Age of Assassins

by Rj Barker

  Heamus came next, together with another old Rider who wore the yellow tabard of Castle Maniyadoc.

  “Heamus Galdin you know, the other is Bryan ap Mennix, cousin to the king and commander of his armies,” whispered my master. “An idiot, though plenty of idiots have worn crowns. But he is an unlikely suspect—he has no heir and prefers the company of men.”

  The two knights bowed to the empty thrones and sat at opposite ends of the table, quietly joined by two women.

  “The women?”

  “Next to Heamus is the king’s aunt, who is of little interest. The other is her maid.”

  Next came priests, cowled in the colours of their deities: orange for Heissal, the god of the day, purple for Lessiah, the goddess of night, red for Hayel, the goddess of fertility, and black for Xus, the god of death. All had their faces hidden by white masks bent into the sadness of mourning—except the priest of Xus, whose mask showed something that could have been hilarity or mania. Curiously, the priest of Xus did not sit; instead he chose to stand, almost lost in the shadows behind the thrones.

  “Pay attention to the priest of Heissal. He is called Neander, and a squire called Rufra is his illegitimate son. They pass him off as a cousin.” She shook her head. “And they are ap Vthyrs.”

  “Didn’t we …”

  “Kill one? Yes. They caused a lot of trouble because it was said they were not truly blessed, but now they have a new leader and pay tribute to the Mennixes. King Doran allows them to rule their lands as they wish and has titled them blessed rather than start another fight.”

  “But if you are not born blessed …”

  “Then some convenient bloodline can be found to raise you, if needed.”

  “No wonder they bully him.”

  “They may have cause. In killing their old leader the king may have made a hedging’s deal and swapped a bull mount for a poisonous lizard. The new ap Vthyr blessed are ambitious and looking beyond their lands. They may have settled for the title of blessed under Doran ap Mennix or they may be biding their time before they make a play for real power—and I would bet on the latter before the former. They are an old family with a lot of grudges. They are shedding their old ways but keeping the grudges. You should watch this Rufra boy.”

  “Is there anyone I shouldn’t watch?”

  Candlelight reflected from her eyes as she glanced at me.

  “No.”

  Next onto the stage came the oldest man I had ever seen. His face was as wrinkled as dried fruit and his beard reached down to his golden belt. All of his clothing was gold, but the most striking thing about him was not his great age or the golden clothes he wore but the lizard cages—one on each shoulder, one worn as a hat—that were part of his clothing. It looked impossible that someone so old and frail could support such an elaborate castle of wires and cloth. Each cage contained a small fire-lizard—they do not actually breathe fire, only idiots believe that, but they do spit a kind of venom that burns the skin.

  “That is Daana ap Dhyrrin, great-grandfather of Tomas and son of the last ap Dhyrrin king. He is adviser to the king and the king’s father before him, and I would think that if he were going to make a play for power he would have done it years ago.” I glanced along our table and saw Tomas at the end, he seemed transfixed by the old man. Daana ap Dhyrrin gave the boy a wink. My master noticed this as well. “Maybe what Daana ap Dhyrrin would never take for himself he would like to gift to another.” She went quiet while she thought about that, then added. “Do you remember, you used to be quite sure that fire-lizards breathed actual fire?”

  Chapter 7

  The king and queen appeared next. It was common knowledge throughout the Tired Lands that King Doran ap Mennix, one of the greatest kings of our age, was sick and dying of some wasting disease. It is testimony to my naivety that I had believed it.

