Blood of Assassins

by RJ Baker

  We walked past the two huge double-storey caravans towards an equally huge round tent. It was covered with skins and brightly coloured material, strung with flags and hobby dolls of many different colours, and above the entrance was a bonemount, the symbol of war – a mount’s skull attached to a construction of skins and streamers that flapped in the wind and made it appear to have bright legs of flapping material. The skull had one antler much shorter than the other and I knew it must be Imbalance, Rufra’s childhood mount killed during an attack on him when we were young. An attack I had foiled and put at the feet of Aydor or Tomas, though I had never proved which.

  I was gazing at the bonemount when my attention was drawn from it by a movement in the corner of my eye, a woman leaving a tent. She did no more than glance at me but it was like I was struck. Her face was finely boned, and long hair the black of the valuable darkwoods that grew slowly in the south fell in tight ringlets over the shoulders of her green gown. As soon as she saw me return her glance she looked away and quickly vanished into one of the huge caravans.

  “Through here, Girton,” said Nywulf, pushing me forward, “and stop staring after Areth.” He shoved me into a tent guarded by a boy and a girl with the brightest red hair I had ever seen. The boy winked at me as I passed and Nywulf cuffed him. “You guard the king, Crast. Act like it.” The boy nodded sheepishly and the girl stared resolutely ahead, ignoring us as we passed into the tent.

  “Who was she?” I could not keep the wonder out of my voice. It is rare to see a woman so beautiful that you are stopped by a simple glance from her. Nywulf could hear the effect she had had on me in my voice but, being Nywulf, chose to ignore it.

  “Neliu. And the boy is Crast. I train them to replace me.”

  “I didn’t mean her. I meant Areth.”

  “Don’t get any ideas about her, boy, she is Rufra’s wife.”

  “Rufra is married?”

  “Aye, married a serving girl of the living, a sign to all that the old rules no longer apply.”

  “I would have thought he would marry into a blessed family, to cement alliances.”

  “At the beginning of his rule they did not want him, and now it is too late for them. Besides, Areth is good for him.” There was something behind his words, some mystery I itched to pick at, or was that just a desire to get close to the woman I had seen? I put it aside. She was Rufra’s wife and I was his mage-bent friend. I would never betray him even if the opportunity arose – which it would not. “Rufra is in session with the Triangle Council. We can watch through the curtain and I can tell you who they are.”

  He led me through the back room of a heavy tent kitted out for war. There were maps on the walls, weapons and armour on stands and a large table in the centre with a map made of clay that depicted all of Maniyadoc and the Long Tides. On a smaller table to the side was a paper map showing a bend in the river and a broken bridge, on it were small wooden horses and men. One of the king pieces lay on its side and I noticed a crack running down the edge of the figure, as though it had been hit or thrown. “Leave that, Girton,” said Nywulf, pulling gently on my arm. He led me over to where a pair of weighted curtains led into the next room and gently moved aside part of the curtain and turned to me, a smile on his face. “See what he has done?”

  For a moment I did not understand. In front of me was a tented chamber like many others. A fire burned in one corner and loyalty flags lined the walls, some of which I recognised, like Rufra’s red and black flying lizard, while others were new to me. In the centre of the room was a table, a huge equilateral triangle, with men and women sitting around it, three to each side. Rufra sat with his back to me between a man and a woman. Nearly all of them wore similar clothes – well worn, not overly fine – and unless you knew the Tired Lands well you would not have seen the differences between them. But I did, and though I had been told already what Rufra had done I had barely believed it.

  “He really has made them equal, blessed and living, they share the royal table.”

  “Aye,” said Nywulf, and I could hear his pride.

  “The thankful are absent though,” I said, and could not keep the disappointment from my voice. I had been raised a slave but had been saved from that short hard life by my master.

  “Yes the thankful are absent from here, and there are still resentments and feuds over class, but mostly it is working. Rufra has no slaves in his camp and there are thankful squads in his army.”

  “But not on his council.”

  “No, change takes time, Girton. He is trying.”

