by Rj Barker
“It should be him that burns,” said Rufra quietly to me. “I’ve never burned a man but I swear, if I ever get the chance, Barin ap Borlad will be the first.” There was torment on Rufra’s face and it saddened me that I could not tell him the truth. But I had chosen to give Boros his vengeance on his brother using magic and I could never share that with Rufra. He would not understand. He would hand me over to the Landsmen even though he loathed them, and they, in turn, would use my existence to destroy Rufra and everything he had worked for. No, we would have to sit and he would have to watch what he believed was a man who had supported him and been his friend burn to death. As the fire heated our faces so it would stoke the blame he felt I deserved. There would be another wall raised between us, and this was one I knew could never be climbed, not without destroying everything he had worked for.
The castle’s huge double doors opened and Gamelon walked through, surrounded by his entourage of children and dwarves. Behind him came ten more highguard and behind them came Fureth and four Landsmen. The Landsmen held Barin. He could barely walk and was gobbling words that made no sense at them, although I could guess at what he was trying to say. The Landsmen steadfastly ignored him. They carried him forward and I was so fixated on him I almost missed what was truly extraordinary about the scene before me.
By Fureth walked one of the Landsmen elite.
“Girton,” said Rufra, “steel yourself to what must happen to Boros. You have gone ghost-white and look like Xus himself whispers in your ear.”
“It is not the thought of the burning, Rufra.”
“Then what is it ails you?”
And I nearly told him—nearly spilled the truth about Boros—because his words, though he talked of something else, gave me an excuse and I was desperate to end the lies.
But I did not.
Because what I saw was more important.
“It is not Boros that makes me stare, it is the man by Fureth.” I glanced over at Vinwulf, who also stared at him, a half-smile on his face.
“Why?” said Rufra.
“Because he should be dead. That is the man I fought in the menageries.”
“There are plenty of big men among the Landsmen,” he said, but now he stared at him. “Or maybe you did not wound him as badly as you thought?”
“No, it was the sort of wound that kills, though slowly. At best he should be drugged on nightsmilk so he dies without pain, but walking? No. That is not possible.”
“Maybe he is a brother to the one you fought?” he said, but there was something there, something in his words, his voice. Some secret he did not choose to share: something hateful that screwed up his eyes when he thought of it, no matter how blank he tried to remain. Those looking on may think his distaste was to do with the death of his friend but I had seen him at executions. I knew how he could keep his face blank no matter how distasteful he found something.
“Maybe,” I said, but neither of us believed it. Vinwulf had looked away from us. He stared at Fureth and the man by him.
Gamelon came forward, leaving his puddle of followers behind. He walked up to where Barin was held over the iron cage of the fool’s throne. He was staring at the contraption like a hungry man eyeing food.
“Boros ap Loflaar,” he said. His hands were by his side and they twitched as if they passed an invisible ribbon through them. “You are found guilty of drawing a weapon before the throne of the high king. And of stealing the weapon of another, for which,” he raised his voice, “as all can hear! You have paid the price.” There was laughter as Barin continued to make his unintelligible, tongueless noises, fighting with what little strength he had against the two men holding him—but he may as well have been a child for all the trouble he caused them. “The sentence is to be crowned on the fool’s throne.” He raised his voice. “Do any gainsay it?”
“I do,” said Rufra. He stepped forward. “Boros was a good man, driven by a mania. His one mistake does not deserve this death.”
“Well spoken, Rufra ap Vthyr,” said Gamelon, solemnly into the silence. “Well spoken. And if you were high king you could commute this man’s sentence, but, sadly, you are not.” He looked at the floor, probably to hide his smile. Then he lifted his head, clapped twice and shouted, “Seat the criminal!” The two Landsmen transferred a hand each to the shoulders of Barin while keeping the other on his bicep and then, with a nod, they pushed him backwards and down. His scream echoed around the courtyard. Before he could get over the shock of the hooks going into his legs the cage was shut and the arm spikes made him scream again. Down from us, Boros’s face twitched with every one of his brother’s screams. A smile, or not? I could not be sure.
“Now!” shouted Gamelon. “The fool’s castle must be lit and the children of Xus will offer the condemned his last kindness.” Gamelon ushered his crowd of little followers forward with burning torches and as they set about getting the fire started he looked up. “For the rest of us, food will be served.” He clapped his hands again and servants and slaves streamed out of Ceadoc with trays of pork and bread, salads and barrels of alcohol. A wave of chatter ran up and down the benches and behind it all could hear Barin moaning in agony.
“He makes this into a party,” growled Rufra under his breath. He looked his people up and down. “And we must play the part. Be good, talk politely, for the dead gods’ sake.” Then he stared directly at me. “Don’t start anything, I don’t want any of you joining Boros on the pyre.”
