Goldenfire

by A. F. E. Smith

  ‘I’m not doing it out of cruelty, Ayla!’ he protested. ‘It’s for your own safety.’

  She glared at him. ‘My father kept me in this tower for eighteen years for my own safety. I don’t expect the same from you.’

  ‘That’s not fair. I just –’

  ‘Do you have any reason to believe Zander innocent, other than your own opinion of what it would be sensible or logical for an assassin to do?’

  ‘No,’ Caraway admitted, and she folded her arms.

  ‘Then as overlord of Darkhaven to Captain of the Helm, I order you to stop! Call off the extra security and let things go back to normal.’

  Caraway stared at her. He wasn’t sure why her words hurt so much. She outranked him: always had, always would. It was just …

  It was just, he hadn’t thought the two of them worked that way. Not any more. Yes, she had her responsibilities and he had his, but within the small circle that encompassed the two of them, he’d always assumed they were a team. She hadn’t given him a direct order like that since they’d embarked on their relationship. It made him wonder if she’d ever seen him as an equal, or if he would always be someone she thought she could control.

  ‘And as a woman to the man who cares about you?’ he asked softly. ‘What do you say then?’

  She shook her head. ‘I say let it go, Tomas. Before you stifle me.’

  ‘All right.’ Suddenly he couldn’t bear to be in the same room as her – not when he was suddenly doubting everything that lay between them. He leapt to his feet and retreated in the direction of the door. He considered saluting, but that would have been childish. ‘I’ll let the Helm know.’

  ‘Tomas –’

  ‘It’s fine, Ayla.’ He left the room. But as he headed for the guardroom, he already knew he wasn’t going to obey her command. Whatever Ayla said, there was something wrong with Zander’s arrest. And until Caraway knew what it was, he wasn’t going to stop protecting her.

  He’d just have to be a little more circumspect about it.

  EIGHTEEN

  Bryan sat at his desk and stared gloomily at the stack of paper in front of him. Miles was working at the university tonight – A really fascinating experiment, he’d said enthusiastically, don’t expect me before midnight – and so Bryan had decided to use the opportunity to catch up on his never-ending paperwork. Funny thing about paperwork: no matter how much of it he did, he was always behind. He’d brought a pitcher of ale to keep him company, but he didn’t expect it to make the time between now and seventh bell go any quicker.

  Still, one page followed another, and after a while the tedium of it wasn’t so bad. Bryan was almost enjoying the satisfaction of seeing the pile get smaller and smaller when his office door creaked open and a voice said, ‘Art?’

  Bryan raised his head to find Caraway standing in the doorway. His gaze brushed Bryan’s face, before settling on the pitcher of ale.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ he said softly. ‘Zander’s arrest … the more I think about it, the more I’m sure we’ve got the wrong man. But Ayla –’

  ‘She doesn’t agree?’

  ‘She … ah, forget it.’ He looked up briefly, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. ‘What does it matter?’

  What does it matter? That wasn’t a good sign. And even as Bryan watched, the lad’s eyes turned back down in the direction of the pitcher, as though it held some irresistible fascination for him.

  That wasn’t a good sign either.

  Privately, Bryan cursed himself. He was usually careful not to drink where Caraway could see him. Though it had been months since the captain’s last bad night, Bryan had seen enough to know that the cravings of addiction never really went away. The best they could do was become less vivid over time, like the scar left by a near-fatal wound.

  Trying to appear casual, he wiped his pen and stoppered the ink. He shuffled the papers on his desk into a neat stack. And then, finally, he shoved the half-empty pitcher into his cupboard and turned the key.

  When he looked back at Caraway, the lad was gazing at the locked door with a bitter little smile.

  ‘It’s been three years, Weaponmaster,’ he said. ‘I think you can trust me to be in the same room as a drink without pouring it down my throat.’

  Affecting ignorance, Bryan sat back down in his chair. ‘No need to take offence, boyo. Just tidying up a bit.’