  I felt like I had let Nywulf down somehow.

  “Who are they? If you want me to find a traitor I will need to know them.” I nodded my head towards the table in the other room.

  “You will do it, then? You will take up the motley?”

  I waited, time moved on.

  One, my master.

  Two, my master.

  Three, my master.

  Four, my master.

  “Who are they?” I said again, and Nywulf stared at me, his ice-chip eyes seeming to measure me. I broke his gaze, afraid that I may be found wanting.

  “With their backs to us are Cearis ap Vthyr—”

  “Rufra’s aunt?”

  “Yes, her flag is the purple with the ap Vthyr lizard in the left corner. She leads his heavy cavalry and acts as his right hand.”

  “Not you?” I was surprised.

  “No, I am his Heartblade, and tradition dictates I cannot sit on my king’s council.”

  “Rufra doesn’t strike me as a traditionalist.”

  “No, he isn’t,” again I could hear the pride in Nywulf’s voice, “and he discusses most things with me, but if I was his right hand some would whisper I controlled him the same way they say Neander puppeted Aydor and now Tomas. I have been with Rufra since he was a child, it is better he is seen to be his own man.” I nodded. “On the other side of Rufra is the bowmaster …”

  “Varn?” I stared at the back of the man’s head. He had extremely long straight black hair that fell over the back of his chair.

  “Yes. His flag is the green and black check with the black bow. Varn acts as quartermaster for Rufra’s army, when he is not making bows, which he prefers to do. On the left of Varn is—”

  “A Landsman.” It felt like a kick in the stomach, almost a betrayal to see one of the Tired Lands sorcerer hunters there, though of course Rufra did not know what I was and the Landsmen were a power in the Tired Lands. He would struggle to rule without them on his side.

  “Aye, Karrick Thessan of the stricken mountains. His flag is the green and tree, obviously.”

  “Rufra should rid himself of the Landsmen.”

  “They are necessary, Girton,” said Nywulf, “and he builds with what material he has.”

  My gaze moved along the table and once more a frisson of fear shot through me. I had been concentrating so hard on the Landsman I had not looked at the figure next to him. Clad entirely in black was a priest of the dead gods, but black was worn only by the hermit priests of Xus, and they had no allegiance; they wandered, living off what could be begged. The last time I had been in Maniyadoc there had been such a priest – except only I had seen him, even when others stared straight at him, and more and more I had wondered if he was not a man at all, but something more, Xus the unseen, god of death. Then the priest turned, and he was only a man. He did not even wear the mocking porcelain mask of a priest of Xus or the blank masks worn by the priests of the dead gods. Nonetheless, my unease remained.

  “Who is that priest?”

  “Arnst the Lost. He has no flag of course, and I believe he sits next to Karrick purely because he enjoys annoying the man. He says Xus is the only true god and all the others should be forgotten.”

  “I am surprised he does not decorate a blood gibbet.”

  “Aye, Karrick would like nothing more, as would the other priests. But they squabbled among themselves so much Rufra appointed Arnst to spite them, and now they mu
st go through him, which they hate. He is a trouble causer, but Rufra chose him and now we must live with it.” I heard disapproval in his voice. “The last of the three is Bediri Outlander – her flag is the green and gold check.” The woman sat quietly at the table, listening to the priest and the Landsman argue about some minute piece of camp politics. Her skin was almost pure white, as was her intricately braided hair, and she wore cleverly worked leather armour. A scar ran down her face from her forehead, cutting a furrow through her nose and lips. “She heads Rufra’s archers and is Varn’s wife.”

  “Does that not advantage Varn, if his wife is in the council?”

  “Anything but. Bediri seems to take great joy in opposing her husband and he in being opposed.” Nywulf sounded bemused. “Bediri and Arnst together also speak for the common people of the camp, though positions in Rufra’s council are fluid.” He took a breath. “But Bediri and Varn are unlikely spies as they have only sat on the council for a year and Varn’s knowledge of weapons could make him more than spying ever could.” I nodded again. “Now, across the table from Bediri sits Boros ap Loflaar, who you know, and his flag is the yellow with the half draymount’s head. The curling horns on his flag are the only ones you’ll see in the camp; the rest have been shorn to make bows. Next to him is Gabran the Smith. His flag is the blue with the hammer and—”

  “He represents the smiths?”

