Age of Assassins

by Rj Barker

  “Fearsome,” he said quietly. “With money, good mounts and such privacy your father could build an army and no one would know.” He leaned in close to whisper to me. He smelt of old vellum and ink. “It is hard, to be far away and without your family. Should you need a friend feel free to come to me.” He sat back again. “Are you ambitious, young Girton? Castle Maniyadoc is a fine place for an ambitious boy to advance.” He laughed then, but it was not the laugh of someone amused. It was the laugh of someone trying to set another at ease. Had I been the innocent I was pretending to be it may have worked—but false humour and smiles did not come easily enough to the priest for him to fool me into liking him, or seeing him as a surrogate father. All it did was make me uncomfortable.

  “Do you want me to sign your book?” I said, to fill the gap in our conversation.

  “Book?” he said.

  “Your book of names.”

  He remained silent for a moment. Staring at me with eyes the green of grass. “Of course, of course. When Heissall awakens and the day is of equal lengths with the night—” he stood and started sorting through the books on his desk “—then Heisall will look in the book and find your name. Should a hedging curse you with hunger—” he moved aside a bottle of alcohol “—then think of your name written here and be sated.” He moved another book and picked up the book underneath. A bottle had left a ring on its cover. “Here we are.”

  He lay the book down and opened it at the day’s page. There were very few names, which I thought odd. Heissall, the god of the day, is one of the more popular gods. I signed the book and left Neander’s messy room. As I walked back to our rooms my master materialised out of the darkness by my side, making me jump.

  “I wish you would not do that.”

  “I am Death’s Jester. It is expected.”

  “It was not expected by me.”

  “Did Neander give up anything?”

  “He sniffed me. Then complimented me on my smell, said I had a curious perfume.” My master’s eyes flashed in the dim light of the corridor.

  “He did?” she said thoughtfully, letting her words die away. I had no idea why she thought it important.

  “He makes my skin crawl.”

  “Well, that is unpleasant but not a motive, Girton. Was there anything we can use?”

  “He, not so subtly, tried to pump me for information about my family. Then hinted at how my father’s land could be used to raise armies and told me if I needed a friend to go to him.”

  “He openly asked about raising armies? Did he mention treason?”

  “No, but that was the subtext.”

  “So you think him suspicious.”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded but said nothing else.

  That night I lay awake thinking about the day’s events, the people I had met and the feel of Drusl’s hand under mine. In the stillness of the night I heard my master rise from her bed and leave the room. Curious, I counted out twenty my-masters and then I followed her. The castle was quieter in the night. Thankful moved through the corridors like ghosts; they did not acknowledge me or I them as I was drawn in the wake of my master, drifting along behind her on the lingering, spicy smell of the greasepaint she used to paint her face. Around the castle we went, around and down, past the kitchens and the steep tunnels which led to the buried chapels. Twice I saw figures in the shadows and twice, thinking it was my master, I nearly let an excuse leap out of my mouth, but it was only thankful, grabbing a quick sleep upright against the wall and, in one case, a couple of blessed having an illicit liaison in an alcove.

  Her route took her out of the castle and I could no longer follow her scent—a quick breeze stole it from the air—so instead I followed the damp outlines of her feet on the scrubby grass, and when she left the grass I followed the subtle disturbances of the sandy ground left by her tread. Eventually, I found myself in a courtyard that I had not known existed—it was at the back of the castle, reached through an archway that had once been a door. A pair of stone eyes looked out angrily from the top, as if annoyed at my intrusion. Above the door was a window, shadowed by the bulk of the castle. I climbed the wall and hid in the empty window so I could look down into the courtyard. Plainly, it had been inside once and where there had been a grand corridor was now a pile of rubble, thick with dead vines, brown and starved crisp by yearsage.

  From a doorway opposite a woman emerged, dressed like a slave. I do not know where she had come from, or how she had got there because, like everyone, I barely paid attention to slaves. Slaves are simply another part of a cruel world, much as hunger and sourings are. I could have walked past this woman a hundred times in the castle and not seen her, she had a face so unremarkable I would have struggled to recognise her if I saw her again the next day. The woman moved long hair from her face, some accident or violence had taken half her hand—the little and third finger were missing.

  She was not a slave, of course, as no slave carried a longsword and stabsword, or walked like a maned lizard. I knew what she must be—assassin. She gave my master a nod and my master returned it.

  “You are Merela, the Barren?” My master nodded.

  And you are Sayda, the Halfhand?” The woman nodded.

  They drew their blades.

  “Let us see who stays then,” said the woman.

  Sayda Halfhand attacked first, a slicing pass at neck height that my master ducked, swatting away the stabsword thrust that followed. I watched, rapt. I had never met another assassin, never seen another work. I knew that they existed and were few and far between but had always taken for granted that they were like us, used our methods and styles, but this woman showed me I was mistaken. Where we were about speed and attack she was about solidity and defence; she stood like a rampart, barely moving from the spot she occupied as she cut and thrust with her blades.

