by Rj Barker
I could not listen for long. I told myself it was not cowardice on my part that stopped me sharing Boros’s horror, not a desperation to escape those lisped words of fire, but because the longer I held the assassin’s ear to the air the greater the pain became for me until it was something beyond bearing. Hard on the heels of the pain came exhaustion, and on its slow wings I slipped away to a place between worlds that was not quite sleep and not quite wakefulness. But in that place, even in its darkest depths, I half-dreamed the soft voice of an evil man describing a way to Xus’s dark palace that involved pain that would dwarf what I had put myself through—and a pain that Boros would have no easy escape from. Xus had no wish for suffering. If Boros had to die then Rufra was right, I would find a way to make it easy for him.
Or hard for Barin.
Those were the words of an old and dark force, one of anger and vengeance. Those words were not mine.
Though, in truth, I was not always sure of that.
Interlude
This is a dream.
Here is a moment of realisation.
She is sat by the grave and she imagines the crying is his, the child’s, the tiny body buried in the grave.
Her boy.
The grave is under a tree. The old woman, the wise mother as she calls herself, buried the child. She strung bright rags and straw hobby dolls around the grave to keep away the hedgings, left him here where the grass grew thickest.
“Here again, girl? You spend too much time here, and you don’t eat enough. The wound will sicken again if you do not eat.”
“Why didn’t you leave him out, for Xus to take?”
She steps: one, two.
“There are older ways, girl. That poor child had barely taken a step from Xus’s palace, he needed no priest to guide him back.”
“He waits for me there.”
“Torelc cannot enter Xus’s dark palace so time has no meaning for the child. Don’t be in no great hurry to follow him.”
“I …”
“Quiet, girl.” That sudden, urgent, word. She listens. The wind moves through the trees: “Shh, shh,” it says. The old woman shuffles across the clearing to her. Crouches.
“But—”
An old hand covers her mouth. She can feel the bones through it, thin as flying lizard skins. The woman smells of earth and cooking.
Voices.
Men.
Someone running. A shout.
Adran.
The old woman stares into her eyes.
“Stay here, Merela, and say nothing. Do nothing. Let me handle this.”
Adran breaks from the forest, eyes wide with fear, and she runs toward them like a young mount seeking the safety of the herd. From behind her come two men, dressed like guards: boiled leather, chained skirts, boots. Hard eyes. The ap Garfin crest scarred into their tabards. They stop at the wood’s edge. Staring at the three women.
“I’m sorry,” said Adran.
The old woman stands.
“You had to run somewhere, girl.”
The men are staring at Merela.
“It’s her. The trader girl. The one whose corpse vanished. There’s a fine price for her body.”
She tries to curl up, make herself small. The old woman strides forward. She seems energised, suddenly taller, suddenly younger.
“These are my daughters, the light one from my husband and the dark one is why my husband left. You have no business with them.” The men exchange looks. One of them narrows his eyes. “I am a healer. If you have aches and pains tell me and I will soothe them. Otherwise, be on your way.”
The smaller of the two men, not much smaller, they are both big and terrifying—skin ingrained with dirt that twists and reshapes itself into hedging, scowls.
“Could be that’s true,” he says.
“Could be,” says the bigger one.
“But as I think it, we take her to the blessed anyway, just in case. And what she says, healing? Well, that sounds like sorcerer talk to me.”
“Landsmen pay well for sorcerers,” says the bigger guard.
“Aye.” He grins. “Seems to me we can only lose if we walk on, old woman. Seems to me if we stay, we make a fair amount of coin.” His sword slides from its sheath with a noise like a lizard hissing a warning.
“Walk on,” says the old woman.
“Lie down to be tied, old girl,” says the smaller guard. “It’ll only hurt more otherwise.”
“Walk on,” she says, and in those two words Merela hears a world of warning she can barely believe. This old woman, this poor, bent old woman in the woods, manages to make herself sound dangerous. If Merela were not so scared she would laugh.
“That a threat, old girl?”
“A polite request.”
The men do laugh this time.
“Last warning. Stand aside.” He walks forward, draws back a fist.
Dies.
She moves so quickly the girl can barely follow: from out of the cloud of rags that is her skirts comes a knife. One thrust to the throat. Blood. A cascade of it. The second guard goes for his blade and before he can draw it she is there. Impossible. She moves in a blur. One moment standing where the blood flows and the next up against the second guard with her blade in his guts, one, two, three quick thrusts and he falls to the floor, gasping his life away.
As she watches she feels something inside her move—not the child, the child is gone, but something. Adran stands, mouth open, staring at the guards. But she, Merela, does not stand. First she crawls, then she scrambles to her feet, stumble-running to the old woman. For the first time she isn’t thinking about pain; she isn’t thinking about Vesin; she isn’t thinking about their child. She is only thinking about the voice inside her, the small, quiet voice that sparked into existence at the moment the old woman moved. At the moment the old woman killed. When she is stood in front of the old woman she doesn’t know what to do. She is on the cusp, the edge, teetering on a precipice, standing in the darkness but feeling like she can step, can fall upwards into something she wants, something she needs. The words come.
