by RJ Baker
“I am not sure I am meant to be happy, Gusteffa,” I said into the mist. She came cartwheeling out, landing in front of me on her hands.
“We choose what to be, what we are, what to do, who may have our loyalty.” She flipped backwards onto her feet. “Lay your weapons down, Girton Club-Foot. You could walk away and leave them. Some other would take them up. Your king is safe – no assassin works during the war.”
“How do you know?”
“The kings came to an accord, it is common knowledge.”
I stepped forward and picked up the warhammer, hooking it back on my belt. Gusteffa watched me sadly. Then she walked up to me and stood on tiptoe so she could whisper to me.
“No one ever told me I could be anything else, and now it is too late. My path is set. You still have a choice.” Then she flipped away into the mist.
I waited for her to return or speak again but there was only mist, and I found myself annoyed with the little woman, this world in general and Rufra for not telling me about this accord. I felt suddenly self-conscious about the warhammer at my hip. I was in Rufra’s war camp, not a hostile wilderness, and was probably as safe as I could ever be. I returned to the tent, slipping in. Mastal started guiltily as I entered, thrusting papers back into his bag and moving across to my master without looking at me. I ignored him, placing the hammer carefully among my belongings before leaving again. Mastal was up to something, I was sure. Aydor’s work, no doubt.
I stalked through a camp just waking. The sun rose behind the massive colourful tents and painted long shadows on the grass. It had rained during the night and in places standing water had gathered and naked children were running through puddles, laughing as they were pursued by harried parents eager to dress them for the signing ceremonies held by the priests. It was to the signing ceremonies I was headed. Neander’s treachery under the rule of Queen Adran Mennix had cemented a deep mistrust of priests within me. There could be no question that Rufra’s decision to elevate Arnst, a renegade, to his council would have annoyed the priesthood, so I would attend the signing ceremonies and listen to what they said and who they said it to. While there, maybe I could find someone who knew enough about Bowmaster Varn to tell me a little more about him and the vow carved into his arm.
A mother shouted, and I caught her child as it ran past me. The thing squealed with laughter as I held it away from me, unwilling to touch it – not just because it was muddy but also because children made me uncomfortable.
“Thank you, Blessed,” a young mother clothed in the drab rags of the thankful said as she took the child back from me. “Children are a trial, but the king and queen are a reminder that they should be treasured. Even when, like Collis here, they are nothing but trouble.” Ever like Rufra, I thought. Such sentimentality was what made him easy for people to love.
“Who are the priests for the camp?”
“Priests?” She looked at me like I had emerged from the earth. “Thought you looked funny. You an outlander?” I nodded. “Well, we ’ad plenty of priests but a fair few left when the king made Arnst one of ’is council.” I could not tell whether she approved or disapproved. “Now we only have the three, and that Arnst of course.” This time when she mentioned Arnst I was more sure the woman had no love for him. “There is Tarris, priest of Anwith, but he don’t preach as all know it’s bad luck to talk with a healer if you aren’t with the sick. I go to Inla, priest of Mayel, now, she is good with the children, keeps her speeches short as she knows what it is like to be a mother. Used to go to Darvin, priest of Lessiah, but what do I need the goddess of the night for, eh? His words won’t help me sleep more soundly, and it’s not the whisperings of Black Ungar that keep me awake, it’s Collis screaming for his da. Besides, he don’t half go on at you – you should avoid him.”
“And Arnst’s sermons?”
“He stirs up problems like a stone in a pond brings up dirt. We had poisonings.”
“Poisonings?”
“Oh aye. Twice we’ve had the wells poisoned. Course, only the lazy go to the well; most go to the river so we didn’t lose as many as we could.”
“And the poisoners were caught?”
She nodded.
“Arnst’s man, the Meredari warrior, found ’em – spies sent in by Tomas with the incomers. They died on his blade rather than be caught.” She leaned in close to whisper. “I been with the king since the start, but many come in ’ere late and only cos it’s safe. You can’t trust ’em. I bet most of ’em are spies for Tomas, and I’d throw ’em all out for the hedgings or put ’em among the desolate if it were up to me.”
“It seems you have really caught the spirit of the times,” I said. She scowled, but before she could walk away I added, “If Arnst’s man caught the poisoners, why don’t you like him?” She looked at me, confusion on her face until she replaced it with a look of annoyance.
“He stirs up trouble, don’t he? He shouldn’t be here. I don’t like him being here, and it ain’t your business anyway is it, incomer? Where you from anyway? You speak funny.” She hugged her child closer and balanced it on her hip so she could use her other hand to point away from me. “We don’t have buried chapels here, us being a camp and all, so the priests’ tents are all down there. Arnst’s is in the other direction, near the paddocks.” With that she walked away, leaving me feeling like I had upset her without meaning to.
