by Rj Barker
The smile on his face faltered a little.
“But she has had plenty of opportunities to kill me, Girton.” He spoke softly, as if to a child, “And she never has.”
“And how many of those you love are gone, eh? Ask yourself, would Queen Adran have wanted a quick revenge, or a slow one?”
His smile faltered.
“No,” he said, “it cannot be. She looks after me, she treats my wound.” He touched his side.
“Aye, she does. Think on that, Rufra.”
“It never heals.” His words could barely be heard. “I thought it part of my curse.” Then his voice hardened. “But it was no dwarf that attacked Voniss, and Gusteffa was here with me. You must be mistaken.” The stubborn set of his brow returned and I wanted to shout but could not. Instead I took a breath, spoke calmly.
“The Open Circle was a dead thing when we first met, Rufra, but it has resurfaced. Adran was planning her own army of assassins and that is the real reason she brought my master and I to Maniyadoc. Gusteffa must have been involved. When Adran died she simply took over what was left.”
“No,” he said again, but he sounded unsure. The look on his face was painful to watch. I could almost see him thinking through every moment of the past twenty years. Every time he had suffered an unexpected reversal of fortune, every time someone he had loved had died—and thinking, “Was she there?”
“Think on it, Rufra. In the war of the three kings, your every step was known.”
“But that was Nimue and Crast,” he said quietly. “And they died for their treachery.”
“It was Gusteffa. Neander told me. When I fought Nimue she spoke of her master. I presumed she meant Neander or Tomas, but I was wrong, Rufra. She must have spoken of Gusteffa.”
“It cannot be.” And now he almost pleaded.
“All the misfortunes, Rufra? The deaths? Your children, your wife, your friends? Who was ever better placed to act than Gusteffa?” His hands gripped the arms of his wooden throne.
“No,” he said, but what I saw on his face was not denial now. It was a growing anger. “I took her in. She was cared for. I made her family—”
“We killed her mistress, Rufra. And you—you above all—know about the loyalty of assassins.”
I saw the moment he accepted what I had said, when his disbelief collapsed before my words. His face went white as a corpse.
“Dead gods,” he said, standing, “we have held a hedging to our breast.” He raised his voice. “Gather what sober troops I have! Get me my armour!” he shouted. “Now!” Two steps down from his dais, Gamelon forgotten, he took my hands. “She is with my son, Girton. She has taken Vinwulf to the menageries,” he said. “The pain of my wound,” he touched his side, “it makes me harsh, and I have not always treated you well. I promise I will make it up to you, somehow. But please, I will ask nothing else of you, not ever. Just save my son.”
“I will, I have always been loyal,” I said. For a moment his eyes searched my face. There were tears there, a vulnerability I had not seen for a long time. He gently squeezed my hands.
“I know,” he said. “I have always known. Now go.” I raised my head, briefly showing him my throat, and then turned on my heel. Marrel ap Marrel followed me out of Rufra’s rooms.
“I will come,” he said. “Two are better than one, eh?” I nodded, took my blades back from Celot, and we set off, pushing our way through a now agitated crowd. As we passed I heard whispers, questions. Those gathered outside knew something was wrong but not what. Many were clearly readying themselves to leave. As we passed Aydor he made to join us. I stopped him with a gentle touch of his arm.
“You have done enough today, Aydor,” I said. “Wait here for Rufra. He gathers his troops. Bring them to the menageries when they are ready.”
He nodded.
“Be safe, Girton,” he said. “You have also died enough today.”
I nodded and turned, heading further into Ceadoc, down gloomy tunnels, nausea growing as the souring beneath deepened as we approached its centre. It was only as we came to the menageries that I realised one of Ceadoc’s strangest tricks. It seemed, no matter which way we went, we always headed down.
“Rufra’s jester,” said Marrel ap Marrel as he ran alongside me, his breath coming in gasps. “I do not understand.”
“You do not need to.”
“Why did she not strike sooner? Why now?”
