by Rj Barker
“How is your arm?”
“It hurts.” He lifted his arm, showed me the bandages wrapped around the stump. “Your master treated me. I trust her more than I trust any of Anwith’s grey-robed murderers.” That laugh again, so empty. “What am I now, Girton?” he said. “I cannot hold a weapon. What am I now?”
“A hero,” I said.
He nodded, staring at the floor.
“You know, when I was young, it was what I wanted more than anything, to be a hero, to be loved.”
“And now you have your wish.”
“It is empty,” he said.
“To be loved?”
“No.” A smile. “Not that. But to be a hero? It is like the story of Baln and the large nut.”
“I do not think I know that one, Aydor.”
“I used to tell it to Hessally when she was young. It is about a lizard who finds a large nut, and hides it, fights for it, protects it, but when he finally goes to eat it he finds a tree instead.”
“You made that up yourself?”
He nodded, looked away from me.
“I know it is not one of your grand jester’s tales but—”
“No, it is a good story. I may make up a dance for it. I may even dance it one day.” A smile crossed his face, a real one, and a blush reached up cross his face. “And it is not a sad story either, surely the tree will give the lizard even more nuts? He does not get what he wants but life works out for him in the end. They are often the best stories.”
“Maybe,” I said. We sat there in silence for a while and then Aydor stood. He stroked Xus with his good hand, getting it covered in paint. I could tell the nightsmilk was wearing off. Lines of pain stretched his face.
“I think, when we return to Maniyadoc I will be leaving,” he said.
“Leaving? But Rufra will need you for the triangle council, Aydor.”
“He does not. You, more than anyone, know he does not really listen any more. I told him, as did you, to disband the Landsmen but he will not. And he still talks of Hessally marrying Vinwulf and I will not have it. My family has lands in the Shattered Mountains. It is far enough from here and Maniyadoc that Hessally can choose who she wishes to marry—and, in truth, I fear what will happen the day Vinwulf takes over from his father.”
“I will miss you,” I said. He stood, utterly still, by Xus. The mount’s flanks shivered as if feeling Aydor’s pent-up emotion.
“You could come,” he said. “The mountain hall is a cold and lonely place and we will need a jester, otherwise no one will ever visit.”
I stood, picking up Xus’s grooming brush and placing it against the animal’s hide.
“I am Heartblade to—”
“He has Celot,” he said, abruptly. “I have asked him to stay and protect the king.”
“I am sworn to him.”
Aydor turned to me. There was a terrible sadness in him, as if he carried a burden and had no wish to pass it on but at the same time had no choice.
“Rufra will release you, if you ask, Girton. He has told me so himself.”
Had I known it too?
Yes.
But I had not been ready to hear it. Not been ready for him to share with others that the friendship we had once shared was over. It was like a blade sliding into my flesh, and worse, worst of all, was that Rufra had not told me this himself. He had not been brave enough to release me from his service. Instead he had manipulated Aydor into telling me, the same way he manipulated me into killing for him.
What had we become?
“Do you remember Heamus?” I said, and I started to brush Xus’s coat with long sweeping motions, paint flaking away and dust coming off in clouds. Occupying my hands to distract myself from the emotions which burned inside.
“The old Landsman, aye. He was a sad one.”
“He once told me, ‘You can never truly be friends with a king.’ But still, he came back to your father.”
“He betrayed my father, Girton.”
“Aye. But I do not stay with Rufra for that.”
“I know.”
“I will stay until he tells me otherwise. Rufra is like a ship lost in the night. He is still the man I knew, Aydor. I see it sometimes, see my friend, only his way is obscured by the responsibilities of a king. I must at least try and steer him right. Few others say anything but what he wants to hear now.”
“You will tell him those of the triangle table are sycophants? Good luck with that.”
“No, it is not that. They are good people, but they think Rufra infallible. They know nothing else.”
Aydor nodded.
“You are probably right to stay,” he said. “His council are all young and, like Dinay, have never known Rufra as anything but their hero. But make me a promise?”
“What?”
“When Vinwulf comes to power—and he will—you will come to me?”
“Very well, I can make that promise, and gladly. Is the king-in-waiting still in the Low Tower?”
Aydor shook his head.
“No, after you left Rufra decreed that the menageries were to be destroyed. Vinwulf has gone to see how that can best be organised. I think he mostly wanted to look around one last time.”
“Rufra should not let him out on his own. I know he does not believe it, but there is still an assassin loose here and I am sure Rufra and his family are the targets.”
“Why? He is high king now. No one profits from the death of him or his.”
“It is not always about profit, Aydor,” I said. I placed Xus’s brush back in the grooming box. “Come, he will not want to see me but I shall speak to him about staying safe anyway.”
“I am not sure—”
“I cannot place it, Aydor, but there are still questions to answer and everyone I may want to talk to will be in the Low Tower. Even better, they will be drunk, which makes questioning them easier. I should not have left.”
He shrugged.
“Very well, but Rufra will not see you. He is angry with you again.”
