Blood of Assassins

by RJ Baker

  I walked away and my name was called again. By this time I was truly tired of the attention and turned, spite bitter as magic on my lips, but the harsh words died in my mouth.

  “Areth.”

  “I am glad I have found you, Girton. I wanted to thank you.”

  “You did?”

  “For talking to Rufra, for whatever you said. He came to me last night—”

  “I don’t think I need to know the details.”

  “—to talk.” She batted at me, gently slapping me on my arm. “At first anyway.” She gave me a sly look and then burst out laughing. “Girton, you have gone as red as a berry! I thought you a man of the world, well travelled and having had many lovers!” She linked her arm through mine.

  “I had a lover …”

  “Oh.” She stopped and the smile fell from her face. “Drusl, I am a fool, I did not think before I spoke.” I felt bad for making her uncomfortable. “But there must have been others since?”

  “A couple.” My insides tightened and I dug my nails into my palms.

  “I do not just mean someone to warm your bed for a night, Girton.” She giggled and then was suddenly serious. “If you are to stay here you cannot be lonely, and there will be dances and feasts when the bonemounts are finally stabled. You will need a partner then.” She turned me towards her, holding me lightly by my forearms. “Listen. Come to court tonight. Gusteffa will dance and after the court there will be a feast. I have many friends, all of whom would be glad to meet the king’s champion, if you understand my meaning.”

  I heard her words but did not reply. A cold truth was stealing over me, a mixture of sadness and guilt that was entirely new to me and so uncomfortable it made me want to run away from this place, run and never return. Where Areth touched me a glow ran along my scars. Her face was warm like the sun and I could not turn away from her. No matter who Areth may introduce me to they would pale into insignificance beside her.

  My friend’s wife.

  I can give her to you.

  A jolt, the stink of pondweed thick in my nostrils.

  “Girton, are you all right? You have gone ghostwhite.”

  “Yes. Sorry.” My jaw ached. “Just tired is all, Areth.” I needed somewhere quiet. The magic within was shifting again. An hour to myself was what I needed, somewhere to think and breathe and pin the magic down.

  “Very well. Get some rest, but promise me you will come to court. Promise.”

  “I promise.”

  “Good. Rufra will be pleased to have you there.”

  I nodded and watched her walk away.

  I can give her to you.

  “No,” a word said through gritted teeth. And like a dog beaten by its master, the king’s champion went to find somewhere to hide from the world. Much to my annoyance it seemed every place in the camp was full of happy people, and so I sought shelter in our tent. Even there I found laughter, a small world of warmth and light, though the laughter stopped when I came into the tent.

  Mastal stood. “I must leave,” he said, giving my master a small bow. He ignored me, and I him. No doubt he went to report to Aydor.

  “Girton,” said my master, “I see you do not have the warhammer at your side today.”

  “Nywulf gave it to Aydor.” I sounded petulant, like a child.

  “And you still fought.”

  “I have returned to my stabswords. As you wished.” My words were cold, and she stood, placing her hands lightly on my arms – like Areth had done. “You look tired, Master,” I said.

  “It comes and goes.” She searched my face, her hand coming up, and she almost-but-not-quite touched my cheek. Her bent fingers traced a line above a new cut on my face. “We should have toured as players,” she said quietly. “We should have tumbled and storied and sang.”

  “I said as much.”

  “You did –” her hand came down to her side “– but we cannot change what was.” Silence, a counting of moments.

  One, my master.

  Two, my master.

  Three, my master.

  “There was no cart, Girton,” she whispered. “Rufra knew nothing of it. There was never any cart to take us to the Sighing Mountains, was there?” I shook my head. “Why, Girton?” Abruptly I was six again and I had picked up one of her knives despite knowing they were not for me. I echoed the words of that six-year-old boy.

  “I do not know.”

  “You do not know,” she said slowly, “and that is the best you have?”

  “I was scared,” I said, finding my voice and pushing past the discomfort in my throat, the sudden threat of tears. “I was scared you would leave and never come back, and I would be left alone. He wants to take you away.” I could not tell from the look in her eyes whether she was angry, disappointed or touched; maybe it was a little of all those things.

  “Oh, Girton,” she said, and suddenly she was holding me, wrapping me in a fierce embrace. “I would never leave you for long. I would always come back, always.”

  “I am sorry, Master.” A flood inside me, now tears blurred the world. “I thought you were dead! I thought you were going to die. I did not—”

  “Shh, shh, my boy.” She rocked me from side to side like she had when I was small. “Quiet, quiet. It does not matter.” She cooed the words to me, like a mother calming a babe. “It does not matter. I understand.”

  “I will put this right,” I said. Behind her, the bottles of medicine were lined up on Mastal’s trunk

  “I know, I know.”

  “I will do it now.” I removed myself from her embrace, and she stepped back so that only her hands rested on my shoulders. She looked into my face.

  “What we are is hard on you, Girton, and sometimes I am sorry for what I have made you into. But I am never sorry for you. I am never sorry I have you.”

