Blood of Assassins

by RJ Baker

  Though maybe they should.

  The infirmary was in one of the two huge double-storey caravans. Inside it smelled strongly of pine, but that could not hide the high, sweet and unnerving, smell of rotting flesh. There were not many beds, maybe twenty, and only half of them were filled as most wounds taken in battle were either quickly fatal or quickly recovered from. It was seen as unlucky to cross the path of the healer-priests of Anwith; after all, the god had been unable to heal himself. Those who had to remain in the infirmary were the unlucky ones, those whose wounds had taken on the sickness of the land and sourings spread across their flesh, landscapes of mocking green that were fertile only for maggots. The white sheets of the beds were stained with pus and filth from leaking wounds and as soon as I entered my greatest wish was to get out again.

  Aydor’s healer, Mastal, stood by my master’s bed in animated conversation with one of Rufra’s grey-robed healers; they paused in their conversation as I approached. Between them lay my master as still as the dead, looking smaller and thinner than she had the day before.

  “Girton,” said Mastal as I approached, “this is Tarris, priest of Anlith, your god of healing.”

  “The god is called Anwith,” snapped Tarris.

  “My apologies. Anwith, god of healing. Tarris and I discuss how best to treat your master.” She lay in a clean bed, her black hair damp with sweat and her face sallow – dark skin fading to grey.

  “It is usual, in cases of poisons, to bleed the patient and purge the body of the hedge spirit’s taint.” The priest had pushed up his porcelain mask and his face was lined with age, and not a little concern.

  “But I disagree with Tarris,” said Mastal. “The woman has bled quite enough from the wound she took to try and remove the poison. To lose more blood will take strength from her she sorely needs.”

  Tarris turned to me. He was an old man, the sort I have seen many times. One who has lived long enough to wear such a rut in life that he is unable to see over it, never mind leave the path he has carved.

  “Mastal says you are a friend of the king?” he said to me. “Well, then the treatment of your companion must be decided by you, as I would not gainsay a friend of the king. So, young man, do we bleed her, as all good sense says, or do you wish to take the advice of this –” he paused as if he smelled something bad “– foreigner, who does not even know the names of our gods?”

  I thought for a moment. It seemed a yellower’s choice. Trust a man who was Aydor’s creature or let this old man, whose infirmary smelled of death, treat my master.

  “Priest Tarris,” I said, “thank you for your concern and for letting my companion rest in your infirmary, but in my experience it seems men and women more often die for want of blood than for having too much.” The priest looked like he may be about to explode and I tried to soften the blow a little. “And although I respect your learning, the poison that afflicts my companion is a foreign one, so maybe it is best treated by a foreigner?”

  “I suppose this should be expected from a follower of the king’s new ways.” He pulled down his mask and his voice settled into the inflectionless tone common to the priests of the dead gods. “You will have to move her, of course. I cannot have a foreigner in here upsetting my charges, and her poison may infect others.”

  “But she is comfortable,” said Mastal, “for the first time in days.”

  “I am sorry,” said the priest and turned away.

  “I will find out where I am quartered,” I said. “I am sure Rufra will have arranged for me to have my own tent.” Especially if I was to spy for him. “She can be put in there.”

  Mastal nodded. “She will probably be disturbed less with you, so it may even be for the best.”

  I left the infirmary, annoyed with the intractable old man who ran it, annoyed that I must trust Aydor’s healer and suddenly aware how difficult Rufra’s task truly was. People did not like change. The priests of the dead gods told us change was impossible, that when the gods died the world had been cast like molten metal dropped into water. The blessed would be blessed, the living would remain the living, and the thankful would stay just that, thankful for whatever small pickings they could get. But Rufra was turning this on its head. It would not surprise me to find resentment in the buried chapels, where people chanted over books of names and signed them so that in the future the reincarnated gods would know they had kept faith.