  King Doran ap Mennix was being poisoned with nightsmilk. I could see it in the yellow bags beneath his eyes and the unmistakable way his veins throbbed against his papery skin. If I could see it then I bet almost every other person in the hall could see it too. I felt like turning to the man sat next to me and saying, “He’s being poisoned!” but as we hadn’t been asked to protect him I guessed his poisoner sat next to him—Queen Adran ap Mennix. “As ambitious as she is beautiful” was what people said about her. Though she wasn’t beautiful, not really. Her eyes were too small for her nose, and her mouth was a hard red line. Adran wore green, a tight-fitting top and trousers that flared out into skirts sewn with thousands of lizard scales which shimmered in the candlelight. Her face was painted with rouge and dark colours to accentuate her bone structure, and her hair was lifted into an elaborate construction, strands of thick black hair woven in and out of antlers of hard bread, the ultimate show of wealth—food for nothing but decoration. All in all she looked like some magical and haughty forest creature, but we could all have been wearing sacks and a blind man would have known she was a queen.

  She was definitely attractive, I’ll give her that, but it came from her sense of assurance not her face or her fine clothes.

  Once it had been believed Adran Mennix would be high queen and Doran ap Mennix high king. Twenty years ago High King Darsese had been unsteady on his throne and it had been expected that Doran ap Mennix would take his place. Darsese was a weak king, and the Tired Lands were on fire with minor resource wars. The Landsmen, protectors of the high king’s order, were more concerned with their eternal hunt for sorcerers. Doran ap Mennix, young, strong and loved, rode his army right up to the walls of Ceadoc, the capital. All expected him to be crowned high king within the week.

  But he was not.

  Every village know-it-all has a pet theory about why, but I have always believed the answer is obvious. Doran ap Mennix was a man of action; the high king is a man tied to a throne. To be high king is to be little more than a figurehead. Doran ap Mennix was not the sort of far-seeing king who would think of change over time; he was the sort of man who thought of now and so he walked away, into a land where he could see the changes his blade wrought. He became the attack dog of High King Darsese, and he was happy.

  Rumour has it his wife was not. It is an odd coincidence that Doran ap Mennix, despite having a castle full of by-blows proving his fertility, has only one legitimate child. And that child is nineteen years old, which would mean he was conceived just before Doran ap Mennix walked away from the palace of the high king.

  It does not do to disappoint the ambitious.

  When the king and queen were sat the food came out and my master, with a brief touch on my arm, vanished from the table. Plate after metal plate of pork, cooked in a myriad different ways, and bread so gleaming white I was unsure if it was real until I saw someone tear it apart. With the food came pots of cider and perry which were slurped up eagerly by everyone around me. I only sipped at mine as I watched the men and women at the top table.

  They did not talk much. Occasionally, Daana ap Dhyrrin leaned over to say something to the ailing king, but Doran ap Mennix only stared ahead into the hall, as if lost in a world very far away from this one.

  The one thing the king paid attention to was his jester, Gusteffa the dwarf, a mage-bent jester of the second order like me. The little man was extremely skilled, tumbling, twisting and performing a set of elaborate tricks in the space between the stage and the table where I sat. The court were clearly used to him and ignored his antics, but I watched rapt as he went through the classic iterations without putting any real effort or thought in. Such ease is the mark of a master. He did not deserve to be ignored, and when he finished I clapped him enthusiastically. He gave me a smile, though no doubt those around me thought I was a gauche country boy who was easily impressed.

  The room had slowly become thicker with noise and the scent of people. The stink of urine floated through the air and the blessed’s love of kilts was explained. Men and women staggered to the edge of the room to piss in the rushes; waiting slaves would run in and gather up the fouled reed
s for disposal. As the light died more slaves appeared, candles were lit, bathing the room in a warm glow, and their smoke mixed with incense to create a thick fug in the air.

  Amid the hubbub my master appeared on the floor in front of the stage. She had used a trick, the Simple Invisibility, in which she melted in with the people around her before throwing off her cloak so it seemed she suddenly appeared from nowhere. She was knelt, knees bent, one slim hand on the floor and the other arm pointing up to the ceiling with her fingers extended as if she strived to touch the candelabra far above. Few noticed at first—they were too caught up in conversation and drink—but people slowly realised something was happening and silence settled on the room like snow. My master did not move while she waited for absolute quiet. Gusteffa, in a piece of excellent comic timing, pretended to take a jealous kick at my master and missed, falling on his back and causing a burst of uproarious laughter. The dwarf got up and stalked away as if disgusted at this interloper but he shot me another smile and a wink.