“There have been many attempts, on Rufra, me and my master. We had always thought we were attacked because we were a threat to Ceadoc, the Children, the Landsmen or the priesthood.” We turned a corner, finding two highguard loitering in the tunnel. “Have you seen Vinwulf, the prince? Or Rufra’s dwarf jester?” I said.
“You’re the second cripple to ask that,” he said. Something dark settled on me.
“Who was the other?”
“A woman, seemed in a fair hurry.” He pointed down the tunnel. “She followed ’em down that way. Went left, toward the menageries.” Dead gods, I should not have told my master about Gusteffa. Of course she would not ignore it.
“Why not bring them?” said Marrel, glancing back at the soldiers.
“I trust only Rufra’s closest.”
“How do you know Gusteffa has not got to them too?”
“I do not,” I said, “but she must have kept herself well hidden. I doubt she would have shown herself to many. We must hurry, Marrel.” Why had my master gone ahead of me? She was in no state to confront another. I fought down a growing sense of urgency: patience is the assassin’s ally. How many times had she told me that?
“You truly believe that all Rufra’s misfortune is her work?” I slowed and Marrel almost ran into the back of me.
“It may be,” I said, “that she is nothing but a jester, and she is thankful that Rufra kept her on, and I will find her and Vinwulf together in there.” I pointed at the door to the menageries. “Plotting the best way to destroy it, just as the king asked.”
“You do not believe that,” said Marrel. “And from what that guard said, neither does your servant.”
“No,” I said, “I do not. But I have been wrong before, many times. Now, Marrel ap Marrel, be quiet. We must be hunters.” I pushed open the door to the menageries, and despite the myriad torches that had been placed around its walls and on poles by the cages, it felt like I was about to step into a darkness deeper than any I had faced before.
Marrel and I passed through the door and I lifted my hand, stopping him. I let the room soak in to me: the noise of it, the vile smell of it, the miserable half-light. I reached out, looking for the golden glow that told me life was out there, but without Cassadea at its centre the souring had changed. It was as if she had been a spider at the centre of a web and I had been an interloper, reaching along the threads she spun.
I could no longer feel anything beyond myself. The menageries were only a place full of darkness and the sound of pain.
I tried to visualise the room from what I heard. It was big, bigger than I remembered. The fluttering torches on the back wall looked very far away and as I let my eyes become accustomed to the semi-gloom of the menageries, my other senses came into play. Smell first: it smelled like a dungeon, thick with a stink of sewers and suffering that the many smoky incense burners could not mask. Sound: the quiet sobbing, the low keening, the sounds a human body makes when it tries to console itself but there was no respite here, only pain and only horror.
Marrel and I moved, gliding forward through the shadows between the cages. I tried not to look at what they contained. Their pain would be over soon, Rufra had promised that at least. As we passed each cage it became easier for me to understand Rufra’s desperate desire to see magic erased from the land—this was all he knew of it. I wondered, when we returned to Maniyadoc—if we returned—whether he would continue to turn a blind eye to the wise women who worked with the herbs of the hedgerows, or if he would let the fury of the Landsmen loose. The Riders of the white tree would have a lot to pro
ve, I hoped Rufra would not let them prove themselves too harshly.
I thought him better than that.
Voices.
Heard as if in a dream, bounced between the cages and off the soft bodies within, channelled down the torchlit aisles then bounced back and forth until I could no longer hear where they came from. I signalled Marrel forward with a twitch of my finger and, crouching in a fair impression of my own stance, he drew his stabsword and moved ahead, stopping at the next cage. He glanced in the cage and I was sure I saw his face pale at what it contained. He shook his head, moved forward to the next cage but this time he was careful not to look in. He beckoned me forward.
“Girton,” he whispered. “I am old and my ears are not too good. Do you hear voices from our left?”
I listened, cocking my head. He was right. I nodded.
