King of Assassins

by Rj Barker

  “Khyfer! Khyfer the bladesmistress! Come and talk to us.” And Khyfer, who knew the look of trouble when she saw it, knelt by her daughter.

  “Daughter, who has known only beauty, run from this place and never look back. Know my love for you is for ever and if you love me too you will do this thing.” And Gwyfher nodded and turned and she ran and ran, but, before the village was out of view, she was stopped at the edge of the forest by an old woman.

  “Where do you run to, young Gwyfher?”

  “Away, as my mother has told me to. And I must never look back, wise mother.”

  “Are you not curious?”

  “Yes, wise mother.”

  “Then look back. What can it hurt?”

  And Gwyfher, who had never known pain, did not know that to look back always brings hurt. So Gwyfher looked back, and saw the man stood before her mother, and behind him more men.

  “Who are you that comes to my peaceful village?” said Khyfer to the man.

  “You should know who I am, for I have waited for this day, and trained for it, long on long,” said the man.

  “How long for?” shouted Khyfer. “A day? Or maybe a week?”

  But the dark man had no time for the exchange of insults. His mind was fired by the whispers of Dark Ungar.

  What Gwyfher saw then she could never not see. Her mother, fast and strong, fought the men. She fought hard, she fought well, but there were too many for her and in the end she fell and the leader of the men cut her head from her body.

  “See,” he shouted, holding the head of Khyfer aloft, “the face of the woman who slew my father!”

  And Gwyfher ran away, ran far and hard into the forest, her face wet with tears and her body stonestruck with grief. When she finally tired the wise mother found her once more and laid upon the floor two shining blades.

  “Here, girl, do you not wish to avenge your mother who was slain by these men?”

  “But I know nothing of blades,” said Gwyfher. “I know of only beauty.”

  “But you are the daughter of Khyfer, the bladesmistress; the blades are in your blood. You require only time to learn and I, daughter, can give you time and tricks aplenty.”

  And Gwyfher took the wreath of flowers from her neck and laid it on the floor by the blades.

  “Then give me time and tricks, wise mother. And Khyfer shall be avenged.”

  Years passed, as years will. And Gwyfher learned all the tricks of the blade her mother had known and many she did not, for although she did not know it she learnt her trade at the hands of Dark Ungar, servant of Torelc who wished for nothing but change.

  And one day she walked back into the village she had once called home, and she was arrayed in the clothes of war—the wide helm, the metal greaves, the enamelled shirt—and she saw men and women, many whom she had once known, and others whom she had not. Among them she saw the man who had killed her mother: saw him older; saw him kneel by a boy and speak some words to him. Saw him point to the river and she watched the boy run away without looking back.

  “Who are you that comes to my peaceful village?” said the man. And around him gathered his warriors, strong men with sword and spear.

  “This is my village,” said Gwyfher, “and it is you who came here when I was a young girl.”

  “And I that slew your mother, who took this village from my father.”

  At the mention of her mother Gwyfher drew her blades.

  “Enough talk,” she said. “I have trained for this day.”

  “For how long?” shouted the warrior. “A day? Or maybe a week?”

  But Gwyfher had no time for the traditional exchange of insults.

  Forward she came, angry and righteous. Her blades cut left; a man fell. Her blades cut right; a man fell, and soon only Gwyfher and the man who had killed her mother stood.

  “Maybe I trained for two weeks,” she said, “as time does fly when you are doing something you enjoy.” Gwyfher’s blades came down for the last time and blood danced across the floor and the people and the land cried out for Gwyfher’s victory.

  “My mother avenged,” she shouted, and cut the head from the dark man, lifting it aloft, “and our village shall know only peace now.”

  But in the bushes a small boy watched, and by him stood an old woman. And far above them all, Torelc, the god of time, who could see what had been and what would be, watched and smiled at what he had wrought and would wreak again.

  I finished in the position of the teller: my feet together, hands held palms together in front of my chest, my elbows sticking out to show the white lining of my suit against the black: I became a skeleton, a symbol of death and as still as any corpse. Despite the blood on the floor, despite the horror of what had gone on just before, I had danced well and knew it. I could feel the appreciation, even if no one spoke or applauded.

