Age of Assassins

by Rj Barker

  The queen continued to talk of all the wonderful things her husband had done and the wonderful things her son would do for the people when I felt a tug on my kilt. Gusteffa, the jester, stood by me.

  “Blessed ap Gwynr, the queen wants you to follow me,” he rasped. I wondered how he knew as the queen was currently waxing lyrical from the stage. “You should come now.” He tugged at my kilt again, making me worry he might accidentally undo all my earlier hard work and leave me naked. “Come,” he said again, “before the uproar.”

  “Uproar?” I stood and followed Gusteffa as he pushed his way along the benches. “What uproar?”

  “Come,” he said again. As we reached the exit from the sweaty smoky room I heard the queen’s voice.

  “… and as I know you are all as appalled as King Doran and I at the threat to the heir, I am sure you will take the news I have with good grace. Once the full Festival is here, the keep and the gates to the keepyard will be shut. No one will leave or come in through them without the king’s say-so.”

  The room erupted into shouts of dismay.

  Ah, I thought, that uproar.

  Gusteffa led me to the highest floor of the castle where the king, queen and Aydor lived, then opened a door and motioned me in. As I walked through I felt a gentle tug on my kilt and turned.

  “Death’s Jester,” he said, “She came with you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “My father sent her to keep me company.”

  “And she leaves with you?”

  “Yes.” I nodded, suddenly realising how he must feel and how worried he must be that he was about to lose his livelihood.

  “You are sure?”

  “Yes, no matter what she was offered she would not stay, Gusteffa. She would not see another jester lose their place.”

  “She is an artist,” he mumbled. “I have never seen the like.”

  “Gusteffa, I watched you perform tonight, though many didn’t. You are an artist yourself. Even if you were to be pushed from your place here many would be glad to have you.”

  “Thank you, Blessed,” he said with a small bow. I watched him hobble away and thought how perilous life was for most people. I had commented in the past to my master on how worn out everyone looked in the Tired Lands but had never really understood why.

  “Girton?” I turned to find my master, motleyed and painted, standing by my shoulder. “You are a million miles away.”

  “Sorry, Master. Life is hard for people, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Girton, it is.”

  “It is not fair.”

  “No, it is not.” She pulled me into a sumptuously outfitted room. Padded wooden chairs sat in front of a roaring fire and a fantastically expensive desk, made of the slow-growing darkwoods found only in the north, dominated one corner of the room while richly embroidered tapestries covered the shuttered window and plastered walls behind it. My master pulled aside a tapestry to reveal a small alcove. “In here, Girton. Any minute now the Festival Lords will appear to try and strong-arm Adran into leaving the keep and the gates to the keepyard open. It is a perfect time for us to observe the Festival Lords—well, listen to them,” she said as she let the tapestry fall back and shut out the light. “As there’s little to be learnt from staring at the back of some embroidery.”

  I counted three hundred my-masters before the Festival Lords shuffled into the room. From behind the tapestry I heard them settle into position and wondered how they coped, wrapped in thick blankets in all weathers.

  “This is not acceptable,” said one. I was surprised to hear it was a woman.

  “A woman? I thought they were all men,” I said in the Whisper-that-Flies-to-the-Ear.

  “Why?” My master said. I did not reply as there was no good answer. “Now be quiet and listen.”

  “You are right, it is not acceptable.” This speaker was a man.

  “We shall not stand for this.” Another man. “It is imprisonment.”

  “No, Festival cannot be controlled, it must not be.” The woman spoke again.

  “Quiet,” a second woman said. “It is more than likely we are listened to. These dead buildings are riddled with tunnels and passages.”

  My master smiled at me when the woman said that. Then whispered, “The Festival Lords follow the old ways—they balance. Two men, two women.”

  “Lords.” Queen Adran’s voice, confident as ever.

  “You cannot imprison Festival,” said one of the male Festival Lords.

  “I have no intention of imprisoning Festival,” said Adran

  “You said the gates would be closed.”

  “Yes, but not the townyard gate. Your caravans and your suppliers will still be able to get to you and come and go as they wish.”

  I leaned to one side so I could look through a tear in the tapestry. I could see two of the Festival Lords and the back of Adran as she paced back and forth. The Festival Lords did not move at all. Swathed in blankets, their faces covered by corn stalk masks, it was easy to understand why people thought them inhuman.

  “And how will our tumblers and entertainers make their living, Queen Adran? They pass through the castle and get paid by your blessed.”

  “Did you fail to understand what I said in the theatre hall? My son is—”

  “Your son is not our concern.”

  “The death of the heir should be everyone’s concern.” There was steel in Adran’s voice.

  When the Festival Lord replied his voice was low, almost threatening. “Do you accuse us of this?”

  “No,” said Adran, “of course not. I would never intimate such a thing. But Festival is huge and it is possible an assassin could use it to slip into the castle.”

  Silence for five counts of my-master.

  “To shut us out is not done,” said a male Festival Lord. “It has never been done. It is not the way of things.”

  “Well, change is often unstoppable,” said Adran coldly.

  “If you had listened to your jester you would know change is not always a good thing,” one of the women said.