“We go forward, see what we can see, but do not act unless I tell you to. If Gusteffa is an assassin. She is far more dangerous than you would imagine, and she may—” I stopped, realising the mistake I had made in bringing Marrel here. “Marrel,” I said softly, “I need you to go back. Bring Rufra to this place.”
He shook his head.
“No, I am no fool, Girton. If Gusteffa was responsible for so much of Rufra’s pain then there is good reason to believe she had a hand in mine also. I will not leave.” Before I could say any more he went ahead. He was too fast and too loud.
I followed.
Down an aisle.
Round a corner.
In the same clearing where I had fought Fureth’s Landsmen stood Gusteffa, my master and Vinwulf. My master had placed herself between the prince and the dwarf. The prince held a sword in one hand, as did my master—her other held her crutch. Gusteffa held a blade in each hand. I had the strangest feeling—as if I had seen all of this before—like I was the audience and those before me were players in a theatre.
“Stay back, Vinwulf,” said my master. She stepped forward, her crutch clicking as it landed on the stone. She glanced up, but did not seem to see me. In fact, something about her seemed wrong. A subtle wrongness, something I do not believe any other would have seen, but it was there. It was as if something of her—her speed, her balance, her life—had become dulled.
“You were right, Girton,” said Marrel. He stood and Gusteffa turned. A smile creased her face. She had removed most of her make-up, white and pink smeared across her features. I had always thought her old but without her make-up it was plain she was not. She was not much older than I was.
“I’m glad you are here, boy,” she said. She spoke to me not Marrel. Then she let out a low whistle. From the shadows before us stepped another figure. It appeared as if from nowhere. A simple assassin’s trick that required no magic.
Marrel ap Marrel stopped dead.
“Berisa?” he said. The word was an outward breath: part disbelief, part relief. His blade fell to the floor, ringing against stone, and he spread his arms. “Berisa!” I heard only joy.
“Marrel, no!”
He took a step forward, arms outstretched. Then stopped, as if he had walked into an invisible wall. The hands he had stretched out to embrace his wife he slowly lowered to his side. What else he may have had to say was lost for ever as her blade punctured his throat. A perfect killing blow on an armoured man.
“I am sorry,” she said, and withdrew the blade. Marrel ap Marrel fell to his knees, still looking up at his wife, though she no longer looked like the woman I had known. Gone were the fine dresses, the make-up, the dainty manners. Now she held a blade, a longsword, and dressed in leather armour, dyed black. It was not thick enough to stop a determined thrust of a good blade, but it was light and would allow her to move quickly.
“He loved you,” I said.
She shrugged.
“We all make mistakes.”
Behind her, my master and Gusteffa circled warily. Still something wrong.
A sudden image: the stablegirl asleep on a pile of sacks.
“The perry Gusteffa sent my master,” I said. Berisa nodded.
“My master felt like her time was coming to an end with Rufra, and she wanted to finish Merela Karn herself. It is what Adran would have wished.”
“But Gusteffa lacks the skill to beat my master,” I said, and spat, “so had to drug her.”
“She is careful, and whatever works is the best way. Is that not what we learn?” Berisa lifted her blade. “Your master was meant to fall asleep, and Gusteffa would have finished her then. But here is as good as anywhere. She offered to drug you too, but I said no.”
“You should not have,” I said, and slid my blades from their scabbards. Turn and turn and turn.
“Well.” She lifted a small shield with a spike at the centre from her belt and held it in her left hand. “Let’s see about that, eh?”
She came at me with the quick steps: forward and forward. Shield held so it hid her face but not her eyes. She held her longsword low at her side in a stance I had never seen before. The blade in my left hand spun: circles and circles. We danced around one another, to one side, then the other. Forward movement, backward movement. Feet placing themselves automatically, blades jabbing the air but with no real intention of striking. Testing, testing. She smiled. I could not see her mouth but I could see it in her eyes. She was excited by the combat. She wanted this.
Had this been me once?
Her blade jabbed again, a little further, but it was not serious. Behind her Gusteffa feinted at my master and my master danced back, pivoting on her crutch.