“When isn’t he?” We returned to the Low Tower. As we passed through the first level I saw the stablegirl my master had been drinking with asleep on a pile of sacks. On the second level the feast was as loud as ever. There were people there from the entourage of every blessed who had attended Ceadoc. Now Rufra was to be high king, all wanted to curry his favour. People who a day ago would have been happy to watch him burn on a fool’s throne now ate his food and drank his perry. Though I recognised it as a necessity, it still made me feel a little sick. His uncle had, at least, had the good grace to leave Ceadoc the minute Rufra won his battle. I had more respect for him than for most gathered here, though I would happily cut his throat given the chance.
I pushed my way through the crowd. As Heartblade to Rufra a space would generally open around me, but either the room was simply too full or word that I was no longer in the king’s good graces had already spread: few moved for me. Aydor’s bulk would usually have been useful for moving people, but he was wary about having someone banging into the stump of his wrist. I had left him at the entrance of the room, where the heat and stink of sweat hit you like a wall but there was a ready supply of perry.
Nearly every fashion in the Tired Lands was on show in the room: expensive rags shimmered; hair was pulled up into towers woven into hard bread; painted bread charms were wrapped around arms and necks. Some even wore old-fashioned cage-gowns containing lizards that hissed at anyone who passed; others wore beautiful and elaborately enamelled armour that had clearly never seen cross words, never mind crossed swords.
I did not know who to approach about Feorwic. Rufra’s uncle, who would have been my obvious suspect, was gone. Fureth and Danfoth were dead. Now all that remained was a bunch of minor blessed keen to take what favour they could. I looked for Gusteffa. She would have been watching those who arrived and may be able to point me at who had drunk too much and whose tongue may be loose, but in the press of people I could not find her.
; Instead I found Neander.
The priest was slumped in a chair, his craggy face as gloomy as I had ever seen it. He swirled a cup of perry in his hand, staring into the vortex within the cup.
“Girton Club-Foot,” he said, glancing up at me, “you look as miserable as I feel.”
“Why should you be miserable, priest? You backed the right mount and are assured of your position as high priest. We have even won you back the Sepulchre of the Gods.”
“Rufra let the Children of Arnst leave,” he said. “He should have killed them all.”
“He is no murderer.”
“Is he not? Well, you would know.” Neander smiled, a glacial grin. “They will not go away, you know. They have hit upon something. People no longer want dead gods, the promise of a living god is too much. The Children will grow in power, and no matter who is high king the sepulchre will eventually fall to them.”
“Xus is not a bad god.”
“But they do not follow your Xus, do they?” He put his drink down. “I should not have come here,” he said. “I am in no mood for merriment. I should go and see to the cleansing of the sepulchre, give myself something to do.”
“You will have your work cut out. They defiled the place.”
“And then you set it on fire.”
“And would again.”
“You are probably right,” he sighed, standing. “You should have burned the menageries while you were in the mood.”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”
“Well, maybe if you can get there before Vinwulf and Gusteffa you still can. The little monster likes suffering far too much. It would not surprise me to see some of the exhibits vanish.”
“Vinwulf would not defy his father,” I said.
Neander chuckled, swirling the drink he held around in his hand again.
“Oh, not yet, but that day is coming and we both know it.” He stood. “But I am not so foolish as to call the king-in-waiting a monster, Girton. No, it is the jester I talk of.”
“Gusteffa?”
“Aye, she much prefers to be with Vinwulf than Rufra, you know, though I suppose we should not be surprised. His grandfather was an ap Mennix and a streak of cruelty runs through them, it has simply bred true in Vinwulf.”
“You think she goes to the boy because she misses her king?” Neander looked at me as if I was a fool.
“Misses Doran ap Mennix? Dead gods, no. She hated the old man, and he hated her.”
“But she was his jester,” I said. Neander shook his head.
“No.” He looked almost comically confused, and inside I felt a coldness, a strange worry. “Gusteffa was Adran’s jester,” he said. “I was surprised she stayed on after the queen was killed if I am honest. She was devoted to her, in her ugly little way. But it was …” The words dried up in his mouth as he realised he had said too much and to the wrong person.
“Dead gods rising,” I said, and if I had held a drink I would have dropped it. Suddenly it was as if a puzzle, one that had defied me for decades, started to snap into place without any effort on my part. Events of the past were as great blocks, moving through the infinite space of my mind, slotting into one another.
“Useful, that is what you were about to say, is it not, Neander?” I spoke through ice despite the heat of the room. Sweat poured off me, but it was not from temperature. It was from fear.
And then I was on him, his robes bunched up in my fists, his body slammed back against the wall. I heard the crack of his head as it hit the brickwork. He let out a little yelp, but the noise of the feast was so much that no one heard.
“When you sided with Tomas all those years ago, she was the spy you had in Rufra’s camp,” I whispered. “All this time you have known this and you have kept quiet. I should skin you alive.”
“No!” I do not know what was in my face at that moment, or maybe it was simply that he knew my true nature and what I could do to him, but he was terrified. Urine soaked the front of his multicoloured robe.
“I need to know everything you know about Gusteffa. Where did Adran find her?” I said. When he did not reply immediately, I smashed him against the wall again. “Tell me!”