I ate, but the food was ash in my mouth and any taste the fruit juice served along with the perry may have had was lost in the cloying fragrance of the oil used to soak the pyre. Every time I moved to a table I noticed Neander moved closer to me. Of all the people with Rufra I wanted to talk to he was the last of them. Rufra was deep in conversation—serious, almost angry conversation—with Marrel ap Marrel. Aydor stood with Dinay, glowering at the pyre, but they did not talk and he did not look like a man who wanted to be disturbed. To avoid Neander I tried to move closer to the Landsmen to get a better look at the man with Fureth. Usually I would avoid a Landsman like a plague victim, but the man with Fureth was like a magnet. As I came closer to Fureth I was stopped by a bank of green armour moving in to bar my way. Fureth stared at me then left his guards and came down the steps, brushing his men aside.
“Girton Club-Foot,” he said, “you look like you wish an audience with me.” His eyes travelled up from my clubbed foot, along my legs and torso, resting on my painted face, but he did not look me in the eyes. “As the Trunk of the Landsmen I do not usually allow just anyone to approach me.” Behind him the huge bodyguard loomed.
“Unless you want to watch them fight, eh?” I said.
Fureth gave me a small nod.
“Maybe.” His face hardened. “What is it you want? I wish to eat before the smell of a burning man puts me off pork for the day.”
I kept my eyes locked on Fureth’s face, but he still would not look me in the eye.
“How inconsiderate of Boros. I bet his screaming will put you off your perry as well.”
“Yes,” said Fureth. The man seemed impervious to sarcasm. “Though thankfully he has no tongue, so we won’t have to put up with the begging. I hate it most when they beg.” He reached out and took a slice of meat. Rather than being served in chunks it had all been thinly sliced in a way I had never seen before. “Are you hungry, Girton Club-Foot?”
“Not really. What about your man?” I nodded at the huge bodyguard. “Isn’t he eating?”
“No. He is to stay alert and guard me.”
“I thought he would need food. Usually the wounded need it to build their bodies back up, and he,” I nodded at him, “has a lot of body.”
“Ah,” said Fureth. A grin spread across his face but it went no further than his lips. “Now I understand why you have come over. You think this is the man you fought in the menageries.”
“He appears very similar.”
“They are relatives, from the same tribe somewhere up
in the mountains. I do not know where exactly. I am afraid that my man does not like you much. His friend died slowly and in agony, as you knew he would.”
“Did he?” In my mind Fureth was gold, fizzing with life, but his bodyguard was not. He was that same strange gold and red mix as the man I had fought in the menagerie and the creatures of the menagerie itself. I wished that when I had fought him I had found some way to rip his clothing, to see the skin beneath and find out if it was laced with scars and tracks like mine was—if this man was something other, like me—because I had no doubt that, whatever he was, it was wrong.
I wondered how I looked to someone else like me and I glanced around for Tinia Speaks-Not, but could not find her among the throng of brightly dressed revellers.
“Is there anything else, Girton Club-Foot?” said Fureth, snapping me back to the now.
“No, Fureth, Trunk of the Landsmen,” I said, staring at the man behind him. Fureth turned away, whispering something to the huge man, who nodded and then, with surprising grace, vanished from the courtyard and back into the castle. I let out a laugh at the thought of stopping in our fight to rip clothes from him, when the reality of the situation was I had been close to losing my life as I had ever been. But it was the same man, I was sure of it.
“Something is funny, Girton Club-Foot?” I turned to find Gamelon and his entourage.
“No,” I said, then glanced over his shoulder at the man moaning in agony on the fool’s throne. Though I bore no love for him I pitied him. “There is nothing funny here.” Gamelon shrugged and walked to a small table holding a bell, which he picked up and rang. Its gentle sound cut through the hubbub, calling his little crowd to pool around his legs and drawing attention to him.
“If I could have your eyes,” he said—his children giggled. “Before we have the main event, there is another matter of justice to be seen to.” The crowd became quiet and the heat made the still air above the flags quiver, as if feeling the tension of the crowd. For all any of us knew we could be the targets of Gamelon and there was an almost audible feeling of relief when three bloodied and beaten men were led out of the castle. “These men were once the most honoured. Once highguard.” With a sinking feeling I recognised the officer I had seen outside Festival, the one I had convinced to back off and let them build their wall. The other two I did not know. “But they betrayed the armour they wore and now they must pay the price.” The three did not look up, simply stared at the floor. “The Landsmen have been kind enough …” he began. Groups of living flooded in, dressed in rags, holding long poles and contraptions that I recognised with a sinking chill in my stomach, “… to lend me three blood gibbets.” The crowd watched as the gibbets were raised, posts set into pre-dug holes, and the cages strung ready. The men, silent, beaten and lost-looking, were then locked into the cages which were hoisted aloft. “Now,” said Gamelon, “let us carry on with our feast. Arketh tells me the fire will need another half-hour.” He walked to the nearest blood gibbet. “If you require amusement I have made some changes to these gibbets.” He reached out, laughing, and took hold of a hanging chain. “Watch!” He pulled the chain and it spun the blade wheels usually powered by the windmill and they cut into the flesh of the man inside. Blood started to flow and he hissed in pain. I felt the life like sun upon my skin.
“The older I get, the more I think your king is right.” I turned. Neander stood behind me, his beaked mask focused on the blood gibbet.