  ‘Of course you were.’ Caraway’s voice was sharper than usual – and there had been that twist of sarcasm on Weaponmaster, before. Yet as the silence lengthened, Bryan allowed himself to hope that he’d read the signs wrong; that this was a fleeting temptation that would be forgotten almost as soon as it was born … Then Caraway spoke again.

  ‘As it happens, I was on my way to the warriors’ mess hall. So you may have saved me a walk.’

  Bryan had seen it coming, but still a cold weight of dread sank inside him. He knew Caraway didn’t want to drink, not really. It would have been easy enough for him to hole up in an anonymous inn for the night and drink himself stupid before anyone who loved him even realised where he’d gone. No, he was warring with himself, and he wanted someone to fight for him. The fact that he’d come to a man who happened to have a pitcher of ale to hand was simply the garnish on the shit sandwich.

  Of course, by rights it should have been Ayla here to talk him down from it. But as far as Bryan knew, Ayla didn’t even know this side of her partner still existed. He did a good job of hiding it from her, and from his own men as well. Maybe Bryan was the only one who was allowed to see it.

  It was a privilege he could have done without.

  But Caraway had been his student, once. Quite aside from Bryan’s personal liking for the lad, that gave him a responsibility that would never completely disappear.

  ‘Well?’ Caraway raised his eyebrows. ‘Aren’t you going to offer me a drink? Come on, Art –’ cajoling now – ‘that stuff is barely more than water. I could drink the lot without any risk of going back to what I was.’

  No, you couldn’t. You and I both know that. Bryan shook his head, assuming jocularity. ‘Wouldn’t bother if I were you. Tastes like piss.’

  Caraway planted his elbows on the desk and leaned forward. One corner of his mouth lifted in a cynical smile. ‘In that case, you won’t mind if I take it off your hands.’

  Bryan glanced across at the cupboard, wishing he’d removed the key from the lock. His attempt to wrench the situation back to normality clearly wasn’t going to work; time to face it head-on.

  ‘Tomas,’ he said quietly. ‘Don’t do this.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘You know I’m not going to give you alcohol.’

  ‘Do you think I don’t know my own limits?’ The edge revealed itself in Caraway’s voice once more, a blade that was as likely to cut its wielder as the man who faced it. ‘Like I said, it’s been three years. I can handle it.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘What happens after that cup? What happens when it’s another, and another, and another …?’

  ‘I can handle it,’ Caraway repeated stubbornly, and Bryan sighed.

  ‘Tomas,’ he said again, ‘don’t do this. You’ve made a good life for yourself. You have a family. You’re well respected. You’re Captain of the sodding Helm! Why would you risk all that for the sake of some cheap ale?’

  ‘Because,’ Caraway said, low and fierce, ‘I’m Captain of the sodding Helm. Everyone is relying on me. Everyone thinks I’m something I’m not.’ He scrubbed his hands through his hair. ‘It’s like duelling, Art. One wrong move and I die. Except the champion’s sword everyone thinks I’m wielding is really a foot of broken steel carried by an idiot who bluffed his way to the top. And Ayla –’

  ‘Yes, what about Ayla?’ Rather bemused by the sudden flow of introspection, Bryan seized on the mention of their overlord. ‘If you’re not willing to keep it together for yourself, then do it for Ayla. She needs you, Tomas. Now more than ever, if you’re right
about Zander.’

  ‘She doesn’t need me.’ The response was swift. Bryan frowned.

  ‘Of course she does. She –’

  ‘She doesn’t need me!’ Caraway’s hands slammed down on the desk, hard enough to make the cupboard door rattle. ‘She’s made that very clear. So what difference does it make if I drink or not?’

  Bryan looked at him for a long moment without speaking. Then he walked over to the cupboard, unlocked the door and took out the pitcher of ale. He set it down in front of Caraway, followed by a cup.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘Go ahead.’

  Caraway looked at the cup, then back at him. ‘What?’

  ‘If you’re so useless to the woman you love and the country you’ve devoted your life to,’ Bryan said, producing each word with care, ‘go ahead and drink.’

  Silence. Then, hands shaking, Caraway picked up the pitcher. It chinked against the side of the cup as he poured out a measure of ale.