“In a forest!” His words danced through fear. “We found her in a forest standing over the body of a woman, holding a blade and threatening to kill any who approached. Adran found it funny. Made us all stay back while she calmed her down. Brought her back to us as a jester.”
“Two of them, in a forest.” A deep cold settled within me. “Did Adran say anything about this? Anything at all?”
“I do not remem—” I smashed him into the wall again. “Wait, wait, yes. I remember. We laughed at her and Adran said we should not make fun of her. Something about her sorrow.”
“Did she say sorrow, Neander, or sorrowing? Which? It matters.”
“It was more than twenty years ago …”
“I do not care.” I hissed the last word, digging my thumb into his neck in a way I knew was painful.
“I do not know.” Panic filled his voice. “Sorrowing, maybe? I remember I thought her wording odd, that is all. Why does this matter so much to you?”
“Because the relationship between apprentice and master assassin, we call it a sorrowing. And Adran, who knew my master, would have known that. Recognised it.”
“Gusteffa cannot be an assassin,” he said, more puzzled than frightened. “She is a dwarf.” He started to laugh and I tightened my grip on his clothing, spoke in a low hiss so that only he could hear me.
“And my master is barren. And Tinia Speaks-Not was mute. And I am a cripple. And Sayda Half-Hand was missing three fingers. Do you see the connection there, Neander?” I smashed him against the wall again. “Well? Do you?” He stared at me, his eyes widening.
“They …” He swallowed. “All those you name are also assassins.”
“She is an assassin,” I said, loosening my grip on Neander’s robes and letting him slump to the floor. “Gusteffa is an assassin. All these years we have held her close we have been sharpening a knife meant to cut our own throats.”
“But …” Neander started to pull himself up “… if you are right she has had twenty years to murder Rufra and not done it. Surely we need not worry now?”
“It is not always about murder,” I said, more to myself than the priest. “I must speak to Rufra before Gusteffa knows she is discovered.”
I turned away from Neander and almost ran into my master.
“You heard that?” She nodded. “I must get to Rufra.” She nodded again, and if it was odd that she did not speak I did not consider it, not then. She moved to one side, letting me pass, and I pushed through the crowd, less careful now, spilling drinks, pushing people over when I had to and when too many started to shout I drew my blades. I must have looked terrible as the crowd parted before me. When I reached the curtained entrance to Rufra’s rooms, Celot moved to bar my way, his blades coming up into a defensive posture.
“I need to see Rufra,” I said. He stepped into second position, ready to strike, and I went into a crouch.
“Celot!” Voniss stepped out from the doorway and her voice stopped us crossing blades. “Girton! What are you two doing?”
I suddenly realised how it must look, me advancing on the king’s rooms with my blades out. I slid them back into their sheaths.
“I must see Rufra.”
“Girton,” she said softly, “I am afraid he does not want to see you.”
“I do not care,” I said, the well of anger within near to overflowing. Then I stopped: took a breath.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
“I need to speak to Rufra. He is still in danger. Him, you, all of his family.” Anareth peered out from behind her trews and Voniss glanced down at her. Her small and pale face nodding solemnly to the woman who protected her.
“Give Celot your blades,” said Voniss, looking at the warrior. “Is that all right, Celot?”
He nodded.
&n
bsp; I handed over my blades and went in to see my king.
Chapter 34
Rufra was deep in conversation with Gamelon. Marrel ap Marrel sat to one side of them. The seneschal did not have his puddle of children and dwarves around him, but wore his golden finery. Antlers of hardened bread rose from a crown he wore. The bread curled around his brows and around his neck and shoulders to support the antlers rising above; the headdress was so big it forced him to hold his upper body unnaturally still to keep it balanced. He was saying something to Rufra, no doubt something deeply obsequious, when the king noticed me.
“I was not meant to be disturbed,” he said.
“Yes, but I—”
“No doubt you have opinions about Gamelon,” he said, turning toward me, his face strictured with pain, “but I do not want to hear them. I do not want to hear what you have to say.” His voice was rising in pitch and strength. “I do not want your criticism or you lack of understand—”
“You are still in danger. You and your family,” I said. The words burst from me more harshly than I intended, but it seemed I could no longer spend two seconds with Rufra before he raised my anger.
“Then,” he leant forward, “you know your duties.”
“There is still an assassin. Maybe more than one.”
“And who sends this assassin?” he said. “Our enemies are dead.”
“Gusteffa is the assassin,” I said. Rufra stopped speaking. I think it had been years since I had seen him look so shocked. Then he smiled and a chuckle escaped his lips.
“I thought you had forgotten you were a jester, Girton.” He grinned at me. “It is good that you remember it is laughter that bound us together. Maybe it is not too late to—”
“She was Queen Adran’s jester, never King Doran’s. Adran found her in a forest, standing over the body of her master—who knows how she died? Gusteffa was ready to fight, probably thought her world had ended with the death of her master. But Adran recognised her for what she was, took her in, gave her a home. From such small kindnesses allegiances are made. We both know that. She is an assassin, Rufra.”