, deny the hunger of hedgings and stay firm in the sure knowledge of the resurrection of the gods and the return of balance.” Cymbals clashed, covering the creaks of leather armour and Rufra’s sigh of pain as we stood. “Take your place in the hall, Rufra ap Vthyr, and know you and your people are welcome here.” Rufra gave a quick nod and led us to a set of benches set out under a long flag embroidered with his flying lizard. I followed the flag up and the ends of it vanished into the smoke-filled rafters. Behind me our party sat on the benches but Rufra, as king, I as Heartblade and Boros as bearer of the bonemount had to remain standing. Once we were settled the singing and moaning started up again but this time it was joined by the clashing noise of a cymbal band.
“Dead gods take pity on me,” whispered Aydor behind me. “This is a poor day to be hung over.”
After half an hour of waiting and listening to more of what the kind called “music” the next party came in. I wondered whether we had been kept waiting because of poor planning or simply as an insult to Rufra. That Gamelon did not seem flustered made me suspect the latter. I watched, glad things had finally started to happen. It was a small party, not overly flashy. The blessed leading it was young.
“Dons ap Tririg of Two Rivers,” said Aydor from behind me. “Small-time really, nice enough. His father rode with Rufra at Goldenson Copse and he has ties to the remnants of the ap Glyndier and the ap Vthyr but he gives us his vote.”
I nodded. Aydor had promised to keep me up to date with who was who. He had a fascination with the heraldry of the Tired Lands whereas I found it intensely dull.
I also find it best not to become too familiar with men I may have to kill.
Dons and his party walked up the aisle to go through the same ceremony we had been through. I would have to watch this another twenty-two times, and listen to more interminable singing each time. It was not Dons who was most interesting in his party, however; it was the man who walked by him as his Heartblade. He was armed with two stabswords in scabbards strapped to his thighs. He wore not skirts and jerkin but harlequin armour, of the type I had used as a young man. Though where mine had sported the patches of the harlequin through necessity, stitched together out of scraps, his was very finely made. He had the rangy gait of a fighter, an obvious awareness of the world around him, and he wore a hood to cover his face. I imagine he thought it gave him an air of mystery. No doubt he introduced himself as an assassin, though it was clear to me he was not. Possibly he came from one of the hidden schools that occasionally sent poorly trained fools to try and kill Rufra, though it was more likely he was a mercenary taking advantage of the current fashion. He turned his head toward me and I saw a small beard, sharp nose, scarred cheeks. He gave me a nod as if we were in some way alike.
I ignored him.
Aydor had told me that, in theory, any blessed could throw their hat into the ring and bid to be high king, but the reality was that while Rufra and Marrel ap Marrel lived they both had too much support and strength for anyone else to bother. But, of course, if one of them died then things changed. So I watched and paid attention as the day carried on, interminable wailing as way of entertainment and then the presentation of some Tired Lands blessed or other. In most cases they were accompanied by someone who dearly wanted to be seen as an assassin, while Aydor whispered to me their name and heritage. Of them all there were only four that really interested me. The first was Rufra’s uncle, Suvander ap Vthyr, who ruled the ap Vthyr lands. I had never met the man and Rufra very rarely talked of him. He was brother to Neander the priest and shared a face with him, all crags and outcrops, weathered with age. As he walked up the aisle I could almost feel Rufra’s muscles tightening next to me. As far as I knew Rufra had never tried to approach his uncle, though once a well-meaning group of Riders had set out in the name of Rufra’s peace to effect a reconciliation. Whether this was set in motion by some of Rufra’s subtle urging or as a product of youthful hope and exuberance I do not know. Whatever the cause, they did not return.
“Now there’s a vote we won’t get,” said Aydor behind me.
With Suvander walked his advisers, bonemount bearer and family. By him walked a Heartblade. He at least did not affect the ways of the resurgent assassin cult. He wore a long skirt of armour, thousands of tiny enamel plates that were tied with a belt around his waist and then fell to his knees. The hard joints at shoulder and elbow looked rusty, though I did not believe it for a second, and he walked like a hunting lizard, a light tread that made me think he was about to pounce. He wore no helm and only carried a long blade at his hip. When he looked around the room I was surprised to see he was young and had the same dark skin as my master, though the shape of his face was different—rounder, giving him an almost amiable air until you caught his eye. When he saw me looking we locked gazes, only for a moment, but I felt the challenge in it.
“Who is he?” I whispered to Aydor.
“Colleon. Came in on a ship about five years ago. Killed a lot of men.”
I nodded, watching as Suvander and his entourage went down on their knees. Again, all men, and most were stamped with the same craggy features as Suvander and his brother. I glanced over at Rufra, his face set hard as stone in an effort to betray no feeling.