  Gamelon stared at me, his head to one side as if he were considering what I had done. He opened his mouth to speak but I did not intend to let him. He had brought Death’s Jester out and Death’s Jester would not be upstaged by him. I turned on my heel and walked away, striding down the aisle between the blessed of the Tired Lands, and I did not look back as I knew what I would see. I had walked through the pool left when they had cut out Boros’s tongue so I left a trail of bloody footprints leading back to Gamelon, the high seneschal of Ceadoc. Whatever game he played here, I would not play it.

  I was not the only one uncomfortable with Gamelon’s capricious attitude to death and punishment. I heard the jingle of armour followed by footsteps as many of the blessed took my leaving as an excuse to make their own exit. There was no talk, no laughter as may have been expected for what was meant to be, largely, a social gathering for people to get to know the new candidates for high king. The atmosphere, as people filed out the hall, was that of people leaving a corpse to be claimed by Xus.

  I did not look back. Instead I walked to the stables and found my own Xus, my mount, already saddled. I left a coin in thanks and lifted myself into the saddle. Xus leant his head back and tried to catch the side of my head with his antler, a new trick that I had quickly become wise to. I caught the end of his antler and used it to steer him round, then drove him at speed through the town, scattering the sad people of Ceadoc before me, and although Xus enjoyed such chaos, I felt small and petty for it. To them I must look like some terrifying hedgelord, clothed in black, face painted like a skull. When I reached the Low Tower, the portcullis was raised for me and I ignored the greetings, riding Xus straight to the stables. It was there Rufra found me, much later, brushing a purring Xus down.

  “A child’s story, Girton?”

  I turned. He was still on his mount so he could look down on me. With him was Prince Vinwulf, also mounted.

  “It was all I could think of at short notice.”

  “I liked it, Father,” said Vinwulf, his eyes sparkling. “I liked where he danced killing. It was like watching a swordfight.” He paused. “The way he slid from move to move, and became each character. Girton showed us the beauty of the blade, do you not think? I—”

  “Be quiet, Vinwulf.” Rufra shot his son a venomous look that robbed the sparkle from the boy’s eye. “What you did, Girton, was an insult to them.”

  “Death’s Jester makes its own choices. All know that.”

  “And all know you are my Heartblade!” Suddenly he was roaring. “What you do reflects on me!”

  A moment of silence. Vinwulf looked from his father to me.

  “Father could have you killed,” he said with a sly grin, but he had badly misjudged the mood and his father turned on him with a roar.

  “I said be quiet.”

  He hissed the words and smacked Vinwulf on the shoulder, pushing him backward so he fell from his mount, landing with a clatter of armour. Rufra stared at Vinwulf, his mouth moving without making sound. Then he jumped from his mount, wincing with pain and bringing his hand to the wound in his side as his feet hit the floor. He rushed round to Vinwulf, who was pus
hing himself away from his father using his elbows, his face full of alarm.

  “I am sorry, Vinwulf,” said Rufra. “I did not mean to—”

  “You never mean anything,” said Vinwulf, standing and brushing hay from his skirts. “Go be king, Father,” he said, turning away and walking out of the stable.

  Rufra followed him, but before he walked out of the stable he shot me a look, as if to say, “This was your fault.” I stood, angry, ready to chase after him, tell him how he was wrong.

  But I did not because he was not.

  I had chosen that story exactly because it was a children’s story and it insulted our host. I took a step toward Balance, she would need unsaddling and so would Vinwulf’s mount, a son of Xus’s called Ranit. As I took off Balance’s bridle I heard the familiar sound of my master walking—the thud of her stick, the fall of her foot—and with her came Aydor’s booming voice. They swept into the stable, Aydor leading his mount, Dorlay.

  “I see you have fallen out with the king again,” he said.

  “I would not say that,” I said. “You have to fall in to fall out.” Aydor gave me a gap-toothed grin and my master stumped over, placing her hand on the small of my back.