I made my way through rows of tents and, although the camp looked grand at first, the poverty of Maniyadoc and the Long Tides showed through. In the soldiers’ camp there was a good selection of spears and wooden shields on display, though there were very few swords; most soldiers carried a dagger and some also had a club. All had helmets made of boiled leather, though there were many different designs, and the most usual form of armour was padded cloth sewn with odd patches of leather or metal. Boiled-leather armour was quite common, though most of it was tatty and well used. Only occasionally did I see expensive armours made of many little enamelled metal plates sewn together, and that was mostly harlequin armour like my own, made from discarded pieces of other armours. Some soldiers had no armour at all, only a spear, but there was a sense of good cheer and camaraderie among them. I heard hand bells ringing, and those men and women who were not outfitting themselves for duty of some sort were heading towards the priests’ tents. Soldiers were accompanied by their families, and it felt more like a day of celebration than another day in a martial camp.
The priests’ tents stood in a clearing and there had obviously been more than the two before me. I counted five patches of dead grass where tents had stood around the purple tent of Lessiah and the red tent of Mayel. I chose red first as the woman had said the sermons in Mayel’s tent tended to be shorter. I hoped I would be able to listen to her priest preach, then catch the priest of Lessiah at the end when he should be working himself up to the climax of his sermon and any traitorous ideas were more likely to slip through. Then I would have to hurry over to the paddocks to catch some of Arnst the Lost’s sermon. I was most curious about what the renegade priest of Xus would say.
The woman had been right: Inla’s sermon was blessedly short and reassuringly dull enough to make her small group of followers feel safe in a changing and unsafe world. As they queued up for her book she left an acolyte to oversee the signing and went over to a place in her tent that had been set aside for the children and sat with them, involving them in a game that caused much hilarity. She struck me as an unlikely rebel.
Darvin, the priest of Lessiah, across the way, was far more of a firebrand. Even though he spoke in the carefully modulated tones of the masked priesthood I could feel his commitment to the corpse of his god and his belief it would one day rise again. His tent was almost bursting with worshippers. All the seats were full, and I had to stand at the back. Darvin did not rail against Rufra – in fact he was full of praise for those who did what was right no matter what society said – and when he made dark allusions to worshippers of hedgings hiding in plain sight
and misleading the just, I wondered if he referred to Arnst. At the end of his sermon, while his acolyte took the signatures or the marks of those who could not write, I made my way over to him. He had not lifted his mask and was easy to find, the pure white mask and purple robe standing out among the rags of his congregation like a frilled lizard in a stable. Behind him I saw a simple bed and a pack leaning against the canvas by it. Darvin stooped, moving his pack out of the way of one of his assistants, and I thought how rare it was to see a priest who kept to their vow of poverty. The man clearly lived in his tent when he could have had much better lodgings.
The priest saw me as I approached and broke off a conversation with one of his congregation, pointing at me as he did, which bothered me. I had hoped to keep a low profile the better to blend in and search out secrets.
“You are Girton?” Away from his lectern Darvin’s voice was surprisingly gentle. “Friend of the king and assistant to the ambassador of the Lean Isles?”
“Yes. I was not aware I was so well known.”
“I heard your name from the healer Tarris. He described you as ‘mage-bent but full of vanity, carries himself like a warrior.’” I winced at “mage-bent.” “Tarris is not subtle in his conversation or forgiving of those who pass over his ministrations.” He leaned in close. “Though I suspect you made the right decision.”
He seemed friendly enough, so I decided to play the outlander, as it was the part I had been given – though something in me was saddened by the fact I had become so estranged from the place I had grown up in that I could carry off the ruse without trying.
“What did you mean by ‘the hedging’s followers hiding in plain sight’?”
“Well.” As he steered me to the edge of the tent so we were out of the way of his bustling congregation, I noticed he had a pronounced limp. “In times such as these, when men and women let down their guard or give in to strife, the land spirits, remnants of the power of our gods, rise up to tempt them. These hedgings prey on the misdeeds of men and lead them to darkness, trick them into trading their lives for power until eventually they consume them or, even worse, turn them into sorcerers to devour the land.” I dug my fingernails into my palms at the mention of sorcerers and in annoyance that he trotted out the standard sermon.
“You mean like Nonmen?”
“A symptom –” was there a hint of fear in his voice? “– of a sickness in the land. King Rufra strives to do good, but even kings sometimes make the wrong choices.”
“Arnst?” I said.
“That man would destroy everything we are” An edge of real vehemence had crept into his voice.
“Is that so bad? Is it fair that the thankful starve because of their birth?”
“Some change is to be applauded of course,” he said, “but to throw everything away, to burn our history as men like Arnst would? It is a terrible thing to do, and it frightens people. They make poor choices out of fear. No doubt, where you come from, they have their beliefs –” I suddenly realised I knew nothing of the Lean Isles and became wary, but Darvin was lost in his soliloquy “– but how would you feel if the land you stood on was suddenly pulled from beneath your feet? If what you love was taken from you, destroyed? Rufra has dreams, but dreams are nebulous. He must have a solid foundation to build on or his dreams will crumble and people will be hurt.”
I found myself nodding – it was hard not to having seen the chaos outside the camp.
“So you would have everyone cursed to live whatever life they were born to.”
“It is not a curse to know your place. I had an assistant, Fara …” He looked away. “She dreamed of becoming something she could never be and I told her it was not our place to question the dead gods, ways.”
“And what happened to her?” I had heard her name before, I was sure, but could not place it.
