by Rj Barker
“Come out, Girton,” she said in a low voice. “Step around the animals, if you move slowly and calmly they will not harm you.”
I pushed up the gate which had kept me safe and squeezed out through the opening, letting it down gently behind me so it did not bang and startle the hounds. Then I made my way between the dogs, slow-dancing a path that kept me as far from the animals as possible. When I was near her my master took my hand and led me out. After she had shut the door behind us she reached out, putting her hand on my cheek.
“You are safe now.”
“They would have killed me, Master. Someone wanted me dead.”
“They would not have killed you, Girton. Those are manhunters, trained to hold down a capture, not kill it. You would have recognised the breed if you had stopped to think.”
“Then someone wanted me scared.” I realised I was shaking.
“And they succeeded.” She put her hands on my shoulders and we stood like that until I had control of myself again. “Do you know who did this?”
“No.” I turned away. Slumped by the door was the body of a guard. “They set a guard? You killed him?”
“Of course not. You think I would announce our presence to the whole castle? I used the Tired Forgetting and sprinkled wine on him. He’ll wake with a terrible headache and not want anyone to know about it.”
I knelt by the man.
“What are you doing, Girton?”
“Remembering his face, Master. Someone must have set him to guard me and when he wakes I intend to find out who.” I stared at the man, committing his pocked face to memory. “How did you know to come for me?”
“I came to find you after training. When I could not I found one of the squires, Rufra. He said you were sent to feed the dogs.”
“Literally.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Girton. Go and change your clothes. You are filthy and it will do you good to be rid of the smell of dogs.”
“I know,” I said sullenly and made my way back to the castle to change. Once that was done I decided to make good on my promise to myself and visit the stables.
In the stables I was greeted by the familiar smell of mounts—dung and warm fur, it was a comforting sop to my earlier fear. Drusl was running a brush down the centre aisle, pushing a stream of acrid mount piss down the intricate floor mosaic of a half-naked woman on mountback.
“Blessed,” she said, keeping her eyes downcast like a slave.
“Drusl, please. Call me Girton. I am the youngest and least important son of my family.” The lies slipped so easily from my mouth. “I am hardly a blessed; there is no need to avert your eyes.”
“I cannot call you by your name. If Leiss hears he will think … Well, he will be jealous.”
“Oh.” Something within me died a little. “You and him are …”
“Dead gods no,” she said and looked up. It was the strangest thing. If you had asked me at that moment I would have said there was some connection between us, something past the simple attraction I felt. It was like her presence created a physical pull that was centred on my chest. “Leiss would like me to be with him.” The sense of being linked vanished, leaving me thinking I had imagined it. Her voice became very quiet. “Though sometimes I think he hates me.” She shrugged and changed the subject. “Have you come to see your mount?” she asked, walking towards Xus’s stall. “He is well cared for; you do not need to come and check on him.”
“Oh,” I said. Something within me fluttered. “You do not want me to come?”
“No, not at all.” She shook her head and a shy smile crept across her face. “I welcome your visits. Too few of the blessed of the castle take a real interest in their mounts.” We slipped into Xus’s stall and the great beast huffed at me. “He is a gentle creature once you know him, isn’t he?” she said.
There are many words I could use to describe Xus but “gentle” has never been one of them. Maybe Drusl would change her mind if she ever saw a corpse skewered on the mount’s antlers.
“Yes,” I said, and ran my hand along the animal’s flanks.
Drusl looked up at me. She seemed so small and delicate, her eyes huge.
“He is a very fine beast,” she said, but she was not looking at Xus. Then she put out her hand and rubbed the animal’s velvety muzzle. I put out my hand and laid it on top of hers as I had to introduce her to Xus. It felt like the bravest thing I had ever done, to make the presumption that this pretty girl could possibly have an interest in me, Girton the club-footed minor son of a faraway house. Girton the liar.
Drusl did not move her hand, and again, it was as if an invisible link existed that joined us in some way I could not understand but it felt as real as the mount stood by us.
“Drusl?” Leiss shouted her name into the stable, breaking the spell. Our hands shot back to our sides.
“I am with Xus and his master,” she shouted. “He wished to check the animal was stabled correctly.”
“Of course he is,” said Leiss. “We look after ’em. Even an evil-tempered beast like that one.”
I disliked Leiss, but I recognised more of the Xus I knew in his description of the mount.
“Good,” I said, stepping out of the stall and attempting to appear imperious and blessed. “He seems in good condition. I am pleased.”
Leiss stared at me. “Good,” he said slowly.
“I think you mean, good, Blessed,” I said. Behind him I saw Drusl hide a smile.
“Good, Blessed,” said Leiss through gritted teeth.
“Thank you. I will return tomorrow,” I said, turning and walking away as Drusl let out a stifled giggle.