“You talk like you are a stranger to cruelty.”
“I am not, it is true.” He watched as Vinwulf walked over to the blood gibbet and pulled on the chain. The young man’s eyes bright as he followed the flow of blood he had caused.
“Gusteffa!” called Vinwulf. “Come over here, you are light enough to swing on this rope.”
“At least my cruelty was for a reason,” said Neander.
“Your own power.”
“Partly,” he said, “but that is what you have never understood. Power allows you to do useful things, and I believed what I would do would be for the good of the Tired Lands.”
“And you expect me to believe that?”
“No,” he said. “You are too eaten up by your hate of me.” I was about to snap at him, but he raised a bony hand. “And I do not dispute that I may deserve it. But this?” He waved a hand at the gibbets and the smouldering pyre. “This is cruelty for its own sake and what Adran and I did—”
“Created sorcerers,” I hissed.
“That was never the intent, and in the end you accomplished what we could not.”
“I?”
His bird-masked head tilted to the side.
“So many years and you have still not worked it out?”
“Worked what out? Why do you speak in riddles?”
He seemed to shrink in on himself.
“I had hoped you may be able to help Rufra here, Girton Club-Foot, but maybe I have overestimated you. You and your clever master both.”
A scream came from behind me, followed by laughter, and I turned. Vinwulf was laughing as Gusteffa, at his urging, swung from one of the chains on the blood gibbet, pulling her small body to and fro, causing the blades to spin like they were caught in a gale and the whole contraption to rock from side to side. Rufra was marching toward them, clearly furious, his stride stiff like a bull mount facing a challenge. I felt Neander come close to me, smelled the ink and parchment stink of him. “We never wanted sorcerers, Girton Club-Foot. Think about it. Adran wanted your master in her castle for a reason, what could that have been?”
“To save Aydor from murder,” I said.
“And more than that, always more with her. She was a clever one.”
And it clicked. A puzzle from years ago I had thought long solved. And all the time I had been wrong.
“You didn’t want sorcerers,” I said quietly. “You wanted assassins.”
“Now you understand,” he said. “And I would have controlled them. The Tired Lands would have been reborn, in blood maybe, but we would have ushered back the dead gods. We failed. And because you made them famous the assassins returned anyway, but not under my control. Not under anyone’s control, just more chaos added to a land that does not need it.” There was real venom in his voice. “And you never even knew.”
“No, never.”
“Well,” he said. “I am sorry for that, and sorry for Rufra.” I watched as Rufra pulled Gusteffa from the rope, almost throwing her across the courtyard. She landed on her hands and turned her fall into a pretty set of cartwheels and tumbles. Then Rufra grabbed Vinwulf by the back of his neck and marched him over to Aydor, talking animatedly with him. Aydor took hold of the prince, dragging him away from the burning despite his protestations.
“That boy is trouble,” I said, and it echoed strangely. Only when I finished speaking did I realise Neander had said exactly the same thing at the same time. He tilted his head to one side again.
“Look over there,” he said, pointing with a hand holding a drink at the body in the fool’s throne, or where it should be. I could not see Barin for the black-clad figures surrounding him, above them all towered Danfoth the Meredari. “There should be a priest of Xus here to do that, and he would slip the condemned nightsmilk so the end was not too terrible.”
“They did that?”
“When they could. Xus is a gentle god,” said Neander, and it surprised me that he should know. “Is he not?” I nodded. “Danfoth has too much power here, Girton. It would not shock me to find out he is behind our troubles.”
“He is your rival. You would say that.”
Neander was quiet then, just nodding as he watched the Meredari haranguing the anguished body in the fool’s throne. Letting the scene sink in before he spoke again.
“How do you go with the death of Berisa? Leckan ap Syridd has an assassin with him and—”
“It was not her.”
“Then who?”
“I do not know.” I watched the Meredari. Occasionally he would glanc
e around, seeing who watched him. I think he revelled in the attention as his voice got louder and louder, the more he thought watched.
“That will not help Rufra. You must find out.” The careful monotone intonation of his voice fell away, replaced with a sudden desperation. “Blessed bleed away from us, we need to regain the alliance with Marrel and …”
Suddenly I was sick of it. Sick of Danfoth revelling in pain. Sick of Boros doing the same. Sick of Rufra keeping secrets and hiding behind the crown to forsake the morals I had loved him for. And sick of Neander, who now spoke like we were friends.
Then I was in his face, batting aside the beak of the mask to reveal the craggy thin face below. His eyes widened and for a moment I thought he would stagger back in terror but—to his credit, I suppose—he did not.
“I will find whoever killed Berisa, Neander. Not because of some alliance or your politicking. I will find them because whoever did that was also behind the death of my apprentice, Feorwic, and she was dear to me.” He stared at me, his brown eyes flickering over my face. Then he stooped to pick up his mask, pushing his hood back so he could retie the cords around the back of his head.
“As long as the assassin is caught, that is what matters.” He was maddeningly calm as he put his hood back up with a practised flick. “And if it matters at all to you, I knew Berisa and she was dear to me once.”