  “No, he leads Rufra’s infantry.”

  I turned my gaze back on Gabran, who was small for an infantryman and thin for a smith. Like them all he wore his hair long, though it was so thin as to be little more than wisps around his sharp face. He had the look of a rat but it was a fool who judged a man by his features. I had a club foot but it did not stop me being a killer.

  “He does not look like a soldier,” I said.

  “He isn’t, or says he wasn’t. But he fights like a hedging and seems to know no fear. He is also fiercely protective of his infantry, though in truth he is a hard man to know. Again, I think him an unlikely spy.”

  “And the man on the end?” Of them all he was the only one I would have been able to identify as blessed without prior knowledge – from the slightly finer quality of his clothing, the smoothness of the skin and the slight plumpness of his body, a rarity in the Tired Lands where even the rich often went hungry. He had a round face which would have been jovial if he did not look as if he believed everyone else around the table was in sore need of a bath. He had pushed himself slightly away from the table, as if to distance himself from what was being done there, and hardbread hobby dolls were woven into his hair so they danced whenever he moved.

  “That is Lort ap Garron. He is there to represent the blessed.” There was no mistaking the distaste in Nywulf’s voice, though whether it was for Lort or the blessed in general he gave no clue.

  “He looks unhappy to be there.”

  “Yes, but it is all a front put on so the more stuck-in-their ways blessed trust him. He has been a supporter of Rufra’s from the start and stands to lose everything if he falls.” Nywulf paused before speaking again. “I do not like him, but he is trustworthy. Tomas killed his entire family and revenge is all he dreams of. There, Girton, now you know the names of the people who have access to Rufra’s plans, which one looks like a spy to you?”

  “I do not know, Nywulf,” I said, and I did not for if there is one thing I have learned it is that a good spy is like a good assassin: they never look like what they are.

  Chapter 8

  As Nywulf finished pointing out the men and women of Rufra’s council the meeting broke up; an agreement had been reached. When Rufra stood his body was tight with tension and I retreated from the curtain, I did not want it to appear like I was spying on him. Rufra swept through the curtain, pulling off his armour and throwing it into a corner then throwing himself into a camp chair that creaked alarmingly as his weight hit it. He sat, staring to one side, his hand idly coming up to his mouth as if he was about to bite on his nails before he noticed what he was doing and sat straighter, clamping his hands onto the wooden arms of the chair.

  “You did not get your way then?” said Nywulf.

  “They will stop Aydor coming?” I said.

  “No, they saw the sense in Aydor joining us readily enough,” said Rufra, “Messengers will be sent.” I felt sick at his words. “But they turned down my other plan and now people will die.”

  “Such is war,” said Nywulf.

  “It need not be,” said Rufra. “I am sure that my plan—”

  “You should not let Aydor come,” I said.

  “I would rather have him with me than with Tomas.”

  “He says he cannot go to Tomas as he and Neander tried to have him killed. You should let the land have Aydor – send him out with the desolate to be bled.”

  “They tried to kill him?” Rufra leaned forward, interested, and his chair creaked again. “All the more reason to have Aydor with me then, if he has a score to settle.”

  “Have you forgotten what he was like at Castle Maniyadoc? He was a monster and—”

  “People change,” said Rufra quietly. “Events change us all.”

  “They do not.” My nails were digging into the palms of my hands as my fingers curled into tight fists. “We only become more of what we are. Tomas has his daughter too. Aydor will—”

  “Not have to worry about her,” said Nywulf. “As the last Mennix she is too precious to waste.”

  “So you agree with him.” I stared at Nywulf.

  “In this, yes,” he said, “in his other plan, no.”

  “And what is that plan?” I asked, glad to get away from the subject of Aydor.