“Those stalls need mucking out, girl,” shouted Leiss. I heard Drusl say, “Yes, Leiss,” and had to fight not to look back. The strangest thing was that the further I went from the stables the less sure I became of what had happened in there. With Drusl I had felt sure she liked me, that she didn’t care about me having a club foot, saw past that and found some worth in who I was. But as I walked through the swiftly growing tent city of Festival I started to doubt. What had seemed an obvious connection, me putting my hand on hers, became a simple act between rider and groom. She had shown me before how to introduce her to Xus, was that all it was? All that had happened? And when she had said, “He is a very fine beast,” I had felt sure that was meant for me. But Xus really was a fine beast. Maybe she only talked of Xus; maybe my ears heard what they wanted to hear rather than what had been said. I had left the stables feeling like I could take to the air but by the time I re-entered the keepyard gate I was firmly attached to the ground. The world once again became a dark and impossible place in which I was a very small part.
Chapter 9
I spent the afternoon with priests.
There are many ways to spend an afternoon, and plenty of them are unpleasant, but few are worse than spending time with priests. I find the priests of the dead gods unsettling—their porcelain masks hide their faces and they are trained to keep their voices free of any emotion or tone. When the gods lived, their priests were immortal; now we make our priests interchangeable so we can pretend they never die.
There were four priests in Maniyadoc. Although our celestial graveyard has a dead god for every occasion people are choosy about which they pay tribute to. Different blessed prefer different gods and some are only worshipped in specific areas of the Tired Lands, for the sake of tradition. The priests of Adallada, queen of the dead gods, and her consort Dallad, for instance, are only ever found at the high king’s palace in Ceadoc and at Festival, because power is jealous of power. Even when your gods are dead it is best to keep the strongest ones close.
Maniyadoc’s priests were the most common ones. I had already had two interminable meetings with the priest of Lessiah, the goddess of night, and the priest of Mayel, the goddess of fertility. The conversations had gone the way conversations with priests always go.
“I have not seen you at the signing sermons in my buried chapel. Do you not worr
y about the hedgings? What if you fell upon hard times, and Fitchgrass—or worse, Dark Ungar—made you an offer? You are far too young to recognise that a hedging’s offer can take many forms; only the dead gods can provide that wisdom. Have you signed the book of the god today?” The books of the gods and fear of the hedgings were the reasons the priesthoods still existed. Though all our gods, apart from Xus, had perished in the wars of balance and now we lived a lonely life without their guidance. The priests promised that one day the sourlands would be healed and then the gods would return. However, remnants of the gods’ power remained, and these remnants, lost and broken, had become the hedgings which haunted field, wood and pool, hungering for the lives of men and women. Until the rebirth we were told only the priesthood’s books and knowledge could keep people safe from the hunger of the hedgings. They said that when the gods returned from their graves in the sea those who had remained loyal would be rewarded. So the pious attended worship every morning in the buried chapels and signed their names in the books of the gods.
But that was my afternoon. Two earnest lectures on why I should attend worship and sign my name in the book. The priest of fertility, who I saw second, was heavily pregnant. Unlike the other priests she was not expected to be celibate; quite the opposite. It was expected that she be almost constantly pregnant and even hidden behind a mask and under thick red robes she could not hide how tired she was. Her room smelled of spoilt milk and was filled with nothing but the book of names and toys for the gaggle of children running around. An unseen child screamed in the back of her small room and two more hung on grimly to her robes. I had spent the previous two hours resisting the entreaties of the priest of Lessiah, out of sheer pig-headedness, but when the priest of Mayel asked me to sign her book I did just so she could get rid of me. She seemed happy for me to go, which suited us both.
Outside her room my master waited.
“So?” Her voice out of that alien black and white face. It was always strange when she was Death’s Jester. It obliterated her—everything about her changed. Her mannerisms were more thought out and exaggerated, and it became as if every step she took and every tilt of her head was part of an elaborate dance. She carried herself more lightly and even her voice was different—more mocking. I had to consciously remind myself it was all part of an act.
“She is as pious as the other, jester, you were right in that.”
“Next we shall see Neander, the priest of Heissal. I expect he will be less pious.”
“He is Rufra’s father?”
“Aye, so rumour has it. You should be alert around him. You need to concentrate.”
“I have been concentrating.”
I had not.
“You have not,” she snapped as we walked down the corridor past bowing slaves. “You have been mooning around like a stunned pig.”
I had.
I could not concentrate for thoughts of Drusl. One moment elation, the next I was despondent. I had thought of love before but could not imagine anyone looking at me that way—a small-for-his-age skinny boy with a club foot. Coupled with the fact we rarely stayed anywhere for more than a couple of days, and when we did stay longer my cover was usually among the thankful in the lowest places, doing the most unpleasant jobs. I became the people no one wanted to look at, or a jester, and rarely had to interact with people. So this feeling was entirely new to me. Is this what it was to love?
No wonder my master has chosen to avoid it.
“Gusteffa spoke to me last night,” I said, in an attempt to deflect the conversation. It was worth mentioning because a jester is meant to be silent unless acting on the orders of their blessed. “He asked if you would replace him.”
“Understandable, I suppose. Doran ap Mennix has had the jester for ten years,” she said. “Gusteffa is probably used to being spoiled.”