  Slowly the laughter died away until there was only the fuzzy hum of whispered conversation.

  My master did not move.

  It was as if she were frozen, and from her an icy cold spread discomfort across the room: people stopped talking, stopped eating, stopped drinking. Servants and slaves ceased their constant to and fro. When the room was utterly silent my master rose from her position of introduction so all could see her. She wore a single, loose-fitting garment of shiny black slit along the arms, legs and chest to show flashes of the white material beneath. On her head she wore a hat—black, soft and sewn into a long tapering point that fell down her back to end in a small bell which tinkled softly as she moved her head. Her face was painted black, highlighted with white around the orbits of her eyes, her nose, mouth and the line of her jaw. As she surveyed the room with wide eyes she looked like an animated skeleton, causing an excited intake of breath throughout the room.

  She jinked, bringing her arms up and bending her left leg so she almost fell to the side, catching herself at the last minute and freezing in an odd, lopsided, position. The room exploded into chatter, “Death’s Jester!” repeated again and again. My master stayed statue-still until silence ruled the room again. Then she went through a set of the iterations, the same tumbles, steps and jumps Gusteffa had been doing earlier but the alchemy of her talent transformed them from something merely amazing into something truly spectacular. The room filled with applause. Clapping hardest of all were Gusteffa and myself because there is a great joy in seeing something you love done well.

  When the noise died down my master assumed the posture of the teller: feet together, hands held palms together in front of her chest with her elbows sticking out.

  “Gentlefolk, fear no horror or hedging, for I am Death’s Jester.” Her voice filled the room though she spoke quietly. “I am brought here to honour the Festival Lords and the coming of Festival to this ancient castle.” She jinked again, one leg bending and her hands coming up to either side of her face, framing an exaggerated look of surprise. Somewhere behind me a woman squeaked. “To honour them I will dance a story, and the one I have chosen is as ancient and venerable as this castle. I will dance for you. I will dance, Why Xus the Unseen No Longer Shows his Face.”

  Another collective intake of breath followed by a burst of noisy chattering. My master stayed still until the room was silent again, though it took far longer this time. This dance was rarely performed as it was seen as ill-omened. While waiting for the noise to die down I watched the faces of those on the top table. None looked happy; Queen Adran looked ready to rip my master’s head from her body, but the king?

  The king was smiling.

  Why Xus the Unseen No Longer Shows his Face

  Before there was imbalance and sourings there was balance and happiness and the gods were as familiar to men as misery is now. The Queen of the Gods, Adallada, held the land in her hands and her consort, Dallad, held the scales that kept the land in balance. Each year the harvest was enough to feed all without surplus or waste. For each drop of rain there was a beam of sunlight. For each hour of darkness there was an hour of light. For each tear there was a smile. For each fortune a misfortune. For every death a birth.

  Torelc, the god of time, moved forward but never made any progress. There was the same merry-go-round of seasons: yearsbirth, yearslife, yearsage and yearsdeath going around and around and around. Torelc longed and planned and schemed for change. He saw the magic beneath the land and the power it had, but whenever it seemed like the Adallada would free enough magic to make a real difference she would check her consort’s scales and stop the magic flowing.

  So Torelc spoke to Xus, the god of death, who was his brother and friend. He said, “Xus, are you happy?”

  “Yes,” said Xus.

  “I would have thought you would be lonely,” said Torelc.

  “Lonely?” said Xus. “I am never lonely. I am surrounded by people.”

  “Yes,” said Torelc, “I suppose you are. But they are never happy to see you.”

  “No,” said Xus “they are not. They are always surprised to see me, and sometimes I am unwelcome, but, with time, they understand.”

  “But then they leave you and return to the world,” said Torelc.