  “That was not my jester,” said Adran. “And besides, the blessed of the castle will still visit Festival, only in groups so no intruders may slip in.”

  “If you force this on us, you may find that Festival stops elsewhere next year and your fruit and fish are left to rot.”

  Another silence. Ten “my-masters.”

  “Listen to me,” hissed Adran. “I had hoped to avoid this, but you leave me no choice. Let us be plain: you need Castle Maniyadoc as a stop. There is nowhere else before the western sourlands that can provide enough fodder and water for your animals, and I know the sort of profit you make on our produce—more than enough to put up with a little inconvenience.”

  I heard a rustle of material that I presumed was one, or all, of the Festival Lords standing.

  “Profit is not everything, Queen Adran. Leave the gates open as tradition dictates or we will find some way to avoid your castle next year.”

  “No,” said Adran. As she spoke her voice dropped further and further, becoming quieter and quieter which only served to underline the threat she made. “You should keep in mind, before you threaten me, that the marriage of my son and the high king’s sister is only a matter of time. The high king has no heir. Aydor will be next high king and I will stand behind him. He will be no figurehead when he’s on the high throne; he will be a power. I, and he, will remember who was his friend, Festival Lords. My reach will be long and if you do not accept the closure of the keepyard I will make sure you pay. Taxes on Festival will increase; the Landsmen will be less respectful of your autonomy, check you for sorcerers more thoroughly and be slower to come to your defence if you are troubled. So choose wisely, Festival Lords, for you hold your future in your hands.”

  I waited, not knowing what would happen. I had never been in the same room as powerful people when they chose to bump heads and the air almost throbbed with tension.

  “You dream, Queen Adran.”

&nb
sp; “Do I?”

  She did not sound like she dreamed and the ensuing silence lasted ten my-masters.

  “Close your gates then, Queen,” said one of the female Festival Lords quietly. “You need not throw the traditional leaving banquet for us though; we will not be attending.”

  The rustle of clothes and then the closing of the door.

  “Merela, come out,” said Adran, and we squeezed out of our hiding place. “Well, what do you think? Are they likely to want my son dead?”

  “They may now,” said my master. “But they would not have before. You should not have pushed them so hard.”

  Adran sat heavily on one of the overstuffed chairs. “And what else could I do?” When she looked up there were tears in her eyes. “What else could I do, Merela? He is my son and I love him.” She stood and gathered herself, straightening her green jerkin. “Of course, I should not expect you to understand a mother’s love. Go, it is late,” she pointed at the door. “Leave me!”

  We walked to our room in silence. When I was huddled in my bed and my master had blown out the candle I gave voice to a question that had been burning within me: “What did she mean?”

  “Who?” said my master.

  “Adran, when she spoke of you …” I was suddenly awkward, having to think of my master as a woman. “Well, you know. Not understanding a mother’s love?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Girton. Go to sleep.”

  Five my-masters.

  “How well do you know Adran?”

  “I said you should sleep.”

  Ten my-masters.

  “You would think your past was gold, Master, the way you hoard it.”

  She replied quickly, angrily: “And you would think your words were piss, Girton, the way you strew them about so carelessly.” I heard her turn away on the small truckle bed.

  “Why do you always treat me like a child?” and as I said it I heard the whine in my voice.

  When she spoke again she sounded tired. “Go to sleep. Tomorrow will no doubt be another long day.”

  Interlude

  This is a dream of what was.

  He doesn’t understand what she is doing.

  He doesn’t understand what he has done wrong.

  They have stopped outside a small village, no more than a couple of falling-down huts built on a rare bit of solid land in a place where the trees and grasses grow out of stinking water and sucking mud. It is easy to imagine hedgings in the wood, in the water. Has she bought him for them?

  She has a thin rope, the type that can be used as a lash. She is looping it in her hands. The rope scares him. When she walks over to him he steps back. She says, “No,” and he is more scared than ever. What did Slave-Father always say? “Running only makes it worse.” She kneels down so she is at his height and looking into his eyes. “I am not going to hurt you.” She stretches out a hand, but even that gentle movement makes him flinch. She looks at the ground. He is sure he has made her angry. She drops the rope in the dirt, walking away into one of the tumbledown houses.

  Low voices murmur.

  The skies whisper out an infinity.

  It never occurs to him to run away.

  When she comes back she has a whip. The whip is the type he knows the sting of. A thin wooden handle that can be used for striking. Attached to that are four knotted leather strands that will cut the skin and rip the flesh. A whip hurts far more than a rope. Running only makes it worse. She strides over to him with the whip gathered in one hand, holding it out so he can see it clearly.

  She is tall, she is dark, she is frightening.

  “You know what this is?”

  He nods, trying so very hard not to cry because crying only makes it worse as well.

  “I will never,” she says and she grabs the whip by each end of the handle. “Never—” the word as hard any whipcrack and she brings the whip down on her knee, breaking it in half.“—Never—” she throws the broken whip into the filthy water and the ripples go on and on and on. “—Never use something like that on you, boy. Do you understand? Never.”

  In the way she says “never” there is a vehemence that, even as a six-year-old, he hears as a promise. He recognises it as a promise given utterly and totally and for ever and he nods, scarcely able to believe it.

