by Rj Barker
“No, you handled it well. A man like Suvander only understands force. What worries me, is he should have snapped your hand off at that offer.”
“Then why didn’t he?” said Aydor.
“Because, for some reason he must think the offer he already has is a better one.” We walked through the twisting tunnels of Ceadoc in silence while we both thought on that. Eventually, we came to a place where we must part ways.
“Aydor, which way is Leckan ap Syridd’s tower?”
“The Tower of the Broken Blade? Straight on from here, then the first tunnel to the left and the second to the right. That will lead you straight to it. Are you ill?”
“Ill?”
“You don’t usually need to ask for directions.”
“It is this place,” I clasped my arms around myself as if cold, “it is wrong.”
“You’ll get no argument from me. You know I think we should just walk away.” I nodded.
“Aye,” I said, “but while I have you alone there is something I must ask you.”
“Yes?”
“I need to get in to Boros, tonight.”
“So you can ease him gently on to the path of Xus? It is right, I suppose.”
“That is not my plan,” I said, “though I do need to be in his cell.”
“What is it you …” His voice tailed off as he thought about what I had said. It was easy for me to forget that Aydor was one of the few people who knew that magic ran through me. Maybe we had spent so much time together he had gradually realised, or maybe he had known ever since his mother brought us to Maniyadoc all those years ago. After all, she had known what was within my master. We never discussed it, and he did not seem to care. “I’d probably rather not know what you’re up to, right?”
“It is probably best.”
“How long do you need to be in his cell?”
“Not long, if Saleh will give me the key.”
“He won’t. Well, he can’t,” he said. “Barin has moved some of his own guard in there now. They practically threw me out this morning. This is Boros’s last night and they know if any move is to be made to save him it has to happen today.”
“How many guards?”
“Three men, and there will be Barin there at some point too.”
“I am counting on that. But I had hoped not to kill anyone.”
Aydor stared at the bottom of the wall before us, as if gazing through the stone at the dungeon far below.
“Meet me as it becomes dark,” he said. “Maybe you will not have to kill anyone, but you will have to pick the lock on the cell.”
“Dead gods,” I said. “I have not picked a lock in years.”
“Bring Merela then,” he said. “We may as well make it into a party.”
“If I will struggle to get in unseen, two of us will hardly have an easier time.”
“Leave that to me,” he said. Then his face seemed to fold in on itself in confusion. “How will you get out?”
“That won’t be a problem, hopefully,” I said.
“You know if they catch you in there they’ll burn you too, right?”
I nodded.
“That is why I do not intend to be caught.”
“Good, because then I’d have to break you out and I’m not good at all that stuff, locks and sneaking about.”
“I know.” I grinned at him as he turned away. “And Aydor,” I said, he turned back to me. “Thank you.” He waved a hand as if it were nothing, but it was not. Over the years his friendship had become one of the most valuable things in my life. It is a curious thing, the weave of our existence. The pattern is never plain until we can look back upon it.
I left Aydor and followed his instructions, slipping through uncomfortable corridors and past highguard who barely paid any attention to me. The Tower of the Broken Blade was the oldest tower I had seen outside of the ruins of Ceadoc, not as slender as the Speartower or as squat as the Low Tower or the Sly Tower. It reached up five storeys, though the top two were open to the elements. At some time in the past it had taken a hit from some sort of siege engine, giving it the appearance of a sword that had snapped, leaving one edge jutting up.
I watched ap Syridd’s guards. Unlike those of the other blessed, his troops did not have the look of family—though they moved like killers. Many of them wore the black rags of the Children of Arnst, but these were not the usual ragged and half-starved fanatics that I associated with Danfoth and his cult. These were Meredari warriors, they mostly wore helmets but the bone-white hair of those who did not was unmistakeable. I wondered if they would cover their hair if I showed myself, though, given that I was sneaking in as the man was refusing to see Rufa’s envoys. I hoped I would not find out.
Around the Tower of the Broken Blade highguard patrolled the walls far above, and I was thankful for it, ap Syridd’s guards would be used to their constant movement in their vision and that made them less likely to pay attention to me. I slid through the shadows and around the hay bales and barrels that collected wherever men and women camped. I heard the hissing of war mounts off to my left and then a sound that froze my blood in my veins, the baying of war dogs. I stopped. Stood still.