  Now, as time passed, Xus could not stop thinking about what his brother had said. Whenever he turned up to take a life back to his dark palace he saw their misery and he saw the misery of those around them. This hurt him. It was the first time he had felt pain and he did not like it. He could not understand how the mortals coped. With Xus’s understanding of loss came an ache, and Xus, the god of death, sought out Torelc.

  “Do you know,” said Xus to Torelc, “how I can stop this ache?”

  “I do,” said Torelc. “It is simple. If some people stayed with you then you would no longer ache. It would only require the balance to be off by the smallest, smallest amount.”

  “Torelc,” said Xus, “how can I change the balance by the smallest, smallest amount?”

  Torelc smiled a secret smile to himself and whispered a plan into the ear of Xus, the god of death.

  Torelc told Xus to gather together his creatures who flew. So he did.

  “I ache,” said Xus. “Take your kind and fly up to the scales of balance and perch upon the dark arm of the scales. Make it move, just a little, so that I may no longer ache.”

  And Xus’s creatures, who loved him, were happy to help. As they left Xus’s dark palace they met Torelc, the god of time, who was waiting for them.

  “Where are you going?” said Torelc.

  “Xus aches,” they said, “and we shall perch upon the dark arm of the scales and move them just a little so he may no longer ache.”

  “Oh,” said Torelc. “Why should you move it only a little? What will you do if that is not enough?”

  Xus’s creatures said, “We do not know.”

  “I know,” said Torelc, and he smiled a secret smile to himself and whispered a plan into the ear of Xus’s flying creatures.

  And Xus’s flying creatures heard Torelc’s plan and gathered together all of the animals who relied upon Xus for their lives. They gathered all the beasts that brought death and all the beasts that fed on corpses and said, “This is what we must do to stop Xus aching.” Then the gathered creatures flew or crawled or ran or climbed onto the scales, and each found a place to sit or perch or squat or lie on the dark arm of scales.

  The scales did not move a little bit.

  The scales did not bend a little bit.

  The scales snapped.

  The Queen of the Gods saw her consort’s scales break and she lifted her hands from the land to cover her face. Without her hands to contain it the magic became free and wild. No longer would each deed be repaid strike for strike, and no longer would men and women be free of hunger and disease. Torelc clapped with happiness as he felt himself change from a shadowy, willowy thing to something muscular, powerful and creative.

  This w
ill serve me well, he thought.

  But of all the gods only Xus was to be well served by Torelc’s actions.

  With the scales broken, the land soured. People warred, and war spread like fire until even the gods took sides.

  Only Xus did not fight—war gave him no time—but he saw.

  Xus saw the Consort Dallad slay his son, Torelc. Xus saw the queen, Adallada, slay her Consort, Dallad. Xus saw the queen, mad with grief, take her own life, and he watched the bodies of the gods sink deep down to the bottom of the sea where Xus could not go. Xus was shamed by his part and ashamed of surviving when all the other gods had not.

  And that is why Xus, the god of death, no longer shows his face.

  Though his creatures still love him.

  She finished frozen in the position of Xus’s black bird and a susurrus of conversation filled the room. Three of the priests at the high table stood and walked out. There is little that priests like less than to be reminded their gods are dead and just as foolish and fallable as any human. Only the priest of Xus remained, stood behind the king, and when my master turned to bow to the high table he gave her a small nod.

  Queen Adran stood. “I am sure you are all as thankful as I am to have seen something as rare as a performance by Death’s Jester.” She looked as if saying those words was as pleasurable to her as chewing on rocks. “And it is always good to be reminded of the folly of the past which has led us to the position we find ourselves in. Now, let us look to the present and be thankful of the peace we have. I ask you to raise your pots and drink to our king, Doran ap Mennix, who has given us so many years of peace.” With a shout of, “Aye!” the room toasted the king.

  “And raise your pots again to his heir, Aydor ap Mennix, who will give us many more years of peace.” Another cheer, though this one I felt was a little less enthusiastic and I noticed quite a few who looked around, as if noting who was most fervent for the heir.