  “I will see to the mounts, Girton. You should find somewhere else to be for a while, let Rufra cool down.”

  “He will not.”

  “He will. You may have insulted Gamelon with your dance but many of the blessed will agree with what you did. To send a man to his death and demand a jester dance in his blood, it is poor manners.”

  “Poor manners?” I said, unable to hide how incredulous I was at her choice of words.

  “At the least,” she said. “People now know Rufra stands against the way Ceadoc has been run for generations. If anything, your show of disdain is likely to make him more popular.”

  “At the cost of Boros’s life.”

  “Boros made his own decisions. You are not responsible for them.” Behind my master Aydor nodded, though he did not look happy.

  “He is my friend,” I said.

  Her face clouded over, because she knew he was not—not since his discovery of the magic within me.

  “Friendships end,” she said, then before I could reply she changed tack. “Of all the children’s stories, Girton, why did you choose that one?”

  “The Angered Maiden?” I shrugged. “It just came into my head. Maybe because it was the first one I learned?” A strange expression crossed her face, almost dreamy, and she smiled, placing a cold hand on my cheek.

  “You are a good boy, Girton.” She patted my cheek. “Now, Voniss says the Festival Lords have asked for you. Go see them, get away from here for a few hours. It will be good for you.”

  I was about to argue because what I really wanted to do was go after Rufra and tell him that this wasn’t really my fault, make him see he was wrong. But before I could put my case forward Aydor spoke.

  “I wish I could come with you,” he said, taking my arm and leading me out. “Always fancied seeing a Festival Lord.” My master watched me leave and I knew there was no point arguing. They worked together in this, as they so often did, and I had been outmanoeuvred.

  Besides, I wanted to find out what the Festival Lords wanted. They were secretive and few ever got to meet them face to face. I was curious, and just a little nervous, about why they had asked for me.

  Chapter 12

  If I had hoped that leaving the Low Tower would clear the air I was wrong. Ceadoc stank like no town I had ever been through before. Many towns had open sewers, but few had as many people to fill them. Even a mostly empty-seeming Ceadoc was bigger by a number of magnitudes than any other town in the Tired Lands. Those people of Ceadoc who did not run in terror from me stared as if I were Dark Ungar himself, but I had neither time nor the desire to allay their fears. I wanted away.

  In the distance the fires of Festival spiralled into the air and I wove through the mostly empty streets of Ceadoc towards them. It was good to be moving away from the souring, I could feel my guts unknotting as I did. Even with the throbbing souring to use a lodestone it was hard to move through Ceadoc town, paths and roads twisted back on themselves and ended in dead ends. Houses and shacks had been built wherever their owners could find a space and the town had no sense of logic to it. I found myself on a street of butchers, cleavers rising and falling as if they were part of some bloody dance. In the heat the smell of rotting flesh was like another wall, it turned my stomach and I had to find another path.

  I could not lose the feeling I was being followed. Black figures flitting around the edges of my vision. More than once they came together into the ragged figures of the Children of Arnst, but they were not following me. they were just everywhere. I noticed the words “Darsese Lives” again. They had been scrawled all over the walls of the town and the Children of Arnst were often employed in washing the words away, sometimes watched by resentful groups of men and women. It struck me as odd. From what I knew of Darsese he had been cruel and distant, but people often clung desperately to what they knew, especially when times were uncertain. I passed a woman in the black rags of Arnst’s followers who had a tiny tray of bottles and was calling out her wares.

  “Open the gateway, my lovelies. Pass into the palace of Xus.”

  As I walked past her she opened one of the bottles, waving it from side to side so the stink of Cerryin, a poison used to rid houses of vermin, filled the air. She had one eye missing and fixed me with her good one as I passed, the void of her missing eye a hole threatened to engulf me.