“How did you do that?”
“I sorrowed and I trained,” she says. And her eyes are hard and black, like a hunting lizard’s. “You have sorrowed. Now, would you like to train, daughter?”
Merela’s mouth is dry, her hands grasp at something invisible, slowly opening and closing. She looks at the two bodies, one gone to Xus’s dark palace, one choking his way there.
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Wise Mother.”
“No, now you must call me ‘Master’.”
Here is a moment of realisation.
And behind her, carved into the tree, is the name she had chosen for the dead child that brought her here: Girton.
This is a dream.
Chapter 15
I was woken by a scratching and, at first, I thought it was another of the tiny lizards that ran around the cell looking for scraps when they thought I was asleep. I rose from the depths realising the scratching had an unnatural rhythm I could attribute to no animal.
“Who is it?”
“It is I, Blessed Girton, Saleh, the gaoler. I have food.”
“Come in,” I said. The door rattled as he opened it and entered, balancing the food on one hand. “It is a rare gaoler who asks permission to enter his own cells, Saleh.”
“A little kindness costs nothing, Blessed,” he said and set down the food. “And it is the last many of those here will know.” He shut the door behind him and placed himself in front of the open viewing window then lowered his voice. “Stay quiet for a moment,” he whispered. I felt my face crumple into puzzlement at the strange way he acted, and then let it go, after all, he was a strange man.
The sound of soldiers’ boots coming down the stairs. I estimated no more than four or five. I watched past Saleh’s shoulder and saw flashes of green—Landsmen—then a cell door opened and there was shouting, uproar.
“Darses
e lives! Darsese li—” A fist meeting flesh.
“Enough of that filth. He’s dead and you blaspheme!”
After that I found it difficult to make out the words, only snippets, voices begging not to be taken, turning on each other. Then shouts of two more, no, three voices, and scuffling. I stood, to see better past Saleh’s shoulder, and he shook his head, bringing his finger to his lips to warn me to be quiet. I sat back down. The Landsmen dragged out their chosen prisoners, who screamed and fought but it was no use. I heard the thick sound of a gauntleted hand meeting another head, then another. Then only the sound of bodies being dragged across the flags. Saleh held up a hand, turned and opened the door a crack and looked out.
“They are gone,” he said.
“Bodies for the blood gibbets?” I said.
“No,” said Saleh. “I do not know what they do with them. They do not go into gibbets but they never come back.” He shrugged. “And the Landsmen have no love for you. I thought it best they did not see you, lest they were tempted.”
“Thank you, Saleh.”
He shrugged again.
“I do what I can for those in my charge.” He tried to smile but it did not seem it was an expression he was used to. “You will be freed today, I think. But there are those who have asked to see you before you go.”
“They want to see me in here?”
“One of them says you are a hard man to find alone.” I laughed, nodded.
“Aye. Who is it wishes to visit my court?” His brow furrowed and when he had thought about it, chewed it over and decided I was making a joke at my expense not his, he laughed a little.
“The high priest, Neander, and Danfoth who leads the Children of Arnst. They are powerful men.”
“I know.”
“I brought you these,” he produced from his pocket two sticks of pigment, one white and one black, “to redo your face. I have no mirror, I am sorry.”
“Thank you, Saleh,” I said, amazed by this small kindness. Such things could not be easy to come by. I wondered if he had visited Festival, and I took what remaining coins I had in my pocket to give to him. Before he could refuse I shook my head. “Do what you will with it.”
He placed the money on the floor by the door.
“If you would reward me, there is only one thing I require.”
“What is that?”
“To see you dance, Death’s Jester, that is all. I would see you dance.” Then he slipped out of the door and left me with my food and my thoughts and my sticks of make-up.
By the time Neander entered my cell I felt more like the creature I played, Death’s Jester, beloved of Xus the god of death, greatest at my craft. It is remarkable what a few sticks of pigment can do.
“Girton,” said Neander. He had to look down at me as I sat cross-legged in the straw of my cell. I had no intention of getting up for a man such as him.
“I am Death’s Jester,” I said to him, cocking my head to one side. He looked no different to the first time I had met him all those years ago in Maniyadoc: painfully thin, a large nose dominating a face of crags and gullies, skin like sandpaper. He did not wear his priest’s robes to the dungeon, probably for fear of dirtying them. He had always been a vain man.
“Death’s Jester,” he said, “so you are grown up. It has been a long time since we have spoken.”
“I have wished to call upon you many times,” I said. He smiled at me and some uproar broke out in the cell next door—screaming and fighting—but it did not distract Neander.
“You still hold that girl’s death against me, after so long?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“I can respect a well-held grudge.” He wrinkled up his nose. “You stink of piss.”