Maybe when Rufra was crowned high king I would slip poison into the food of his uncle, as a coronation present.
The second blessed to interest me was Marrel ap Marrel, Rufra’s only real competition for the high king’s throne. I had met the man before, many times, and even visited his crumbling keep on the edges of the Ragged Wetlands on the other side of the great western souring. I liked him, it was hard not to. He was a big man, fond of the good things in life and he treated his people well. He had not freed his slaves, or given his thankful and living the opportunity to rise as Rufra had, but he looked after his people and no one in his lands starved. He clothed himself in lizard skins, maned lizards were common in the Ragged Wetlands and the skins wrapped around him glittered in iridescent greens and reds. On one side walked his wif
e, Berisa Marrel, who was an excellent match to him, though when she stood by him it only accented how small she was. On the other side walked his Heartblade, Gonan, who was getting old now, and his apprentice, Bilnan, who affected the look of an assassin even though I suspect his master teased him mercilessly about it. I had not met Bilnan, only heard of him, and I wondered where the years had gone. It must have been much longer than I had thought since we had visited Marrel’s lands.
After Marrel, were more whom I could barely remember or stay interested in. I had hoped it would only be the twenty-one main blessed, but it seemed every owner of a failing keep or ruined longhouse had come to Ceadoc for the presentation of a high king. So my pool of suspects grew and grew. Nothing was ever easy. I wondered if all had been housed in the outer towers of Ceadoc as we had—or whether such niceties were only afforded to the most powerful of the gathered blessed.
When the ap Survin were announced, Rufra glanced over at me and when they approached, led by the son, Olek ap Survin, I saw him nod to himself. The son spoke to Gamelon.
“I am Olek ap Survin, son of Dannic ap Survin. I come in his stead as my father sickened and died on the journey here. He stands with Xus in his dark palace now.” He was young, and looked stricken by grief—my doing. It was rare I saw the personal consequences of my actions, and it was not something I was comfortable with, but I could not look away or show any emotion. Rufra would notice and pick me up on it later, so I watched him as he haltingly accepted Gamelon’s not very convincing commiserations and the ceremony continued.
The next blessed to interest me was Leckan ap Syridd. He was a powerful man whose father controlled trade along the northern coasts of the Tired Lands.
“His father is a good man but Leckan has all the brains of a mount’s arse,” said Aydor from behind me. “At least this means it’s nearly over.”
I did not know whether or not that was true, but there was no doubting he was a rich man, and a vain one. His entire entourage were dressed in matching clothes, not armour. They were not warriors, more a collection of merchants from the look of them. He also brought no bonemount. He had a standard, but it was a picture of a bonemount painted on skins and it was held by a boy, not much more than a child. Leckan himself was tall and thin, he wore clothes of many colours, sewn together to look like one piece of material in a similar cut to the robes that fell around Gamelon. The steward’s children and dwarves evidently found Leckan hilarious, but the man did not seem to notice. Behind Leckan stood his Heartblade, small, drably dressed, staring about her as if she were a country thankful overwhelmed by how grand the main hall was. But I knew, without doubt or question, from the way she moved, from the way her eyes lingered for just a little too long on every sword or club, from the way she made eye contact with me and smiled—the smallest smile, the smile of an equal—that this was not the case. Leckan ap Syridd may be as foolish as Aydor said, but of all the blessed gathered here he was the only one who had managed to get himself a real assassin as Heartblade.
I would need to speak with her.
There was a relaxing in the hall after Leckan. Even the wailing, singing and playing seemed a little less frantic now we knew there was only one blessed left to present themselves to the high throne. The hall was almost full with the various courts of the Tired Lands, each under their respective flag and behind their bonemount bearer. I did not envy the bearers; a bonemount was a heavy thing and to let it touch the floor was seen as a bad omen. Cushions were brought to rest the ends of the standards on, but it was still hard work to hold one straight for hours on end. I glanced at Boros, who stared stolidly ahead, though whether he was concentrating on holding the bonemount or avoiding looking at me I could not know. When the final blessed did make their way up the aisle, making thirty-four in total, there was an almost Festival-like air to the proceedings. Everyone was hungry, tired and thirsty—especially those of us who had been here from the beginning—so the appearance of Baln ap Borlad was a cheering one.
“What do you know of this one, Aydor?” I whispered.
“I know we can go for a drink when he’s finished.”
“What do you know that is helpful?”
I heard a dramatic sigh from behind me.
“Not much. Mountain blessed; keeps to himself; only has thirty or forty troops.”
“But he still has a vote?”
“I’m surprised the blessed’s dogs don’t get votes sometimes.” I caught Rufra trying not to smile at Aydor’s words. “But no, he’s an unknown—and as far as I know a late arrival—so he won’t get a vote unless he can get Rufra or Marrel, as the strongest contenders, to recognise him as blessed.”