  Curse Nywulf and Rufra. Meddling in Maniyadoc’s politics had come close to getting me killed once before, and here I was, already letting curiosity’s dangerous tendrils worm themselves into my mind. I could not do this, not again; I should stay out of it and concentrate on making my master well. I had been wrong to come here, wrong to think we could be safe. Maybe I was wrong to doubt myself, but my master had solved our previous mystery, not me. I had wandered blithely past what was important.

  A roar distracted me. I had arrived back at Rufra’s black and red tent just as he left it, and a cheer of approval had come from the men and women around it.

  Rufra gave a wave to the crowd, almost slipped in some mud and then laughed at himself, causing others, common and council alike, to laugh too. By him the jester, Gusteffa the Dwarf, mimicked his slip to even more hilarity. Then a second roar went up, “King Rufra!” followed by a cheer. For a moment I was blinded by a shaft of sunlight reflecting off a shield, and in the shadow on my retina I saw a dark figure, Xus, the god of death, among the smiling crowd. He stood, black-robed and frightening, and appeared to have one arm raised, one pale finger pointing as if to single out one person in the crowd.

  I followed his pointing finger. Nwyulf moved to one side and exposed Rufra. Xus was not solid, not there entirely, his form ghostly as if he warned of what may be, and as he faded into nothing I knew I could not walk away, not if it might mean the death of my friend. I had to try and help.

  Rufra stood with Boros and their mounts were brought to them, huge proud animals with antlers gilded in sharpened steel. Soldiers created a corridor through the crowd which they rode through to meet another group of Riders.

  I decided to find my own mount, Xus, and headed towards the paddocks. As I wended my way through the camp past the day markets – people everywhere, stalls selling food, butchers cutting meat and pedlars selling trinkets – I found myself drawn towards the sound of weapons drills. The crowds thinned and I entered what was clearly a training ground. A group of soldiers lounged against a fence, watching a practice fight going on within and I sidled over, listening as bets were exchanged between the troops.

  “Crast ’as ’er this time, my friend,” said one soldier. “Half a bit says he ’as Neliu on ’er back this round.” I expected some sort of ribald comment in answer to that but none came; instead there was a considered silence before her friend answered.

  “Nah. He’s getting better but she still ’as ’is measure. Be a pity to take your money, Anill.”

  “I’d be ’appy to take yo— Dead gods! She got ’im again.”

  I went to join the soldiers by the fence and watched Crast, who could be no more than seventeen, getting to his feet with a silly grin on his face as he brushed sawdust from his skirts and picked up the two wooden practice knives he had dropped. His opponent was similar to him in features, though a little older, slight of build with blue eyes and the same bright red hair, like polished copper. Nywulf stood behind the two.

  “Swap weapons,” he said. “Crast, take the longsword and stabsword, Neliu, take the knives.” They swapped and fell into ready positions and then Nywulf shouted, “Start!”

  The two trainee Heartblades were quick and, almost with a sense of longing, I watched them spar. Nywulf stalked around the two young warriors, occasionally correcting footwork with a stick he carried, sometimes shouting out instructions to one or the other, but it was make-work really; the two were ferociously skilled. What’s more they clearly enjoyed the work, though the soldier who had refused his friend’s bet was right: the girl was quicker than the bo
y – though maybe not enough to guarantee her a win every time.

  She slipped on something, regaining her balance in a flash, but the boy was in, his longsword coming over in a powerful strike. The third iteration, a Meeting of Hands, she brought her knives together to block it, but he lunged with his stabsword to catch her in the stomach, pulling the strike at the last minute so he did not hurt her too much. But it did not matter – she was already gone – and by the time his stabsword was fully extended she was in close with her blade at his throat. The fall had been a trick. The soldiers watching started to applaud, as did I, and Nywulf stood back with a smile on his face.

  “Girton,” he said quietly, “would you care to show my pupils how it is done?”

  I suddenly felt self-conscious. I had not used paired knives or a sword for two years or more.