  “Good.” She smiles at him and uses the same gentle voice she uses to coax the giant warmount, Xus, into doing her bidding. She holds out her hand. “Now, I can’t call you boy. I shall call you Girton, it is a good name.” She puts out her hand. “Come, Girton.”

  He takes her hand and she lifts him onto the saddle of the mount.

  It feels like flying.

  This is a dream of what was.

  Chapter 8

  I woke to find my master sitting cross-legged on the floor with a tray of bread and pork in her lap. She was ignoring the food and reapplying her make-up with thick sticks of animal grease impregnated with pigment.

  “What will you do today, Girton?” she said, smearing on black grease.

  Rubbing sleep from my eyes I avoided her gaze, feeling foolish for my outburst last night—though she knows everything about me where I know almost nothing about her. “Go to training, collect more bruises.” I smiled at her. My way of letting her know I was not angry with her any longer. My master never carries grudges and her anger is like the rain—sudden, furious and gone as quickly as it comes.

  “I am glad you are not sulking, Girton.”

  “I never sulk, Master.” This was not entirely true. “Will Aydor really be high king?”

  “Why do you ask?

  “I do not think he would make a good king, never mind a good high king.”

  “You are probably right, but kings are chosen by accidents of birth, not suitability.” She put down the black panstick. “It surprised me. Adran said it to be truthful.” She picked up the white panstick. “It was a dangerous bluff to play if it was not true and the high king’s sister is no more interested in men than our high king is in women.”

  “Queen Adran seemed very sure of herself.”

  “Yes. She did.”

  “Maybe the high king wants to secure the succession?”

  “Possibly. But he has cousins to inherit.”

  “Do you think Adran plans war?” I asked quietly.

  My master glanced around our small room as if looking for spies. Then she lowered her voice. “She would be a fool to go to war. The Landsmen would destroy any army she could bring to the field. Doran ap Mennix had the support of all his blessed when he warred, but you have seen him now. He is not about to head an army and the blessed do not like or trust Adran.” She shrugged and started to smear white onto her face. “But the future succession at Ceadoc does not concern us. Who wants Aydor dead does, and with that in mind I have managed to set up some meetings for you. You are popular at the moment, Girton. Important people always want to meet a new hostage in case there is something in it for them. I want to hear what you think of them, and I want you to familiarise yourself with their rooms, you will no doubt be going back uninvited at some point.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Do you have other things to do?”

  “I was hoping to check on Xus, is all.”

  She paused in applying her make-up

  “You think the stablehands will not look after him properly?”

  “The stablemaster, Leiss, I do not trust with our mount at all. The girl though, Drusl, she seems to know her job.” My master stared at me for a moment and then shook her head.

  “I have never known you to be interested in stabling before, Girton.” I could feel my face reddening as my master, clearly amused, stood up. “I am sure you will be able to find a moment to check on Xus,” she said, brushing dust from her black trews.

  I grabbed a piece of bread from the plate.

  “Have you found the assassin yet, Master?”

  “It is in hand, do not worry about that.”

  “Good.” I stuffed bread into my mouth and almo
st choked trying to speak through it. “I should get to the training yard, Master. I do not want to be late and make any more of a bad impression. They already think me unable to hold a sword without falling over it.”

  I ran from our room and through Maniyadoc. Even early the castle was busy with slaves and servants rushing backwards and forwards. My passage through the corridors disturbed the usual course of their day and I felt resentful eyes on my back as I passed. My run slowed to a jog, and my jog slowed to a fast walk, which slowed to a stately saunter. As I walked down the cold stone of the main staircase I felt myself wilting under the imperious gaze of the chief household servants, who guarded propriety like attack dogs. Even away from them it felt like everyone I passed watched me with suspicious eyes.

  Aydor arrived at the squireyard just before I did, amid a tightly knit formation of guards with armour and weapons far more ornate then any others I had seen. After seeing him safely into the yard they turned smartly and marched past me. Their captain, a man with a short beard and missing front tooth, hissed, “Mage-bent,” and spat at the ground by my club foot as I watched them walk past.

  Squires were already lining up to take bows from a rack as I entered. Targets made from large bales of hay with white circles painted on them had been set up at the far end of the yard.

  “Take a bow, Girton,” said the squiremaster. “Today we shoot.”

  “You may shoot,” said Aydor, walking away from the rack. “I will not. A bow is a thankful’s weapon.”

  “And one you will need to master if you wish to become a Rider,” said the squiremaster.

  “Kings have no need to pass skills tests,” said Aydor, and a few of his group smiled, though I noticed they still picked up bows. I walked to the rack, trying to watch the confrontation between Aydor and the squiremaster without obviously staring.

  “You are not a king yet, Aydor, so I am still your master on this field. Pick up a bow.”

  “Aydor does not want to shoot because his eyes are bad.” The whisper came from by my elbow. It was Rufra, the squire my master said was the child of Neander from the vicious ap Vthyr family. His eyes were constantly darting around the yard and he immediately struck me as shifty, running to tell tales. I nodded uncomfortably and went back to studying the bows.