by Ian Irvine
Rix let out a sigh. He had a purpose in life and a place to go. It was all he needed. He took up the oars, braced himself against the agony in his wrist, and rowed on.
“I’m not overly keen on that sword,” said Glynnie.
“Me either, but without it, we wouldn’t be here.”
“That’s what worries me. Where is it sending us? And how does it know the way?”
Rix shrugged. “It’s enchanted to protect me.”
“Who enchanted it?”
“Who knows? It’s a very old sword.”
“Then the enchantment can’t have been made for you.”
“I suppose not. Maloch belonged to Axil Grandys, originally.”
“The chancellor called it a foul blade,” said Glynnie.
“When?” said Rix.
“Before he ordered his captain to chop off your right hand with it. Maloch didn’t protect you then.”
Something scuttled across Rix’s grave. “Then why did you ask me to hold it while you were reattaching my hand?”
“I thought it might help.”
Rix swallowed a bitter retort. They’d been through that before. “We’d better keep moving.”
Hours after their escape from the gyre he pulled the dinghy into a wooded cove and the keel rasped on sand. A yard-wide stream ran into the cove at its upper end. There were no buildings, no lights or smell of wood smoke, no sign that anyone lived nearby. They climbed out into ankle-deep water with nothing save the clothes they were wearing, Glynnie’s small pack and the money belt around Rix’s waist. He reached into the dinghy and retrieved the rope.
“Where are we?” Glynnie asked listlessly.
She had not spoken in the past hour, just sat there, staring into the darkness, shivering and wracked by bouts of quiet weeping for her lost brother. It might have been better if she had seen the lad’s body. At least she would know.
Rix was no longer troubled by doubt. Everything in his life was certain, including its brevity. Henceforth, he had nothing save the sword in his left hand… and lost, loyal Glynnie. For a few days, at least, until he found a place for her. He shied away from the thought.
“A mile north of Grume,” he said, belatedly answering her question. “We can’t leave any traces here, so stay in the water. I’ll get rid of the dinghy.”
“How?”
Rix took off his coat and handed it to her, then waded out, pushing the boat, until the water was up to his shoulders. Taking Maloch in his left hand, he thrust it through the planks, well below the waterline, then drove the blade down to the keel, across and back up. The enchanted sword cut through the tough wood as though it was card and the dinghy sank.
He went back to Glynnie. “We’ll go up the stream until we come to a path, or rocks, and leave the water there.”
“We could still leave tracks,” she said.
“If they don’t come out of the lake, there’s no reason to suspect the tracks are ours. They could belong to anyone.”
They walked up the stream for several hundred yards before the land rose in a ramp, the stream chuckling down over a series of rock shelves like broad, shallow steps. Rix turned left across the shelf into a low woodland. Dry bark rustled beneath their feet. They climbed a hill and at its crest he stopped to survey the land around.
Away to their left he saw a scatter of lights, the town of Grume. In every other direction the land lay in darkness. It was getting colder and their clothes were still damp, but he dared not light a fire here.
“What now?” said Glynnie.
“Get away from the lake as quickly as possible. Then buy two horses, or steal them, head for the mountains and hope there’s enough snowfall to hide our tracks.”
“How long will it take to get there?” she said as they headed down the other side of the hill.
“Depends how long it takes to find a place for you,” he said without thinking.
She stopped dead. “You’re sending me away?”
Rix cursed himself for putting it so baldly. “No, I’m going to find a safe household for you —”
“I thought we were allies, working together,” she cried. “What have I done wrong?”
He caught her by the shoulders. “Shh! There could be hunters out, or shepherds.”
“Answer. The. Question.” Her voice was ground ice.
“You saw what they did back at the gyre. They plan to kill me.”
“And you need a fr – an ally to watch your back,” she said, her voice quavering.
“I vowed to look after you and Benn,” said Rix. “I failed Benn; I’m not losing you as well.”
“And my feelings don’t come into it?”
He scanned the darkness, uneasily. “We can’t talk about this now. We’ve got to get clear.”
She turned and walked away.
Rix ran after her. “You’re going the wrong way.”
“You go your way, I’m going mine.”
He groaned. “If we split up, it doubles the chance of discovery. And when they find one of us they’ll know where to look for the other. Anyway, you’ve got no money or anything.”
“What do you care? You’re planning to dump me the minute you can.”
“I’m not planning to dump you. Glynnie, be realistic. I’m going to do Lyf as much damage as I can, but in the end… I’m just one man, and I’m bound to be killed.”
“So it’s all right for you to fight for our country, but not for me?”
“I have a duty to look after you.”
“House Ricinus has fallen! You’re not my master. I’m nothing to you.”
“You mean a lot to me! But I vowed to look after you and I’m going to.”
Her voice went even colder. “So after all we’ve gone through together, you’re getting rid of me?”
“No, I’ll be providing for you as best I can. You’re a clever, capable girl. I’m sure you’ll do well.”
“I’m not a girl,” she said, stamping her foot. “I’m a woman.”
“And you have a life to live.”
“So do you.”
He groaned. “I’m Lyf’s number one enemy – and high on the chancellor’s list as well. Whoever wins, they’ll come after my head and they’ll probably get it.”