  Bryan waited.

  Caraway stared into the cup. His knuckles whitened on the handle of the pitcher. Suddenly concerned that he’d done something terribly reckless, Bryan opened his mouth to say something, though he wasn’t sure what – and then Caraway’s arm jerked to the side, sweeping pitcher and cup off the desk to explode against the wall in a shower of pottery shards and amber liquid.

  ‘Damn you.’ Caraway buried his face in his hands. His voice was a hoarse whisper. ‘And damn her.’

  Bryan watched the ale drip down the wall, and said nothing. He didn’t see that anything he could say would be helpful, and it might very well make things worse.

  ‘I’ll never be free of it, will I?’ Caraway mumbled. ‘The … the longing.’

  ‘No.’

  The captain’s shoulders shook in a mirthless laugh. ‘The stupid thing is, I don’t really want a drink. Even the smell of it turns my stomach. I just …’ He lifted his head, eyes full of stark self-loathing. ‘I’m not good enough, Art. And I’m terrified that I’ll screw it all up. That I’ll fail again, that I’ll fail her …’

  ‘Maybe you will,’ Bryan said. ‘But why let that stop you? There was a time, not so long ago, when you stood out there in the streets of the fifth ring and set yourself against twenty warriors for Ayla’s sake. As I recall, almost certain failure didn’t keep you from trying.’

  One corner of Caraway’s mouth twisted upwards. ‘That was different. Back then I had nothing to lose. But now –’

  ‘Now you’re afraid of losing everything,’ Bryan said. ‘But that’s the price you pay to have a life worth living. Fear just means that what you’ve got is worth holding onto.’

  ‘Even if I don’t deserve it?’

  Bryan shook his head. ‘That’s not how it works. The world doesn’t grade us like a pack of recruits and hand out rewards to suit. You deserve your new life no more or less than you deserved your old one. The only thing that matters is what you do with it now you’ve got it.’

  Silence. Caraway glanced at the damp patch on the wall, the shattered pitcher beneath, and visibly suppressed a wince. Then, releasing a long breath, he reached across the desk to grip Bryan’s arm. His eyes were clear.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘For the mess. And for shouting at you.’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘I’ll pay for the ale.’

  ‘No need,’ Bryan said. ‘I should probably cut back anyway.’

  Penn couldn’t sleep. He’d found that to be increasingly the case, since he’d come to the city: every time he lay down, he was assailed by everything he’d managed not to think about during the course of the day. Whether he’d ever succeed in what he’d come to do. Whether his father would be satisfied, even if he did. Three years was a long time to be focused on a single goal to the exclusion of all else; Penn knew that first-hand, having had his father’s purpose drummed into him every single day of those three years. Would his father find peace, when Caraway died? Would he return to being the man he used to be? Or would he forever chew on his own bitterness? In the dark of the night, alone in his room, Penn suspected the latter – in which case, he couldn’t help but wonder what it was all for.

  In the end, he headed down to the archery range, where he spent the next half-bell putting arrows in the centre of target after target. Penn liked archery more than any other discipline, because it was so precise. He fired the arrow, it hit the target, he knew instantly whether he’d got it right or not. It was like mathematics, the only subject in which he’d ever taken an interest at school: no room for ambiguity. Just a simple yes or no.

  When he finally started to tire, he put his bow down and rolled his shoulders. For the first time, the vibrating thud of someone else’s arrows caught his ear. Turning, he saw Ree a couple of stands along. Now he thought about it, she’d often been there before when he was practising. And he’d seen her coming out of the door a couple of times in passing, too. She was obviously pouring all the limited spare time she could snatch into it – and just as obviously, it wasn’t doing any good.

  She lifted her bow, set the arrow to the string, drew and released. It went wide, clipping the edge of the target, and she swore. The catch in her voice suggested tears, though he found that hard to believe. He’d never seen Ree cry.

  She wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist, and then – as if aware of his gaze on her – she turned. He expected her face to crease into its usual defensive scowl, but she just shrugged wearily.

  ‘Go ahead. Tell me how useless I am.’