“My apologies. They have not completed my bathhouse yet.” I nodded toward the cell next door and opened my eyes as wide as they would go. “Problems with the neighbours.”
Neander leaned over. He smelled of old man and ink.
“I am not here for silly word games or grudges, Girton Club-Foot,” he hissed.
“Death’s Jester,” I said, deadpan.
“Very well, Death’s Jester. There is more afoot in this castle than you guess at and I know how you and that woman love to meddle in what should not concern you. Check with me before you do anything, lest you ruin Rufra’s chances any more than you already have.”
I leaned forward so I could whisper into his ear.
“You mean like you did with Barin?” He stared at me, lizard-sharp eyes.
“I thought my past acquaintance with him held weight. I was wrong,” he said. There was something almost haunted in his eyes. “I made a mistake and I should have known better than to trust the Boarlord.”
“Why should Rufra trust you?”
He straightened and was quiet then, for a long time. He turned and walked back to the door. Stood there with his hand on the latch and the only sound was the wheeze of his breath. I thought he would leave but he came back and sat cross-legged in the filth opposite me.
“I am not a good man.” I used my hands to frame my face in the gesture of surprise. He ignored it. “I like power, Death’s Jester, as well you know. But your king has wrought changes.”
“Good changes,” I said.
“For Maniyadoc, and for now, it seems so,” he replied. “But you throw a stone and the ripples travel to places none can see. So it is here.” He twisted one of the many rings on his fingers. “Ceadoc is a dark place, Jester, full of dark things, and men and women vie for the power it can give. Always before it has been kept in balance, no faction dare move on another. But now, with the death of the high king and the changes Rufra has wrought? Everything is twisted.”
“Rufra has done only good.”
He leaned over so he could speak more quietly to me, though who he thought would eavesdrop on us here I do not know.
“And yet the dead gods have cursed him.” My hand shot out, locked around his throat and I wanted nothing more then to squeeze, to crush the life from the man who had been the architect of so much misery. “He …” I could feel the words as they struggled past my fingers. “… needs … me.” I stared at him, his eyes widening as he struggled for breath. Then I let go.
“All know Ceadoc is in flux. You tell me nothing new.”
“But it is more than flux, Jester, something has changed. The Landsmen are no longer close to the priesthood. I think Fureth eyes the crown for himself.”
“The Trunk of the Landsmen? But he already has—”
“Power, aye. But he does not draw it from the priests any more. And he does not confide in me.”
“That is why you ally with Rufra?”
“Don’t misunderstand me, Jester, I have no love for your king, he has ruined many of my plans and shorn the priesthood of much of the power it once had. But I think he is our best hope to contain Fureth.”
“And Gamelon?”
“He likes to sit behind the throne and feels secure there. None know the running of Ceadoc’s government the way he does. Currently the wind blows Rufra’s way and Gamelon bends with the wind.” He stood. “Though it is a slight wind, Girton, and no man can trust the weather.”
“What of your brother, Suvander? Why not stand behind him as high king?”
Neander stopped by the door and I think the smile he gave me was the first time I’d ever seen him look genuine.
“Because he is my brother, Girton, and we are much alike. My advice is to kill him the first chance you get.” Then he left.
It was not long before my next visitor appeared: Danfoth, who led the Children of Arnst. He was a massive man who filled the door to my cell, though he did not step in. Once he had worn his white hair long and curling but now he had shorn it, and his face was painted with red crosses over the eyes and mouth and in a line from his eyebrows over the centre of his head. Though he carried no weapons he wore the black armour he was known for. Once he had been one of the Meredari, a warrior tribe who had a d
eath cult dedicated to Xus. Then he had become second in command to a man called Arnst, who led his own cult, mostly to feed his appetites. But in the uncertain time of the war of the three kings, when Rufra’s rule over Maniyadoc had still been under threat, Arnst’s cult had grown. When he was killed, by the mad priest Darvin, Danfoth took his place. Now Arnst had become almost a god to them, of sorts. His people were led by Danfoth in the worship of Xus, the god of death. But it was a cruel cult and I did not recognise the god I knew in it.
Nor did I like Danfoth. Unfortunately, his people seemed to like me.
“This is a poor way to treat the Chosen of Xus,” he said, motioning at the straw. His voice was surprisingly gentle and his eyes were far away, as if under the influence of some drug.
“I am treated well enough,” I said. “The gaoler is a good man.”
“Saleh, aye. I am told you were visited by Neander, priest of the dead ones.”
“Yes.”
“He is jealous that the people choose the living god over his empty books.”
“Probably.”
“Xus harvested well here, Death’s Jester, before his great forgiving. He has always harvested well here, but the plague made him particularly happy. Those who serve him grow in power.”
“Xus does not glory in death,” I said, “and I have met many who are powerful. It does not seem to bring them anything but pain.”
He did not seem to hear me. A smile ghosted across his face at the word “pain.”
“I told you once, did I not, that I would come here and destroy this place?”