  “Another day, maybe, Nywulf,” I said, and he nodded, though there was an odd look in his eye, something calculating. “I have come to find out where I am staying.” A horn sounded somewhere in the camp.

  “I will have Crast take you.” He pointed at the boy. “Neliu, Rufra is to ride out on patrol with Boros. You will have his back today.”

  “Yes, Nywulf.”

  The boy looked disappointed at not getting to ride with his king, and Nywulf placed his hand on the back of his neck and pushed him gently forward. “Do not be downhearted, Crast. You are tasked with the protection of Girton. Were it not for him Rufra would not even be a king, but that is a secret and you must tell no one.”

  “I do not want or need a nursemaid,” I said, though Nywulf paid no attention.

  “Oh.” The boy’s face lit up. “You are that Girton?”

  “How many other Girtons do you think I would let refuse my request to fight?” said Nywulf.

  “I do not know, Nywulf,” said Crast with a look full of mischief. “I have never met another Girton.”

  “Get on,” said Nywulf, “before I bruise your arse for such cheek.” Crast gave me a grin as he joined me, wiping sweat from his face with his palms and I found myself annoyed at Nywulf for telling the boy who I was, though it was foolish of me. As Heartblades they would find out about me soon enough. “Take him to Varn and refer to him only as Rufra’s guest. Find out where he is to be quartered.”

  “I will need two beds,” I said.

  “Got plans, have you?” said Crast, giving me a wink.

  “My master is ill; the second bed is for her.”

  “Oh.” He blushed, unsure of what to say, but Nywulf saved him from further embarrassment.

  “That makes things easier actually. Tell Varn that Girton is with the ambassador from the Lean Isles and have three cots provided for them.”

  “Three?” I said.

  “One for the healer, or should the ambassador’s healer sleep on the floor?” said Nywulf. “The fact that they are both dark-skinned and new to camp will make the lie more believable.” I had not thought Mastal would share with us, and I was not sure I liked the idea of him being there.

  “Why the Lean Isles?” I asked and he shrugged.

  “Why not?”

  We walked away, and when Nywulf was out of earshot I said to Crast,

  “You should watch your sister’s feet.”

  “She is not my sister,” he said quickly, but he avoided my eye and for a moment I wondered if he lied, but it seemed a foolish lie to tell if it was. More likely he had a crush on the older girl and was embarrassed by it.

  “Well, whatever she is, you should still watch her feet. No one moves without their feet giving warning.”

  “Nywulf says the same.” Crast shrugged. “But he says to watch her eyes too, and he also says I must never take my gaze from her blade.”

  I laughed.

  “Well, he is right in all those things.”

  “I will need more eyes, I think,” he said glumly, but he was good-humoured and could not keep up the pretence of misery.

  “I will train with you when I can, if you wish,” I said. “Help you a bit.”

  “With that?” He pointed at my warhammer. “Hard to pull a blow with such weight.”

  “I would use a blade,” I said

  “I would like that. Nywulf says he has rarely seen your equal.”

  Crast and I continued to chatter about inconsequential things as he led me back into the camp and towards a group of tents that, rather than being fat and round, were long and triangular, their lengths shot through with black poles which made them look like spiny caterpillars. Above them Varn’s green and black flag cracked in the wind. For a warrior sworn to give his life to save his king Crast was strangely carefree, and I felt myself envying him. Occasionally a child would run in front of us, screaming as it played or brandishing a wooden sword, and a shadow would pass across Crast’s face, as if he were suddenly struck by how much responsibility he had, but it was gone as quickly as it arrived. I wondered how much combat he had seen – not much, I imagined – but then I remembered how quickly I had been to shrug off the deaths I had caused as a child, and I hoped that Rufra brought a lasting peace before Crast became more like me.

  “Varn,” shouted Crast, slapping his hand against a tent. “Varn, you are needed. We need a tent for the Lean Isles ambassador.” The tent flap was pushed aside and Varn appeared in a cloud of narcotic smoke. He was a small man, old and almost entirely naked. Behind him stood his wife, Bediri, and she was entirely naked. The smoke leaving their tent wrapped me in intoxicating tendrils, and I imagined I could smell sex in the air.