  He wasn’t sure where his answer came from. Maybe it was an automatic response to the unfamiliar sadness in her eyes. Maybe it was the memory of how she’d put him forward in the strategy test, not because she had something to gain from it but because she genuinely believed he was the best. Whatever the reason, the words came out before he really had time to think about them. ‘I can help you, if you like.’

  ‘Help me?’

  ‘Only if you want.’ Already he half regretted the offer; opening himself up even that far was both dangerous and pointless, given his ultimate aim here. Yet something prevented him from taking it back. ‘It can be hard to improve when you don’t have anyone to point out your mistakes.’

  She smiled, albeit shakily. ‘Ah, now it makes sense. You want to be able to insult me without fear of retaliation.’

  ‘If you’re not interested …’ He turned away and picked up his bow. But before he could leave, he heard footsteps behind him and a hand grabbed his elbow.

  ‘Penn. I was joking. Come on …’ She tugged on his arm until he turned to face her. ‘I’d appreciate your help,’ she said, very seriously. ‘I really would. That is, if you’re still willing.’

  Was he still willing? He had no idea. ‘I suppose so.’

  So she fired a few more arrows, and he corrected her grip on the bow; and then she fired a few more, and he corrected her stance; and then she fired a few more, and he corrected the way she was aiming at the target. He wasn’t the most patient teacher – he didn’t have it in him – but privately, he had to admit that Ree was a very patient pupil. She soaked up advice and criticism without complaint, and though sometimes she looked as if she wanted to retaliate against his more astringent observations, she managed to bite her tongue. To his surprise, Penn almost found that he was enjoying himself.

  By the time they’d finished, it was after midnight, and they had to be up again at dawn. Ree yawned and stretched, then looked ruefully at the wooden sword propped against the wall.

  ‘I need to take that back to the weapons store in the training hall,’ she said. ‘I came straight here from the last session of the day, and somehow I managed to bring it with me.’ She grimaced at Penn’s expression. ‘Don’t worry, you don’t have to come. Go ahead and get some sleep.’

  If only. He shook his head: better to be as tired as possible when he finally lay down to rest, in the hope that sleep would catch up with him before his brain had a chance to avoid it. ‘I don’t mind walking with you. It’s
on the way.’

  The startled glance she cast him said more clearly than words that she hadn’t expected him to want to remain in her company, but she only nodded. ‘Come on, then.’

  The night was cold by now, and they huddled together as they made the short walk from the archery stands to the central training hall. They were nearly there when Ree said abruptly, ‘Do you think he did it?’

  ‘Do I think who did what?’

  ‘Zander. Do you think he was really going to – you know.’

  Penn hadn’t been thinking about Zander’s arrest at all. He was surprised to find himself feeling guilty about that, for an instant, before he pushed it away. It wasn’t as if he’d ever done more than tolerate Zander. If anything, the arrest was good news for him, because presumably it meant they’d all be under less scrutiny.

  But of course, Ree didn’t feel that way, because Ree and Zander were close. Not that Penn would have noticed, but Saydi had speculated about the exact nature of their relationship on more than one occasion. And if she was right, that would explain Ree’s unusual sadness tonight.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said cautiously. ‘But it seemed like there was a lot of evidence. And they wouldn’t have arrested him otherwise, would they?’

  Ree sighed. ‘I suppose not.’

  She said nothing more until they reached the training hall – and even then, it was only to wonder aloud whether the door would be locked this late. Yet it opened to her touch, and the two of them entered together. Inside, the corridors and practice floors were dark and empty. Penn and Ree found their way to the weapons store using nothing more than the spill of moonlight through the high windows, but when they got there they found a second source of illumination: the door to Weaponmaster Bryan’s office stood ajar, releasing a narrow beam of light.

  He’s up late. Penn waited a short distance away as Ree replaced the practice sword in the store. They were just turning to leave when a shout from within the office made them both jump. Instinctively they stopped walking and drew closer to each other.

  ‘That was Captain Caraway,’ Ree whispered. Penn put a hand on her arm, silencing her – and so they both heard the thud of the bottle on the table.