“But you’re all I have left,” said Glynnie. “I can’t bear to lose you too.”
CHAPTER 18
Three days had passed. Today was the day. Glynnie sank ever lower in the saddle of her stolen horse and refused to meet Rix’s eye.
“It’s for the best,” he said. “What else can I do?”
She did not reply.
“It wouldn’t be right to take you with me.”
“Which is why you’re casting me off like a worn-out pair of trews.”
“I’m not casting you off. I’m setting you up for your future.”
“Whether I like it or not.”
“I’m responsible for you. You’re not —”
“Will you shut up! I’ve been looking after myself since I was twelve and I don’t want to be set up for my future. Damn you. You can go to hell.”
Glynnie stared at him for thirty seconds, her fists clenched, then the ferocity drained out of her. Her face took on the resigned look he had seen all too often on the faces of the house servants – that this was her lot and she had no option but to accept it. A look he could not bear to see on her.
“All right, Lord,” she said. “I can’t fight you any more.”
“I’m not a lord. I’m just Rix.”
“You’re disposing of me. That makes you my lord.”
“What else can I do? I’ve lost everything and I’m probably going to die.”
“You still have allies, and a belt full of gold. And now you’ve rejected me, no one in the world cares if I exist – or if I die.”
“I’m not rejecting you. I do care!”
“Then take me with you.” She said it dully, knowing the answer before he spoke.
“I – can’t!”
Sh
e bent her head to him, servant to master. “All I had was you. You were my family. Now I’m alone in the world.”
Rix’s mouth tasted of ashes.
“Where are you dumping me?” said Glynnie as they approached the situation Rix had picked out for her.
“Canticleer Manor. A friend of mine, Jondo Canty, stands to inherit it when his father dies. He may already have done; the old man was ailing ten years ago. Jondo was the youngest,” Rix reflected. “He’s got five older sisters, but they’re an old, traditional family. Daughters only inherit when there are no sons, can you believe it?”
“I can believe it,” she muttered.
It occurred to Rix, for the first time, that the Cantys might be Herovian. Inheritance through the male line was a Herovian custom, he recalled. And since Rix was descended from the great Axil Grandys, they would certainly want to keep his favour.
The track was winding, potholed and the wagon ruts almost axle deep. Had Canticleer fallen on hard times? It might not be a bad thing – it made the place less of a target.
It was drizzling as they turned the corner and rode up to the gate, which was sagging on its hinges. Weeds sprouted along the wall to either side. The manor was small, square and very plain. Rix’s heart sank as he studied the tiny windows, the mean, nail-studded front door and the dozen squat chimneys. It was a miserably cold day yet only one chimney was smoking. Canticleer did not look welcoming.
He pounded on the gate, and shortly a thin, slatternly young woman appeared on the other side. Her clothes were grimy and so was her hair. She looked him over. “What do you want?”
“Good day to you,” said Rix. “I’ve come to see Jondo.”
“What name?”
“Rixium Ricinus.”
She stiffened and went back inside. Several minutes passed. Rix studied Glynnie from the corner of an eye. The reins were twisted around her hands so tightly that they scored purple marks across the backs. He could imagine what she was thinking. He would not want to be left here either.
The young woman returned with a matron of perhaps fifty years. She was short and stout, with a purple, jowled face and plump fingers, and her grey hair was draggled and stringy. Rix had been looking at her for some moments before he recognised Jondo’s mother, whom he had not seen in ten years. She had not aged well.
“Good day to you, Madam Canty,” he said politely. “You may not remember —”
“I remember your bitch of a mother,” said Madam Canty. “And how she mocked my son for his old-fashioned manners and rustic dress.”
Rix had not expected such naked hostility. “But —”
“Our living may have been meagre, but at least it was earned honestly.”
“My mother is dead, and so is my father,” said Rix. “And I —”
“Executed for high treason and murder! And now your house has collapsed like a rotten melon, you dare come begging at my door?”
“I am no beggar, Madam. I am riding to war to defend my country. I have a maidservant, a clever, hardworking girl who would be an asset to any household. As I have none, I’m seeking a place for her.”
Madam Canty’s hard little eyes surveyed Glynnie, then flicked back to Rix. “Knowing Ricinus’s way with maids, I cannot believe she is one.”
Glynnie flushed the colour of her hair.
Rix dared not speak his rage. “She is an excellent maidservant, Madam. Will you have her?”
“I have five daughters, no husband and no son. I have no need of servants.”
“Ah, I’m sorry. Was Jondo killed in the war?”
Her mouth turned down, became a savage gash. “He was put to death in Caulderon, five days ago. Would that they had done the same to you.” She looked him up and down, her contempt deepening. “Though being your mother’s son, Lord Ricinus, I dare say you bought your freedom with the blood of those more scrupulous and less fortunate.”
Fury was rising in Rix but he clamped down on it. Madam Canty had much to be bitter about and he could not blame her for speaking her mind. He nodded stiffly and was turning away when Glynnie let out a cry of fury.