  My master was a whirlwind, her opponent a mountain, and for the first time ever it occurred to me my master could lose. I drew my blade. As I did, a movement caught my eye. Hidden in an arch, high up the broken wall on the other side, was Sayda’s apprentice. Little more than a shadow, but I could make out the bow that she drew and aimed at me. And the shake of her head she gave me. I returned my blade to its scabbard and the bow was lowered.

  Below us my master’s blade worked, only to be batted away by a longsword. A return thrust to her midriff and she let herself fall out of the way, the Drunk’s Tumble. She turned the fall into a roll which she continued, forward and round, forward and round, her blade flashing and glinting as she struck out and each time she found her blade met. Very quickly, my master ceased to use the iterations I had grown up learning and the fight became an interpretation of our style through pure reaction, a blade quick thing. On occasion I saw the route of a move. This move used a stance from the Carter’s Surprise, that move a version of the Quick Steps, but it was far removed from what I knew, not once did my master use any of her tricks, or Sayda Halfhand use any either.

  The strangest, eeriest, thing was that this fight took place in almost complete silence. There was no talking, no grunts of effort or exhaustion, and although I had thought my master’s opposite’s style was dull, together she and my master were a symphony of blades, a quickstep of cutting edges and chinking parries. Her way was not my master’s and my master’s was not hers, but neither was one method inferior to the other or one opponent less skilled. I had thought my master had no equal, but here she was.

  And then the killing blow was struck.

  I saw the space in Sayda Halfhand’s defence, saw the dummy thrown by my master and saw her opponent take it. As my master’s blade rushed to the kill I felt sad, sad that this quiet and skilled woman would die here so that we could protect Aydor.

  But she did not die. The blade never so much as touched her skin, only paused a hair’s breadth from the woman’s throat. The dance went on: twice, three, four times I saw moments when my master could have finished her opponent. I became more used to this new style as I watch
ed—deconstructing it, considering how I could add it to my own repertoire. I saw times when Sayda Halfhand could have ended the fight but did not, and I realised this was not the duel to the death of Riders, out to seek revenge in blood for an insult. This was a competition of equals. A bloodless decision was being made as to who had precedence here.

  Abruptly, and without warning, the two combatants parted. Sayda Halfhand smiled, sheathed her sword and bared her throat to my master, who put her blade to her opponent’s throat but did not cut, only whispered something into her ear which made the other assassin’s smile widen slightly. As she did, I caught a movement in a broken doorway opposite and I found my double once more, little more than the gleam of a pair of eyes in the dark, but she, or he, was there. Somehow she had come down from the arch without me seeing, and she watched me as I watched her.

  “Two weeks,” said Sayda Halfhand. “And if it is not done I will presume you have failed and return.”

  “Very well,” said my master.

  The woman walked away and my master remained standing in the middle of the clearing.

  “Girton,” she said quietly, “you can come out now.”

  “Oh.” I jumped down from the window, rolling to absorb the impact and so as not to pain my club foot too much. “You knew I was there?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why didn’t you kill her?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Well …” I had no good answer. “It is what we do.”

  “When there is reason, and there was no reason for Sayda Halfhand to die, or for me. Now I have bought us time, Girton, we must use it well or it may be our names that are scratched on a wall.”

  “She fought—” I glanced back over my shoulder “—differently to you.”

  “Yes, she fought as Aseela’s Mount, strong and steady. We fight as Xus’s Bird, quick and light.”

  “Where did she learn that?”

  “From her master, as you learn from yours.”

  “I thought everyone—”

  “Fought like us? No, and even those who fight as the bird will fight differently to us. Each sorrowing has their own way.”

  “I thought the Open Circle had rules and told us what to do. I thought we were all …” I stopped; I did not know what I thought we were.

  “Companions?” I nodded. “We are, Girton, but it is a silent companionship and there are few of us left.”

  I thought on that for a while as we walked back.

  “She was good,” I said.

  “Yes. She very nearly beat me.” I stopped, shocked at her words.

  “But you are the greatest assassin of our age,” I said.

  “As you keep saying,” she said and she smiled, but it was the smile of an adult indulging a child. “Come, Girton,” she said.‘It is cold and I am tired.” She led me back to our room, where she slept the sleep of the exhausted while I thought on how much I did, and did not, know.

  Interlude

  This is a dream of what was.

  She squats behind him, her warmth against his back, and if she can feel him shivering in fear she says nothing about it. She picks up the loose end of the rope tied to the tree and puts it in his hand. Together, they start the rope moving through the air where it traces out a giant oval. “Good,” she says, “don’t stop.” She walks around and looks at the rope spinning through the air and then steps into it. He is so surprised he drops the rope.

  “Sorry, Master,” he says.

  “Do not worry.” She comes back and shows him how to spin the rope again. “Do not stop this time,” she says. “No matter what I do.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Girton, my name is Merela. You may call me that.”

  “Yes, Master,” he says. He always will.