Breathe.
Out and in.
Breathe.
All my life I had feared dogs.
First thing, make sure the dogs were kennelled. If they were loose I would have to find some way to hide my scent. I drifted through the shadow until I was behind a stack of barrels and cursed myself for coming in my motley. I should have chosen something that didn’t stand out. The motley was mostly black, there was that, but in the heat and brightness of the day that was not much help. I crouched, watching, aware of the familiar pain in my club foot and the newer pains that ageing had brought to me, pains in my knees and ankles, a subtle stiffness in my hands.
There!
A guard patrolling with a war dog on a lead.
Curse all the dead gods. That was the last thing I needed. I would have to come back at night doused in something that the dogs did not like, mount piss, maybe.
Something cold touched my neck.
The kiss of a blade.
I froze.
Whoever held me at blade point whistled. Meredari came running, some slipping on helmets and pushing loose hair beneath them—clearly, they did not wish their presence to be known. I lifted my hands, my purpose here was not to kill but to talk to Leckan ap Syridd, and besides, I was reasonably confident that, if it came to it, I could cause enough havoc to escape. The Broken Blade was outside the souring beneath Ceadoc.
We could leave them all dead.
I ignored the slippery voice of the magic and let whoever held me at blade point take my weapons. I wondered who they were, I had not heard a whisper as they approached. More Meredari appeared and the blade was removed from my neck.
I turned.
Of course.
Leckan’s Heartblade, the other assassin. It should not have been a shock really. She shrugged and gave me a small smile, the sort one professional gives another. I had expected her to be in the tower with Leckan or I would have been more careful. More signs of age, I was getting careless.
“You should always be more careful.” My master’s voice echoing in my head.
“I’ll finish him,” said one of the Meredari. He stepped forward, sword coming out of its scabbard. Before it was even halfway out my captor moved. Flashed forward, something metal wrapped around her fist, and she struck the man on the side of his head, sending him reeling. Then she stepped back and pointed at me, shaking her head, wagging her finger in admonition and glancing around the other Meredari. They were like war dogs, only just held in check. I could feel their anger and it was not aimed at me but at her. She pointed at the tower then at me, smiling at the men around us, all of whom dwarfed her—dwarfed both of us—but they parted for her like butter before a hot knife.
Her hand flickered in the assassin’s sign language, telling me I was safe as long as I did her bidding
. She helped me up and motioned me toward the tower door. She was pretty, small-featured, delicate-looking and we were of a similar age—most strangely, there was something familiar about her. She bowed to me, a small bow, and then led me down a corridor of glowering Meredari and into the tower to meet the man she protected.
Leckan ap Syridd sat on a throne, thin as stick and with a face that was as amiable as it was vacant. He was a man rich by inheritance, not design, and from the smell of the room most of his money went on narcotics for himself and the brightly coloured entourage that surrounded him. All were young, and they feasted, eating dried fruits and gnawing on hard bread. A pig roasted in one corner, adding to the heat of the room, and the stink of sweat almost overpowered the smell of the drugs and the meat. Wealthbread was everywhere: worn as crowns, twisted around arms and necks, used to sculpt hair, discarded carelessly on the floor and hung from the backs of chairs. Outside people starved, but in here I saw bowls of fruit that had been left to rot. I wondered just how good Leckan’s Heartblade was, as my immediate opinion of the man was that I would like to visit him late one night with a blade in my hand.
“Girton, of the clubbed foot,” he said as his assassin went to stand behind him. “I see you have already been bested by my Heartblade, Tinia Speaks-Not.” He leaned forward in his throne. “She is a mute, you see, not clever enough to speak but she fights well enough.” Behind him Tinia rolled her eyes. Those of his entourage that were paying attention nodded slowly at Leckan’s words and it struck me that there were plenty here that were not clever but Tinia Speaks-Not was not one of them. “My father sent her with me. He is too old to come himself so I am to handle our negotiations. I am surprised that Rufra has decided to try and kill me rather than speak with me. Saddened actually.”