“How dare you speak about Lord Rixium like that, you ugly old cow! He’s a good and noble man —”
“Who betrayed his treacherous mother to her death,” Madam Canty said icily. “He’s just as foul as she was.” She met Rix’s eyes. “Begone, Lord Ricinus, and take your leman with you, before I set the dogs on you both.”
They rode away with as much dignity as they could manage. Glynnie was shaking and almost incoherent with fury. “How. Dare. She?” she finally ground out.
“She’s lost her only son,” he said mildly, “and she’s wondering how they’ll survive the war – or if they will.”
“You didn’t buy your freedom. And… and…”
She was flushing again, and he felt an urge to tease her, gently. “What are you trying to say?”
“You’re a gentleman. You would never take advantage of… of…”
“Of a maidservant who had no one to protect her? Ah, Glynnie, if you only knew what gentlemen are really like. Taking advantage of innocent maids is one of their principal sports.”
“I know exactly what those gentlemen are like,” she said hotly. “And I also know you. I trust you with my life, Lord. My life and… and everything.”
She jabbed the horse with her heels and it trotted ahead. Her head was held high and she wore a faint, enigmatic smile. Glynnie was not altogether displeased with the way things had turned out.
Rix felt a slight heat in his cheeks. Someone should remind her that it was possible to trust too much.
“I’m sure we’ll have better luck at Corkyle Manor,” Rix said that afternoon. “Tyne is an old friend.”
Glynnie went pale. “Better luck at what?”
“Finding you a place.”
“But… I thought you’d given up on that.”
“They’re going to hunt me down like a dog, Glynnie. And even if I could escape them, I can’t take you to war.”
“I thought you were going to find a place to build an army.”
“I am.” Why hadn’t he told her about Garramide? If he mentioned it now it would only infuriate her more.
“That’ll take weeks, even months. Why do you want to get rid of me now?”
“You’re deliberately misunderstanding me. I don’t want to get rid of you. But I don’t want you in danger, either.”
“Hightspall is at war. Wherever you banish me to, I’ll be in danger.”
He ground his teeth. “Not as much as if you were with me.”
“Your refuge in the mountains – it’ll be a castle or fortress, I assume.”
“Yes, a place with strong defences.”
“And you’ll have soldiers to help you defend it?”
“As many as I can round up. Hundreds, hopefully.”
“And dozens of servants to manage daily life in the fortress?”
“I’ll need servants, and you’re not going to be one of them.”
“What’s wrong with me? If you can fight for our country, why can’t I?”
“You’re going, and that’s that.”
“Arrogant pig!” she muttered.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Madam Canty was right about you,” she snapped. “There’s nothing noble about you; you’re not even a gentleman’s… backside.” She galloped ahead.
He gave her fifteen minutes, then rode up beside her. “It’s still no.”
Her shoulders sagged. “What about Tyne’s lady? What’s she like?”
“Tall, bony, sharp tongued, but underneath it all, Felmae is a kindly woman.”
“I suppose she’ll have to do, then. How long have I got?”
“Before we get there? About five minutes.”
“You… you bastard!” she shrieked, so self-consciously that he was sure she’d never used the word before. “Why didn’t you tell me we were so close?”
“Must have slipped my mind,” he lied.
“You’re a stinking liar, Deadhand.” She wrenched her horse’s head around and faced him, a compact ball of fury dwarfed by the enormous horse. Glynnie swallowed the fury with an effort and said calmly, “At least your treachery has solved one problem.”
“What’s that?” Rix said uneasily.
“I hate you! I’m glad to be getting rid of you, you great arrogant lump. And… and, if you should ever come by to visit me, not that you would, I won’t be in.”
She turned away, evidently thinking she had won a great victory.
It was snowing gently as they rode up a winding track between small, leafless trees. Granite boulders dotted the slopes to either side and the air was very still, with a hint of wood smoke.
“It’ll be nice to relax by the fire with old friends,” said Rix. “And sleep in a proper bed.”
“Are you staying the night, then? I thought you’d dump me and run away to play at your wars.”
Rix felt his jaw muscles tighten. “You never let up, do you?”
“Surely you didn’t think I was going to make it easy for you, Deadhand?”
Rix couldn’t take any more. He spurred his horse and galloped ahead, up the hill, around a tight corner where the trees grew so closely together that they made a black wall to either side, then down a straight drive. Ahead were the simple, elegant lines of the old keep, built in pink granite a thousand years ago. The smell of wood smoke was stronger here, and he soon saw why. The manor behind the keep was a smoking ruin.
He careered down the track. It need not mean what he feared. The keep was strong; a hundred people could hold up there for weeks. But as he came closer Rix saw that its doors had been smashed in. A trail of smoke still issued from inside, as though the last combustible items had almost been consumed.
He was staring numbly at the hacked bodies of the lord and lady of Corkyle when Glynnie reached him. Many other bodies were scattered around them, but not all looked as though they had been killed in battle. Several, including the lady, appeared to have been cut down after they had surrendered.
They searched the keep and the ruins but found not a living soul. Not even children had been spared. Yet the manor had not been looted. Most of its artworks and other treasures had been burned or hacked to pieces, as if the intention of the raid had not been conquest, but simple, bloody destruction of all that had been built here.