It was true. Sometimes I wondered why my master was so committed to the art of murder when she could make twice the living as a jester.
“But still, it was unusual, and you said to look out for—”
“Ten years is a long time for someone to stay in cover, Blessed ap Gwynr,” she said. “Gusteffa is not the assassin.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I do.” She did not add anything, and when the silence had become strong between us I spoke again.
“Rufra wants to be my friend.”
“Oh?” she said.
“I’ve put him off,” and I felt bad about it. “He said Tomas hated him. There’s no way I could become part of his group if I was friends with Rufra. Not that Tomas shows any sign of wanting me in his group.”
“Poor, lonely, you.”
“You know—” I changed to the Whisper-That-Flies-to-the-Ear “—the more I think of this, Master, the more I think our task is hopeless. How can we prove someone has hired an assassin? It is not like they would be foolish enough to keep a note of it or put it in a diary.”
“People are often foolish.” She flipped herself up into a handstand and walked on her hands along the corridor, “they do foolish things.”
“And if they are not foolish? What then.”
She flipped herself back onto her feet and leaned in close to me as we walked. “Then, my pupil, we find the most likely suspect and we make it appear as if they have been foolish.”
“You mean set them up? But they’ll be killed.”
“And that worries you why? Have you forgotten what we are?”
“No, but … you have always said we kill for justice.”
“When we can, Girton.” She refused to meet my eye. “You cannot cling to childish ideas for ever. What use are high ideals if we end up feeding the pigs? What good can we do then?” I had never heard her so vehement before. When she spoke again her voice was calm and as dead as any priest’s. “So, as well as looking for an actual suspect you should keep an eye out for a likely one. This Rufra for instance. It’s easier if you don’t like them.” Before I could think about what that implied she gave me a dazzling smile. “Next door on the right,” she said, walking away. As I was about to knock on the door she reappeared at my side, as if she had materialised out of thin air.
“Remember, you’re an innocent from the country. Play that part.”
“I am doing.”
“You were, Girton. But now when you’re not mooning about you have a strut in your step like a boar fresh to the rut. I don’t begrudge you any joy, but it’s not in keeping with what people will expect.”
I turned, ready to tell her she was imagining things, but the corridor was empty apart from the priest of Xus standing at the far end. He gave me a small bow of his head and walked out of sight.
My master was right: Neander ap Vthyr, the priest of Heissal, was not as pious as his fellows. He was not wearing a mask for a start, and had pushed his bright orange hood back off his head. He had a face like the sourlands, his features sculpted from hollows, ridges and the shadows which grew between. Tiny wisps of orange material stuck to the stubble on his skull and waved in the breeze squeezing in past a loose pane in the windows of his untidy room. He glanced up and smiled.
“Well, you must be Girton ap Gwynr,” he said, lifting the open cover of a book with one finger. He raised the cover to the point where it was balancing and then pushed it with his fingertip, letting it fall closed with a bang. “I am pleased you chose to see me.” He offered me his palm to kiss, which was the traditional greeting of a high priest to a supplicant, and I was unsure how to act as he was not a high priest. I kissed his palm. It was dry and when I licked my lips I could taste salt and something sweet. “Sit, Girton ap Gwynr.” His smile barely reached the corners of his mouth and failed to change the barren landscape of his face. I perched on the dusty stool he pointed at.
“Priest of Heissal,” I began.
He tried to smile again.
“Please, call me by my name, Girton. We have no need to be formal.”
“Thank you,” I said, and waited. He had not given me his nam
e and he let the silence drag on.
“Of course! I have not told you my name; I just presumed you would know of me.” I did, but I didn’t want him to know that or to appear too knowledgeable. “I am Neander, Neander, once an ap Vthyr. Of course, I gave up such loyalties when I took up my calling.” He raised a hand, “I know, the ap Vthyr name has some dark stories attached to it but I am not like the rest of my family. I am only a man in search of spiritual truth.” He took a small knife from his desk and started to clean under his fingernails with it. “I do not believe we have had an ap Gwynr in the castle before. You are from far to the west, yes?”
“The east,” I said.
“Of course, of course. The east, how foolish of me. I am an old man and I often make mistakes.” He leaned in close to me and sniffed the air, taking two great lungfuls of breath through his hatchet-shaped nose. “You have a curious perfume, Girton ap Gwynr. Has anyone ever told you that?”
I sniffed under my arms. “I have been training, Neander. It was hot.”
“Of course,” he said slowly, “of course. I have never been under force of arms but it looks exceedingly strenuous.” He put his knife down. “Tell me, did Heamus bring you to us?”
“No, my father judged me to be the least useful of his children—” I looked down at my club foot in case he had not noticed “—so I was sent as hostage until he can raise the money the king wants.”
“Your family are rich, I hear.”
“My father breeds mounts.”
“I have seen your creature. He appears to be a fine animal.”
“He is.” It was difficult to hide my enthusiasm for Xus.
“I expect he is a fine animal in a fight.”
“Yes,” I said, before catching myself. “Well, Xus himself has never fought but his bloodline has proved fearsome under my brothers.”