“I did not come here to kill you, Leckan ap Syridd,” I said.
“Then why were you sneaking around outside? I have been watching you, you see.” He grinned. “When Tinia saw you, she pointed you out to me and I sent her out. To kill you actually. But it does not seem she understood. Stupid, as I said. Still, if you are not here to kill me then I suppose that is a good thing. You are both servants of Xus the unseen, the living god. He must be smiling on me.”
“The only reason I had to sneak into the tower was because you have refused to see anyone that Rufra has sent to you.”
“I have?” He looked at me, but I felt he did not see me. “I do not remember turning anyone away. Let me ask Luca.” He looked around the room. “Luca? Where are you, Luca?” Behind Leckan a wooden door shuddered as someone tried to open it. It shuddered again, then a third time before it opened and an old man limped through it, bent by age. He had the air of someone who was habitually forgetful and the careful movements of one whose bones had thinned and now cracked easily. Like all of Leckan’s people, he wore expensive fabrics in bright colours. Circles of wealthbread twisted around the arms of his jerkin as a sign of importance. “Luca was my teacher when I was a young man and now he assists me. He is my adviser,” said Leckan ap Syridd. Luca nodded vaguely, tugging on a long sparse beard that looked as thought it may come loose if he pulled too hard on it.
“How may I help, Blessed Leckan?” said the old man. His voice was hoarse and I wondered if his air of forgetfulness came from bad eyes. The way he squinted and twitched had me sure that his world was one of blurred colours and vague faces. It did not necessarily mean that the mind behind those eyes was vague.
“This is Girton Club-Foot, Luca. He is Rufra ap Vthyr’s man.”
“The pretender king?” said Luca. “I have heard of him, yes, yes, I have.” He squinted at me, and from his expensively ragged robe he produced a large piece of glass that he used to look me up and down. “He is the assassin. Yes? Are all assassins so short? Is that what assassins are? Short people?”
Leckan made one of the most alarming sounds I had ever heard a human make, it sounded like a dray mount braying in terror. At first I thought Leckan was choking. Then those around him joined in until the whole room, except for Tinia, Luca and I, was making that awful sound and I realised they were laughing—though I wondered how many of them knew at what. Once Leckan had regained his composure he filled his cup with perry, without offering any to me as propriety dictated, and turned back to Luca.
“Girton says that his king has sent people to us, but I have not met anyone, have I, Luca? Have I met anyone from King Rufra?” Luca pulled at his straggly beard, then scratched the bald patch on his head surrounded by a frizzy crown of white hair.
“Rufra? I know the name.” He scratched at his head again and a woman behind him snorted. For a moment I wondered if the old man had the forgetting plague, but decided not. A man like Leckan ap Syridd would be unlikely to let someone infected with disease anywhere near him.
“He knows the name!” More of the braying laughter, though Luca did not seem to realise it was aimed at him, the same way he did not remember he had talked of Rufra only moments ago.
“Have we met him, Luca?” said Leckan slowly. There was a cruel smile on his face. “Have we met any of Rufra’s people?”
“I …” He turned to me, as if to ask for help, and I saw a man bewildered and lost in the way the old sometimes become. “I am … I … Who is he?” he asked, pointing at me. “Who is he? Is he a jester? Will he dance for us, Leckan?” More of the hideous braying laughter and I wondered whether Leckan ap Syridd was doing this to humiliate me or the old man, or if this sort of cruelty was simply what was normal among his people.
“Oh dear,” said Leckan, and he leaned over a brazier of burning coals, throwing some herbs on and inhaling deeply, a grin playing around his face. “I am afraid, Luca,” he said, “you may have insulted King Rufra’s closest friend.” The old man’s face became stricken, sagging, age passing across it, withering him.
“I did not know,” he said, quietly. “I did not know.”
“I think,” said Leckan, and there was some secret joy within him as he spoke, “you should go back to your room.”