  I nodded, wiped mucus from my nose and tears from my eyes. “Rufra has his court tonight.” I sniffed back tears. “I am to be there. I will talk to him and arrange the cart for tomorrow. I think I should talk to Mastal as well.”

  “Thank you, Girton, and I will return as soon as I can. Are you still angry with with him?”

  I shook my head. I was but could not find the words to tell her why. Maybe when I confronted him with what he had hidden in has papers we could put the medicine right and he would not take her away. Both of us had something to hide. We would fix my master, and the matter would be done. I would protect his lies if he left her here – and he would protect mine, and we would never speak of it again.

  “No, I am not.”

  “Then go. Do what you need to do to make this right.”

  “I will.”

  And I took my leave, thinking nothing of the small tremble of my master’s hand, thinking it a symptom of strong emotion, not something deeper.

  Something darker.

  Outside, Mastal waited for me a few paces from the entrance to the tent and as I approached he backed away. Words of contrition waited in my mouth.

  “I thought you an adult,” said Mastal, “and I treated you as one, but it seems you are only a child.” There was fury in the lines of his face. “Your king knew nothing of a cart.”

  The contrition vanished to be replaced with anger.

  “Because I knew of your plans, Mastal.” He stared at me. Shocked or simply angry, it was hard to tell.

  “Plans?”

  “I read your papers. You are no travelling healer; you seek rewards for finding people.”

  “You went through my things?”

  “It is a good job I did.”

  He took a step closer as I spoke, his taller frame filling the space in front of me. “Among our people such a thing would be a huge insult. I should walk away from here for this.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “If I leave, your master will sicken and die.”

  “You only want her well so you can take her away and make your coin.”

  He shook his head. “No, those are not my reasons. The yandil is
in the Sighing Mountains, as are people who have loved her and missed her and wondered where she is for many years. She has family there. You would deny her that?”

  “She has family here.”

  “She has an apprentice here –” he snapped the word back at me “– one who long ago should have found his own way in the world. Does a shopkeeper count his delivery boy as family? Does a smith count the child he teaches to hammer metal as family?” I was taken aback by his anger – it was me who had been wronged, not him.

  “It is not the same.”

  “Is it not?”

  “You should leave us, Mastal. Go.”

  “No, I will stay. I must, to make her well.”

  “And if she does not get well? What then? If you cannot take her away and get your coin? If her health fails?”

  “It will not. I will make her well.”

  The anger within me was so strong I was shaking. My hands itched for the hilt of the blade at my hip.

  “If she sickens,” I said, “you will leave us alone.”

  “Leave?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are such an angry child you would rather she die than met those who love her?”

  “No, but if you do not make her well you must leave.”

  He looked me up and down as if I had just landed from the sky. “Very well. I do not doubt myself so I will agree to that,” he said quietly. “But when she gets well, you will let her go without complaint.”

  “Promise you will leave.”

  “My word is—”

  “Promise it!” I shouted the words in his face and he took a step back. He was not a man used to physical anger, I could tell it from the way he moved.

  “Very well, Girton Club-Foot. Should your master sicken again, though she will not, I will pack up my trunks and leave.”

  “Good, and do not think you can wheedle your way further into my master’s affections. When I return later I shall tell her why you are really here.” I was about to turn and leave, pleased at having struck the final blow, but instead of looking shocked or worried he only shook his head.

  “Girton,” he said, “she already knows. I told her long ago about her family.” And then he turned and left me with nothing but fury and nowhere to aim it.

  Dead gods, I wanted him gone.

  I will give you what you want.

  I will give you what you want.

  Chapter 23

  When I arrived at the king’s court the session was already under way, it had the rowdy atmosphere of a theatre. Rufra’s throne was on a raised dais, and next to him sat a radiant-looking Areth. At his shoulder stood Nywulf, severe and forbidding as ever. Behind them were some of his Triangle Council: Gabran the Smith, looking uncomfortable in a formal kilt – I knew how he felt – and my heart leaped with a small joy when I saw that next to him sat Boros, his scarred head swathed in bandages. I had thought he would die from his wounds and was glad he had not. Bowmaster Varn and Bediri Outlander sat on the other side, and my heart fell when I saw Rufra had allowed Aydor to sit with them. Bediri leaned over and said something that made Aydor laugh and my guts clenched. How well did she know him?

  Areth saw me in the crowd and whispered something to a retainer, who vanished and returned with a chair, putting it next to Boros and nodding towards me. As I worked my way through the crowd I let their mood lift mine. They were a happy lot, full of joy at Rufra’s victory, and it probably helped that Rufra had killed a lot of pigs on his way back from Gwyre – the air was full of the smell of roasting pork; nearly everyone either had meat and bread in their hand or a face greasy with meat juices. I spotted the copper hair of Neliu weaving through the crowd and her mirror image on the other side, Crast, both no doubt looking out for threats. Crast gave me a cheery wave when he spotted me and I waved back as I sat next to Boros.

  “I am glad you live,” I said.