  This time when she steps into the rope he does not drop it. He expects it to hit her but she jumps over it without even looking. She is watching him and smiling and jumping. Then she starts to hop from one foot to another. It makes him laugh because she pulls funny faces when she does it, but she never lets the rope touch her. She pretends to fall, catching herself at the last moment and making him giggle. She lands on her hands and then flips from her hands to her feet and her movements get more and more complex, and always the rope goes round and round and round until she is tumbling and leaping and cartwheeling in and out of the steadily spinning rope. Then, with one last twirling spring that flips her out of the rope’s reach, she finishes. She stands with her legs slightly apart and her hands held loosely at her side. She is barely even breathing hard.

  “This is how we stand when we are finished, Girton.” He nods. “Now it is your turn.” She sees panic starting on his face. “Don’t worry. All you have to do is jump over the rope, nothing more. The rest will come with time.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “I have a bad foot.”

  “Girton.” She walks over to him, lowering herself to his level. “Among the blessed of the Tired Lands there is a belief that a woman is good for nothing but sitting in a parlour sewing and giving birth to children. Do you believe that of me?”

  “No, Master.” He really, honestly, completely believes that she can do anything.

  “Good. And I do not believe you will let a bad foot hold you back. Now, jump the rope. Breathe out when you jump, breathe in when you land. It will help, and if you cannot do it then you cannot. But you must try.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  He tries, he fails. And he fails and he fails again. His club foot hurts but she never gets angry. Never stops smiling. Never stops coaxing him on and saying that, maybe next time he’ll do it. Even though he is sure it is beyond him.

  Then he jumps the rope.

  And again.

  And again and again and the rope gets faster and he is laughing with the joy of it as the rope whips through the air. Eventually, it stops, and she stares at him like he’s forgotten something and he remembers her words—This is how we stand when we are finished. He does his best to copy how she had stood and is rewarded with a smile.

  “Not bad for a boy with a bad foot, eh?” she says.

  And she always will.

  He skips the rope, hops the rope, leaps the rope. Years pass as he works through the acrobatics until there are two trees and two ropes and they spin so fast they make a sound like the wind roaring in his ears when Xus runs and he can flip and spin between them without ever being touched. Always when he is finished she will say, “Not bad for a boy with a bad foot,” and smile at him.

  And the ripples in the water go on and on and on and the skies whisper out an infinity.

  This is a dream of what was.

  Chapter 10

  My mood was not good the next morning. I had wanted to ask my master’s advice about Drusl but instead we had argued, though I did not know why. I questioned what we did—how we could be putting ourselves in jeopardy and throwing away our futures as assassins for people like Queen Adran and her odious son. My master had listened patiently while I ranted. She seldom removed her Death’s Jester make-up once it was on, and her brown eyes stared out of a face alien and distorted by sleep-smeared make-up. She had waited until my anger had run out of words and then risen. She was smaller than I was now. I wondered when that had happened.

  “Girton,” she said, “you may leave whenever you wish.”

  I had no answer. Instead I acted like a child—I walked out, slamming the door behind me. Storming out may have been dramatic but it accomplished little as I left my armour and blades in our room. I could not bring myself to go back and get them even though I had an hour to waste before I was due at the squireyard. After I had skulked about in the corridors of the castle for a while I decided to do something constructive. I would try and track down the guard who had been outside the kennels when I was locked in. Few people know the ins and outs of a castle like its jester, and if I wanted to find someone then Gusteffa, the king’s dwarf, was probably my best chance.


  The water clock was tolling seven as I made my way into the depths of the castle. At seven the signing sermons began in the buried chapels, the processions of devout in the morning and evening were ripe times for gossip—no decent castle jester would miss them. On the floor above the buried chapels were the common kitchens, Gusteffa would probably wait there for people to leave the signing sermon so that was where I headed.

  In the kitchens the vaulted ceilings were lit by the cooking fires and the place was uncomfortably hot and moist. A cook worked at a spit, sweating as he turned a whole pig, and behind him pot girls were washing pans. The long wooden preparation table in the centre of the room was empty apart from a one-armed man sharpening a carving knife.

  “Ain’t no place here for you,” he said. “Ain’t no place for a blessed boy among the living. You come here to spy on us?” The knife in his hand glinted and the way he held it made me wonder if he had been a soldier once.

  “I’m looking for Gusteffa,” I stammered.

  “To tease ’er?” said a potgirl.

  “Her?” I said. I had thought Gusteffa a man.

  “Is it hedging’s hunger that makes you squires so cruel? You should go sign a book and think on what you are about.”

  “No,” I said. “I wanted to—”

  “She said you should go.” The one-armed man stood, threat in his eyes. I took a step backwards. “Go.” He pointed his knife at me then at the door.

  “Peace, Dirif.” Gusteffa appeared from behind a teetering stack of pots. “Girton means me no harm.” Even this early she wore her make-up, a white face with red dots on the cheeks. She motioned at the one-armed man to sit, her tiny hand looking like a paw.

  “I wanted to ask a favour, Gusteffa. I can pay, I have—” I dug in my pocket “—half a bit.”

  The dwarf shook her head.

  “Keep your money, boy. If I can I will grant your favour.” She passed her hand before her face, turning her smile into a serious mask. “But if I do you will owe me a favour, you understand?” I nodded. She passed the hand again so she smiled once more. “Ask then, Girton Club-Foot.”