“No,” said the old man, “please, Leckan. It is dark and cold in there. I do not—”
“In your room!” shouted the merchant and the cry went around the room, being picked up by all present. They pointed at the old man, chanting the words, “In your room! In your room!” in a sing-song voice as the old man backed away, slipping behind the wooden door, tears coursing down his face. Once he was gone the room filled with more laughter and I stood, unsure what to do. The only person I shared anything with in that room was Tinia, who joined me in staring at the man she was meant to be protecting with obvious contempt.
“I should go,” I said, and as I did my hands flicked out signs at his Heartblade. “We should talk.” She nodded.
“No.” Leckan raised his hand. “I have not heard your offer yet. You must make me your offer.” He picked up a handful of meat and stuffed it into his mouth. “Come,” he said, his mouth full. “What is your offer? Tell me of it!”
“Is there a point?”
“Always,” said Leckan. Behind him there were curtains and I noticed they moved, but not in a way I could attribute to the wind. Someone hid back there. “Come, Girton Club-Foot,” he said, “tell me your offer.”
“Very well.” I had no doubt he would turn me down, he simply wanted to do it in front of his friends. “King Rufra ap Vthyr of Maniyadoc and the Long Tides would request your support for him in his bid for high king. As you are a man of trade he offers you trade, the sum of five thousand bits.”
The room was silent, apart from someone noisily vomiting in a corner.
“Five thousand bits,” said Leckan. “That is a lot of money.” He turned on his throne to the woman at his left. “It is a lot of money, is it not, Sereya?” She nodded. “A lot for a man like Rufra, anyway.” He laughed, the volume growing as people realised he would continue his braying laugh until they joined in. Then he stopped, sitting back in his throne, and the laughter in the room died away also. “I will consider it. Tell him
that.”
“Very well. I—”
He sat forward, a grin on his face.
“I have considered it.” The smile got even wider. “And my answer is no. Now, you may go.”
“What about my weapons?”
“Well,” he said, “I am afraid some price must be paid for trying to sneak in.” Anger bubbled up within me but behind him Tinia’s hands moved: “Ignore him.” He turned his head from me, the braying laugh starting up again, and the curtain behind him moved once more, revealing a flash of black robe and white hair.
I left, walking toward the portcullis gate to go back through the city, even the stench of Ceadoc town would feel clean after Leckan ap Syridd and his people. I felt a touch on my arm and turned. Tinia Speaks-Not stood in the shadows. She beckoned me and when I approached she pointed at a bag by the bottom of the wall. Then she knelt and took out my blades, holding them out to me.
“Thank you, Tinia Speaks-Not.”
She shrugged. Her hands flickered.
“He is an idiot.”
“I gathered that.”
“His father is not. He would support your king.”
“But Leckan will not.”
“The Children of Arnst control him, but he is too foolish to see that.”
“Thank you, Tinia.”
She smiled at me.
“I remember you,” she flickered out.
“Remember?”
“Your master fought mine, at Maniyadoc.”
“Ah, your sorrowing was with Sayda Half-hand?” She nodded. “I must ask you something, assassin to assassin.” She stared at me, nodded. “Do you only act as Heartblade?” She nodded again.
“It was not I who tried to kill Voniss, or killed Berisa Marrel.” She held out her hand to me and I took it.
The shock immediate.
My master aside—who kept a wall around her mind—I had only twice before touched other magic users, and what I felt had been an immediate attraction. It was the same with Tinia—but different. Like me, she knew what she was, and although she did not share my power she controlled what ran through her the same way I did. She chose to open herself to me, and I to her. It was a whirlwind, a joining and a knowing. She did not kill Berisa Marrel. She did not attack Voniss. She hated her charge and would gladly end him. Her favoured way was poisons or the bow. Her master had died of a sickness in a land far away. Tinia Speaks-Not had travelled as far as I had. She had known sorrow and known joy. She hated what she had become, nursemaid to a cruel man, but had no choice: the poisons she had worked with all her life were slowly eating her and she was slowing, dying. She felt shamed that she had taken easy work but was unable to trust her body not to betray her if she pushed it too hard. And as I saw her she saw me, all of me. I knew it and did not care, did not mind. It was like a cool wind blowing through me. No lies, no pretence and no need to offer any excuses. She would not judge, would only accept.