It slipped.
Gusteffa darted in.
I felt my body tense.
My master moved to block but I saw no more. Berisa, seeing me distracted, attacked. Using moves I did not know: a twisting spin, one foot coming up into the air and in the middle of the move her body spun the other way, throwing her momentum behind her move, bringing the small shield down toward my arm, driving the spike forward. Fourth iteration: the Surprised Suitor. Jumping back as the shield comes down. Into the Second iteration: the Quicksteps. Pushing forward, my own blade coming down at her extended arm. She rolls away from the strike, flicking her shield at the last moment so it knocks my blade to the side. She lunges into the gap created. Ninth iteration: the Bow. My body hollowing and the tip of her blade cuts through my black motley, scratching the armour underneath. Twenty-first iteration: the Whirligig. In along her extended arm, my blade coming out and round. She bends her body back at the waist, not quite quickly enough. A line of blood appears on her cheek. She ignores the hit, takes the bend further and into a backwards spring, legs coming up to crash into my arm and loosen my blade. But I am quicker. I let go of the hilt of my knife and the blade sails, upright through the air. It is an easy catch. When she has finished her backward spring I am waiting for her, a blade held in each hand.
Into the attack and the dance really begins. Quick and sharp. Blade against blade, shield against sword. We are matched for speed. For style we complement each other. She is acrobatic and fast but I am older, more experienced, and it starts to tell. Moment by moment I push her back. Little by little she tires. The smile that had shone in her eyes starts to dull as I counter every clever move she has—a double spin, momentum turning the shield into a weighted club. Sixteenth iteration: Archer’s Crouch. My blade flashes out at her gut. She throws her shield: it has a rope on it that allows her to flick it back. The point hurtles toward my face. Thirteenth iteration: Twitcher’s Flip. A handspring puts me out of reach of the shield.
She is done. I know it and I know how she feels from the time I fought the traitor Neliu so many years ago. All Berisa has is for nothing because I am simply, at this moment, in this place and at this time: better.
And then my master screams.
The blade goes home. I see it as if in a dream. As if in slow motion. Gusteffa sways out of the way of my master’s knife, under the swipe, and her blade comes up under my master’s ribs. It freezes me.
Everything I am.
E
verything I have ever been.
It is her.
It is from her.
Berisa attacks. I am on the back foot. A flurry of blows and behind her my master is clutching her gut, trying to retreat as Gusteffa comes forward, confident, lithe, dangerous.
Concentrate.
Breathe.
You are the weapon.
I counter. Punch forward, use a move I saw Rufra’s trainer Nywulf use. Fingers stiffening, I hit Berisa’s wrist and her hand convulses: she drops her blade. Tenth iteration: the Broom. My leg comes round, knocking her feet from under her and I am on her. Blade at her throat, and despite the fact that Gusteffa advances on my master, despite that my master’s crutch slips from her grip, I cannot stop myself. It is ingrained into me. Berisa is a true assassin and I was taught a code. The tip of my blade is at her throat. She breathes heavily, her chest rising and falling underneath my knee. Her eyes bright.
“Yield.”
“I have taken the contract,” she says “You are my target. I will never stop.”
A shout of agony.
Across the floor, Gusteffa mirrors me, but she has no code. She is atop my master, her small dagger rising and falling, punching my master’s body and I have no time. My weight goes forward. I push myself into a run by thrusting the knife through Berisa Marrel’s throat. Foot after foot after foot and I am running and shouting. Shouting and running and saying her name.
Not master.
Not saying master.
Not Merela.
Not saying Merela.
At this last moment, the word that has always waited, always been there, escapes my mouth.
“Mother!”
And Gusteffa’s blade rises and falls.
“Mother.”
But it is not too late.
It is not too late.
Gusteffa is a well of life. Could I feel it she would be bright against the dying glow of my master beside her. Foot after foot after foot. She turns to me, and I have never seen such hate. Never. She points her blade at me and she speaks.