“She vanished, taken by hedgings.” He turned back to me, forcing a smile onto his face and I remembered where I had heard the name – the girl Boros had been searching for when I first met him. “But on the other hand, the gods have not been reborn yet,” he said, “so maybe we are doing something wrong; maybe some action is needed. We are only men and women, struggling to understand our gods. That they were and shall be again is as true as the fact that Xus walks among us, but the way to bring them back? Who really knows? Maybe we do need a strong arm, ready to sweep away the darkness in blood.” For a moment he seemed to be talking more to himself than me but it was always difficult to tell with a masked priest. “Maybe that is what is needed – a true sacrifice. We must all do what we can, must we not? We must all root out darkness and magic whereever it is found.”
My mouth became dry.
“I have to go,” I said, uncomfortable. “I ride out with the king this morning and will need to find my mount.”
“If you find a woman alone on your travels, ask if it is Fara. She is lost.”
“I will.”
“Blessings of Lessiah on you, boy.”
“I don’t need your blessing.” It was automatic, leaping from my mouth.
“Really?” He took a stumbling step closer, peering into my face from behind his mask. “I was a warrior once, until I took a wound to my leg. I did not sleep well, not for years. I would see the faces of those whose lives I had taken. Only within the teachings of Lessiah did I find solace and peace.” He paused and it felt like his whole being focused on me. “You do not look like you sleep well.”
“I slept well last night.”
“But was it the sleep of the exhausted, which does not bring rest? Or was it the sleep of the just?” He let a moment’s silence pass. “Do hedgings whisper of dark deeds to you, boy? Lessiah can stop their voices. Lessiah can bring you a dreamless sleep if you only give yourself to her, take up her quest …”
“I no longer dream.” He stared at me as if he could sense I did not tell the whole truth, dark eyes sparkling in the shadows of his mask. “And I must go, Darvin; I have to meet the king.”
“Go then, Girton.” He gave me a small bow of his head. “If you cut behind the tents and over the stream you will find a path that is a short cut to the paddocks.”
I thanked the priest and left his tent, glad to be away. The fervour of the religious made me uncomfortable, though it was good that he seemed to understand the need for change. I considered going back to my tent for my weapons and armour but as I would be meeting Rufra by his caravans and my tent was next door it seemed foolish to traipse all the way back there so I took the short cut that the priest had mentioned, passing over a stream and through a small copse of pine trees. Sunlight squeezed through swaying branches to dance on the muddy ground.
That is where they tried to kill me.
Had my attacker not made the mistake of coming at me from behind so the sun threw the shadow of a raised arm over me they may have been successful. Instead, as the club came down I dived to the side, throwing myself into the mud and rolling to my feet, legs wide apart, eating knife in my hand and a curse at leaving my warhammer behind on my lips. My assailant wore a soldier’s armour, leather chest piece, chained skirt and a helmet that covered the face.
“Walk away,” I said, keeping my voice calm and my breathing shallow. “Your life is not worth the price on my head.” I glanced around looking for another; there are always two in an assassin’s sorrowing. So much for Gusteffa’s talk of an “accord.”
“A price?” she said. “Then your death is doubly worth my time.”
Not an assassin after my master and I then. Was this simply a robbery?
She thrust with her stabsword. I slid to the side. She followed the thrust with a swing of her club that caught me on the shoulder, numbing my arm and making me swear.
“I ’ad heard you were a bladesman. Seems it is a lie.” As she spoke I backed up, placing my feet carefully in the mud and moving so I was further into a pool of standing water, feeling the slime beneath trying to trick my feet, glad I wore good boots where my attacker only wore sandals.
She laughed, coming forward and making small swings with her club to force me further back. She was not particularly skilled, but fully armoured and against a man with only an eating knife she did not need to be. As I retreated my feet found what I had hoped would be there, a tree root under the mud. I made a thrust with my knife and she stepped back, quickly returning the strike and pushing me further back with a few sharp thrusts of her stabsword. When she had taken a step past the root I thrust again and she stepped back again, the sole of her sandal catching on the root, and in the moment she was off balance I moved.
Did I resort to an assassin’s trick? Did I move with the Speed-that-Defies-the-Eye? Did the lacework of scars on my flesh come alive for just the slightest hint of a fraction of time?
Then I was on her, hitting her in the stomach and pushing her to the ground. I slid an arm around her neck, and as she struggled I managed to position myself at her back with my arm across her throat.
“Who sent you?” I said, tightening my chokehold.
“I’m only after what you ’ave,” she gasped out.
“Who sent you!”
She stretched out a hand, blindly feeling for her fallen stabsword and I rolled us both away from it, covering us in mud, only then realising my mistake as she struggled harder, now slippery as an eel.
“Who sent you?” I shouted into her ear.
“Piss on you, mage-bent.” More bravado in her voice now as she was working her way out of my grip. In the struggle to hold her my knife slid from my hand, and rather than let her go so she could retrieve her weapons I rolled us again until we came up against the side of the track and I had a little leverage. Then I let go, and as she tried to rise I grabbed the chinguard of her helmet with one hand and the back with the other, the rough metal giving me a good grip, and I broke her neck using her own rising momentum.