  Then I was leaving the town. The muddy track turned to grass and the stink of the city started to ebb. Far to my left were the fires of Festival and I wished I had brought Xus instead of walking. Outside the walls of Ceadoc, in the darkness, I felt too exposed: like eyes were watching me, painting a target on my back. At first I fought the compulsion to turn, only moving my head, but the feeling I was watched became so strong I could not help myself acting on it. As I walked I rotated. At first I did it spreading my arms, telling myself that Death’s Jester cavorting on being free of the city was no strange thing—but it felt ridiculous, obviously pretend, and I quickly stopped. Instead I walked solidly, step after step, toward Festival, and on every eighth step I turned around, a slow pirouette that would let anyone following me know I knew they were there and that I watched for them. But all I saw was darkness and the lights of Ceadoc carouseling as I spun. Dark and light, dark and light.

  Eventually.

  I saw a man.

  He jogged toward me from the direction of the city, making no attempt to hide. He wore the twin stabswords and hood of the “assassins” that had become popular as Heartblades. I could not recognise him, not yet—he was too far away—but as he came nearer I recognised him as Bilnan who had accompanied Marrel ap Marrel. He smiled as he approached, showing his hands so I could see he held no blades. He was very young.

  “Girton Club-Foot?” he said.

  “Aye,” I replied, wary.

  “I was in the town and I saw you. And I saw you dance earlier—you were magnificent.” He took another step closer. “I do not know how to dance.”

  “Stay where you are,” I said and drew my Conwy blade, pointing it at him. He nodded, grinned.

  “Aye, maintain distance, give yourself room to move, right?” I stared at him. “Just like in the book.”

  “Book?”

  “The manual.” Bilnan looked puzzled. “The Assassin’s Manual. You wrote it, didn’t you? I always thought you wrote it.” I shook my head. “Really? But you are the greatest assassin of our age. I had just presumed it was you that—”

  “I am not the greatest assassin of—”

  “My aunt was at Gwyre, where Rufra smashed the nonmen,” he said, took another step forward. “She said you saved the entire town.”

  “A lot of good men and women died at Gwyre to save the town. I simply survived, but without the others I would have—” He took another step toward me and I shook my head
. “Stay there.”

  He nodded, then looked over my shoulder, eyes widening, brow furrowing as if he saw something he did not understand. The temptation to turn around was almost too much to bear. But I bore it. I had trained to bear such things, to not be distracted when it mattered. To focus on the threat no matter how innocuous it seemed. At this boy’s age I could have crossed the space between us in a moment, had my blade out and gutted my opponent before he blinked. I did not know Bilnan and could not trust him.

  The arrow that killed him was a noisemaker, designed to scare rather than kill. Though it did a good enough job.

  It howled past me and took the boy in the chest. He took a step back, his arms coming forward at the impact as if to clap and he let out a grunt, like he was lifting something heavy. He stared at the arrow in his chest and then lifted his head, looking up at me, a string of blood and saliva falling from his mouth. “I saw the archer,” he said. Then, the Speed-that-Defies-the-Eye, I was behind him, holding him up by the top of his arms. He was dead, though he didn’t know it yet. He made small sounds, somewhere between a cough and a hiccough as his lungs filled with blood. He gasped for breath and I used his body as a shield, scanning the horizon and the woodland for the archer, feeling Bilnan slowly become heavier and heavier. He was trying to talk and I whispered into his ear, “Shh, shh,” letting him think I was there for him as he took the hand of Xus when all I wanted was for him to be quiet so I could listen for the archer.

  As the boy’s breathing slowed and stopped his body took on the leaden heaviness of death. I lowered him to the ground. The archer, whoever they had been, was gone. What’s more, I was sure the arrow had not been meant to kill me, why use a noisemaker? I looked to the arrow for a clue as some blessed used coloured lizard feathers for fletching, but these were simply plain white. The arrow could have come from anywhere. I could reach out, try and sense the life, but with so much life in the land and the town one person would be almost impossible to find.

  I pulled the arrow from Bilnan’s body. Wrapped around the shaft was a small roll of parchment. I took it and unrolled it. At the top, written in scratch, were my own words from the room Boros and I had been ambushed in, though they were written in a hand I did not recognise: “Who are you?” Beneath it, in the same hand that had copied out my words, it said, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”