  Rufra looked glad of the change of subject too. “I’ll show you, Girton. Maybe you will see that I am right and help me find some way to convince the others.” He sprang up from his chair and went over to the big map table in the centre of the room. “See the red lines?” There were lines of red material pinned on the map, which looped around Maniyadoc, taking in the river’s delta and most of the coast, in the centre bulging out to meet the western sourlands. “That is the land we control. The blue lines show Tomas’s land, and in between no one rules and Nonmen raid.”

  “So it is also Tomas’s land,” said Nywulf.

  “We do not know that Tomas has anything to do with the Nonmen – I am sure he is better than that,” said Rufra.

  Nywulf let out a quiet laugh and shook his head.

  “Tomas rules a lot more land than you,” I said.

  “Yes, he does.” But instead of looking downcast about this Rufra was grinning; his whole face and body had become far more animated. “But all this –” he gestured towards Tomas’s land on the map “– does not mean he is winning. Most of it I have ceded without a fight.”

  “The more land he has, the further he must stretch his forces,” I said.

  “Exactly. We control less land but we hold it more tightly. We also control more fertile land than Tomas, and we have both Demis and Hart, the deepwater ports. So Tomas may have more troops than we do but he has to stretch them more thinly, and he also has trouble feeding them as his land is mostly sourings.”

  “Knowing this,” said Nywulf, “makes me wonder why you cannot see the same problems in your pet obsession that the rest of us do.”

  “Ignore Nywulf, he thinks this is to do with Goldenson Copse.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No, Nywulf. It isn’t.” There was a hardness in Rufra’s voice, and Nywulf stiffened at the sound of it.

  “I should go to Neliu and Crast, King Rufra. They require training, and I am sure you are safe with Girton by you,” said Nywulf. He gave a formal bow but Rufra had already turned back to the map. Nywulf gave me a quick shake of his head. “See if you can talk sense into him, Girton.”

  “Are Neliu and Crast good?” I asked when Nywulf had gone.

  “The new Heartblades? They should be, the amount of time Nywulf has spent training them. You will meet them later – you wi
ll like them,” he said distractedly as he stared at the map. “Now, Girton, see these four villages here?” He pointed at four flags on the map to the south east of Maniyadoc sitting near a huge bend in the river.

  “Yes.”

  “They are Belder’s Mill, Fludmere, Goldenson Copse and the largest is Gwyre. I wish to bring them all under my protection.”

  “And your council do not?” I could see why: they were far from the red lines that marked Rufra’s territory and would cause him exactly the same problems he seemed delighted Tomas had caused himself.

  “No, they say we are too near a final battle, that soon Tomas must fight me or starve and garrisoning these places is a waste of troops.”

  “It must be hard, having to tell the people of these villages that.”

  “Yes,” said Rufra and he looked away, suddenly finding the small model of Maniyadoc far more interesting for some reason.

  “They have asked for your help, Rufra?”

  “Well,” he still didn’t look at me, “they say they are independent, but it is only a matter of time now until Tomas hits them, him or the Nonmen. But we can protect them.” I glanced across the map.

  “They are over a day’s ride away, Rufra. You would have to garrison the villages and feed your troops.”

  “You sound like my council.”

  “Maybe they are right?”

  “Girton, there are children there. You cannot know how sick I am of seeing dead children.”

  “Children die, Rufra, the Tired Lands are cruel.”

  For a moment his face was stricken, as if a storm had blown in behind his eyes, and I knew he had no magic in him, because if he had lightning would have reached out and fired the room. He blinked. “Your master is in the infirmary tent, Girton,” he said. “You should go and see her.”

  “Rufra, have I upset—”

  “You are probably worried about her, Girton. Go. We will speak later.” I realised he was dismissing me and wondered if I had made the right decision in coming here. A long time ago an old man had told me you could never be friends with a king, not really, and I had not believed him. Maybe he was right. On the other hand it was to Rufra’s credit that he was so concerned about casualties despite having been at war for five years. I had seen dead children too, many of them, but they did not haunt me.