  “I was busy,” said Varn.

  “King’s business,” said Crast. He did his best not to look at Bediri, though he kept glancing at her body and had no choice but to raise his head to her when she spoke.

  “You would think the king would know better than to disturb me when I am taking my man to bed,” she said.

  Varn frowned. He had a round face with a wide nose that had been broken many times. His teeth had been filed into points, and his skin was so white it was almost translucent.

  “I am no woman’s man,” he said.

  “Then possibly I should find a man who is not ashamed to be mine,” said Bediri, and though they both sounded fierce there was a playfulness about them that made me smile. Crast’s face turned almost puce with embarrassment.

  “Few men are that brave,” said Varn.

  Bediri shrugged. “Then I am stuck with you. Go about your king’s business, husband, and if you are lucky I may still be waiting when you return.” She turned and vanished into the dark of the tent. A moment later some clothes came flying out. “And dress. Remember these people are odd about such things.”

  Varn laughed quietly to himself as he dressed.

  “I think she forgets that, here, we are the odd ones.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Oh, a long way off, a place that no longer exists and you will never heard of.”

  “I have heard of many places,” I said, but Varn ignored me. Instead he led me away from his tent, pointing out how the camp was constructed as a giant circle to make it easier to navigate. As I walked I noticed large wooden boxes at the end of each row of tents.

  “What are those?”

  “Latrines.”

  “Do you not just use the river?”

  “No. Rufra insists the troops use the latrines and each night a cart comes and collects the night soil, taking it to join the mount dung to be spread on the land for crops.”

  “That must be an unpopular job.”

  “It is, but it is a good one for enforcing discipline.” He sounded happy and had a quality that made him instantly likeable, useful for a military man. I was glad Nywulf thought him an unlikely traitor. “Here is your tent,” he said. We had stopped in front of the two huge caravans in the same clearing I had seen Rufra acclaimed in. Now he had gone it was much quieter, and I wondered if the cheering been engineered for morale, or if the people knew their king would be leaving at that time and had just wanted to see him.” Around the clearing w
as a circle of round tents and it was one of those that he pointed at, a grander tent than I had ever had before. I noticed another tent of a strange design, it hung between the two caravans, more a collection of tautly strung sheets than any tent I had ever seen.

  “What is that?”

  “Rufra’s court tent. It will be in session in the morning, so no doubt you will see his justice enacted.”

  “Is it good justice?’ The bowman shrugged. “He is soft, for a king, but he will learn with time.”

  “You speak very freely,” I said.

  “That is why the king likes me.” He pulled back the flap on the front of my tent and I noticed an intricate interlacing of scars on his inner arm. They were not like mine – though the marks were not random either, they had purpose. When he noticed me looking at them he moved his arm so they were hidden. “You should make yourself comfortable and set up the beds. You will find everything you need. I will send Crast to get the ambassador and her healer.”

  With that he left and I walked into the gloom of the tent. Finally alone, I felt crushed by the unfamiliar darkness.

  Chapter 9

  With lamps lit the tent was slightly less foreboding, though still gloomy and overly warm. As Mastal the healer settled my master in her bed I went outside to find Crast guarding the tent.

  “I can look after my master,” I said. It irked me that Nywulf felt we needed guarding.

  “But Nywulf said—”

  “Well tell Nywulf I said otherwise, and if he thinks differently he is to take it up with me. Crast looked miserable. “He’ll be like a man with two hangovers over this, you know. I’ll have to hide from him for a week to avoid lectures on who I am meant to be obeying.”

  I palmed two bits and slipped them into his hand. “Listen. I know what Nywulf can be like. Drown your sorrows afterwards.” He grinned as he took the money and I wondered if I had been played as he skipped off merrily enough. When I turned, the healer had set about pinning back some of the tent flaps.