Baln ap Borlad was an impressive sight, not big, but he held himself like a warrior and unlike many of the other blessed he had not removed his helm. He wore his visor down to reveal the grimacing and scarred face carved on it. His enamelled shirt was silvered, and the troops who followed him walked in locked step, each man as glittering and shining as the one before. His Heartblade was an enormous man, his armour was also silver though each shoulderpiece had a stripe of green which I took to mean he had once been a Landsman. In my youth death had been the only way to leave the Landsmen’s service, but over the years they had softened their rules and many ex-Landsmen fought in the retinues of the blessed now. There were even a few among Rufra’s troops and I had slowly, if grudgingly, come to trust them. Just because Baln’s Heartblade was an ex-Landsman did not mean he was a bad man, but until he had proved otherwise I would find it hard to think of him any other way. He looked capable, but he also set me on edge and I did not know why. In fact, the whole retinue of Baln ap Borlad set me on edge, small though it was, and it made me wish for a blade in my hand.
I glanced at where the high throne stood. Neander behind his mask was unreadable, Gamelon wore a look of faint amusement but had done since the ceremony started, and Fureth, Trunk of the Landsmen, was almost grinning. They knew something, and I felt that whatever it was we would not welcome it. I glanced at Baln’s Heartblade. He made my head ache. My hand fell to the hilt of my blade, brushed against it for reassurance. Behind me I felt Aydor shift in his seat, and Rufra glanced at me, aware of my disquiet but not why.
What was happening here? What had I missed?
As Baln ap Borlad knelt and started to undo his helmet it clicked into place. I knew exactly what was about to happen. A joke was being played here, but it was a cruel one and one that would have terrible consequences. And worse, it was a joke I could do nothing about.
A long time ago, when Rufra first fought for his throne there had been a man called Chirol—though that was not his real name.
Baln ap Borlad put his hands to his helmet.
Chirol had many names and he did many terrible things. But he was most famous as the man who had taken Boros’s face off with a single blow of a mace. There was no one in the world Boros hated more than Chirol.
The helmet came up.
Boros hated Chirol with a fanatical, singular passion because Chirol’s attack on Boros went far deeper than two men fighting in war. Chirol’s real name was Barin and he was Boros’s twin.
The helmet came off.
Under it I saw the face of a man who, even after so many years, was beautiful beyond compare. His long blond hair falling ruler-straight around a face that would be considered too absurdly handsome for even the most outré romantic fantasy played at Festival.
Boros ap Loflaar’s brother, Barin ap Loflaar, had been given another name during the war of the three kings. He had been named for the herds of feral pigs that preyed upon men: they called him the Boarlord.
Barin ap Loflaar.
Barin the Boarlord.
Baln ap Borlad.
How he must have laughed when he came up with that.
From Rufra’s opposite side came a scream of pure rage. Events unfolded as if scripted by a playwright, as inevitable and unstoppable as words written on a page.
The bonemount fell and my first t
hought was to catch it to avert ill omens for Rufra. Diving forward, making a grab for it. The weight of the mount skull dragging it toward the floor. My muscles twisting and bunching as I fight it. The cut on my arm making me want to scream in pain the way Boros is screaming in rage. Boros crashing into me, knocking me off balance as he pushes past, and only swift action from Aydor, grabbing the staff, stops the bonemount touching the floor. Rufra makes a grab for Boros, but he is too quick for the wounded king. He dances round him. Dinay, who lost more than any of us to Barin, makes a dive for Boros, but he is gone, running across the short distance between us and his brother. A stabsword has appeared in his hand. Dead gods! It is mine. A gift from Rufra many years ago. He must have taken it when he ran into me. Boros is screaming, a terrible, wild and inhuman sound that echoes around the massive hall, more fearsome and awful than any music the Children of Arnst could make.
Barin was calm, still on his knees, and he did nothing but turn his head toward his brother. His impossibly beautiful face a mask of serenity as the knife—my knife—comes down.
Swords stopped Boros. The blades of the highguard and of Barin’s huge Heartblade locked into a shield before the knife came anywhere hear him. Then more soldiers were there, smashing into Boros, knocking him to the floor and pinning him down. Rufra striding forward, shouting for Boros to be quiet, apologising to Gamelon. The hall was afire with noise, while I stood with Aydor, motionless and confused, holding the bonemount so it did not touch the floor and curse Rufra’s bid for the high kingship with a bad omen. I felt like the fool I was dressed as. A fallen bonemount was nothing compared to a member of his court attacking a blessed before the high throne.
“Quiet,” roared Fureth. “All will be quiet so the representative of the high throne may speak.”