  “I am not. My head aches like a mount is running around in it and Tarris is making me drink a concoction that tastes like vomit. Twice a day!” His voice was filled with mock outrage. “I see you’re wearing armour, Girton? No kilt?” He pulled at the material of his own and grimaced – a truly frightening sight on his scarred face. It seemed no one liked kilts.

  “As I am now Rufra’s champion I thought it more fitting to wear armour and blade.”

  “Any excuse to get out of a kilt.”

  “Well, in the next fight I will try and get hit on the head and let you win the glory.”

  He laughed. “Maybe getting to sleep through a battle is worth wearing a kilt for.” The smile fell from his face and I knew he thought of his brother, Chirol, who had managed to escape.

  “He cannot run for ever, Boros. Chirol will turn up again.”

  “Dead gods, I hope so,” he said. “My blade thirsts for his blood.”

  “How does this court work, anyway?” I asked, keen to get off the subject of his brother and the peculiar madness it instilled in Boros.

  “See those sad-looking fellows over there.” He pointed at a circle of men and women to the left of us with a rib bone he had been gnawing. I nodded. “Well, they come in front of Rufra, put forward their case, and Rufra consults with us and we give them a decision. Mostly it’s disputes between traders, petty stuff that’s not worth the king’s time.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Sometimes it gets exciting. See the bound man on his knees? He murdered another guard. Violence between guards is always popular with the common folk.”

  I glanced at the group Boros had been talking about, the only people in the clearing who did not look happy.

  “How do you bring a case?”

  “Why, got a grievance?”

  I wondered where Karrick Thessan was.

  “Not as such,” I said.

  “You do it through one of the Triangle Council, usually. Approach us, and we judge whether it’s worthwhile and give Rufra a quick rundown of the case before the court.”

  “So it’s decided beforehand; this is just theatre?”

  “Justice must be seen to be done, and the crowd has its part to play also. Rufra can be swayed by their reaction, to a point.”

  “Is he a good judge?”

  “You will see,” said Boros, then he sighed. “But first we have to watch the bloody dwarf prance about.”

  “Gusteffa? But she is a master jester.”

  “I forgot you liked that sort of thing,” he said.

  “It will not hurt you to appreciate a great artist, Boros.” He shook his head at me and took a swig of perry. Then Gusteffa appeared, and the dance truly began.

  The Story of Aseela, the First Queen, and How She Brought Us Mounts

  Long before the balance was upset and even before men and women knew the names of their gods, mounts ran wild in the hills and no man or woman could ride them. One morning, in these long forgotten times, Aseela woke to find her husband standing outside with their children, holding his bow.

  “Aseela,” he said, “today I shall hunt and bring us back a fine haunch of mount to feed our family.”

  “Mind you do, husband,” she said, “for your children are hungry. But be careful, and if there is danger run like the wind.”

  “I shall be careful,” he said.

  But as night clothed the sky he did not return, and Aseela worried because she had also hunted mounts and knew mounts were fierce. And in the morning, when the sun woke the flowers, he did not return, and Aseela worried because mounts were fierce. And when he did not return by the middle of the day Aseela decided she must find him. She took up her bow, left her children and headed into the hills where the mounts ran to find her husband. Aseela trekked across streams and through mud, following the hunter’s path until she found blood. And Aseela, heavy-hearted Aseela, followed the blood until she found her husband. He had not been careful as she had instructed, and when danger came he had not run like the wind.

  A mount had gored him, and he had as little breath left in his body as he had blood in his v
eins.

  “Oh Aseela, I was not careful as you instructed. I did not run like the wind. I saw a black mount, a king among his tribe,” he said, “and took aim. But just when I was about to shoot, a giant golden mount appeared and gored me. I am sorry, Aseela, but you must raise our children alone now.” And with that he died and Aseela rent her clothes in grief and swore to the sky she would hunt down the great golden mount that had taken the man she loved away from her. So Aseela, huntress, headed up into the hills, following the mounttrails until she heard the sound of mounts in fury. And above the whistles and growls of mounts she heard the roaring of the maned lizards which hunted in packs and knew no fear. Down went Aseela, down into the ferns. She felt the wind on her face. She smelled the lizards and the mounts they preyed upon. Forward went Aseela, huntress of her people, through the long ferns and past high trees. Coming to a clearing where she found a mount at bay – huge and golden, queen of her herd.

  Aseela strung her bow with her best arrow, cut straight as a kill, cut to pierce the heart of a mount. And Aseela waited for her moment.

  The golden mount stood over another, black as death and wounded. Around and around the mounts the lizards prowled, five in number and fierce as any of their kind. As one darted in, the mount lunged and another tore at her rump. Bite by bite they began to wear the queen of mounts down.

  Aseela aimed her arrow for the heart, thinking only of vengeance.

  Then stopped.

  She saw a queen guarding her wounded mate from danger, even to the definite cost of her own life.

  Another lizard darted in, jaws slavering, teeth snapping. Blood was drawn.

  I know this, she thought. Despite we have always hunted mounts, I see myself in you. I see you fight for what you love and I see us more alike than not. Those great antlers tore the life from my lover, but he would have torn your lover from you. I come in vengeance for what was mine, on you who acted only to protect what was yours.