by RJ Baker
“But first the knife,” I said quietly.
“Aye,” she said, “but first the knife.”
I left the tent two hours later, my chest throbbing and bleeding from the wounds, the world a greyer place. Maybe it was the gathering of the thick blanket of Birthstorm clouds above that caused this, but most likely it was not. There was a chattering in the camp, an excited noise, but I could not bring myself to be curious about it. Each time my master had cut in the wounds my reaction had been slightly different. Sometimes I had wept and begged her to stop, often I had fought, and for a time she had needed to bind me before starting her work, but not this time. This time I had removed my top and sat in a chair while her knife made its, deep, intricate lines in my flesh. Afterwards we had spoken of Karrick and Arnst and murder and spies. She had told me to find Collis’s mother and speak to her, bade me keep my eyes open and follow only what could be shown to be true, not what I wanted to be true. The leash made this easier. It dulled my emotions as much as it dulled the world, and that voice, that seductive voice full of promises was quietened. Though it was still there.
I could have helped.
But it was now more like a sudden memory of a bad deed long past, the type that makes you clench your fist but is then forgotten again. It would not affect me as it had, and my master told me that, some time in the future when I felt ready, I would undoubtedly master it.
“There is no greater teacher than hard lessons, Girton. And your lessons have been harder than most.”
I hoped she was right.
Collis’s mother was not hard to track down. It seemed everyone knew her, and she was popular as she often looked after the children of those busy with other tasks around the camp. I found her shepherding a school of squealing children as they played on and around a long-suffering draymount.
“Ascilla?” I said, having picked up her name as I questioned those who knew her.
“Yes, can I help?” I was glad she did not recognise me.
“I spoke to you when I first entered the camp and asked you about Arnst.” Her face screwed up as if she smelled something bad. “I remember,” she said, wary.
“You seemed to dislike Arnst,” I said.
“Me and many others. Not surprised someone scratched his name on a wall.”
“Did he try and force you?”
She stared at me, cold eyes.
“Bread costs now,” she said, “and I have mouths to feed.” I took two bits from my pouch and gave them to her. She made them vanish with practised ease. “Suppose there’s no harm in telling now he’s gone. Aye, he did.”
“Forced himself on you?”
“Would’ve, but his man, the one with the painted face, stopped him. He weren’t gentle about it either.”
“Danfoth?”
“Aye.”
“You said there were others?”
“Many, some not as lucky as me.”
“Do you think they may have taken revenge – them or their lovers?”
She shook her head.
“Arnst weren’t a stupid man. I used to go see him, before. His talk of Xus being the only living god, it made a sort of sense, what with all the death. He were kind too, but only to get to know you. Once he knew you then he made his move. We’re well rid of him. Ain’t often I cheer a Landsman, but that Karrick, he did us all a service.”
“One of the other women, might they have wanted to kill him?”
“Maybe, but probably not.”
“Why?”
“Danfoth. If Arnst weren’t stopped you’d get a follow-up from the painted man. Gentle he were too. Sorry an’ everything. All apologies, and then came the money. Might seem shallow to take money after such pain, but life is hard.”
“Did anyone not take the money?”
“Some. Some threatened to take it to the king, but what would he care?”
“Do you have names? Where are the women who made these threats?”
“Names? Aye. Ginell, Fara, Belseri, Antarii. You won’t find ’em though,” she said. “Left the camp most of ’em, and Ginnel and Antarii both died when the wells were poisoned by Tomas’s men.”
“All of them gone? Didn’t you find that suspicious?”
“Of course I did,” she said, “but as I said, what was I supposed to do? Take the names of a few missing or dead women to the king against one of his council?”
“Yes. Rufra would not turn you away. He would listen.”
“He’d protect his own – they all do, don’t they?”
“What makes you say that?”
“The priest told me, and priests don’t lie, do they?” She turned away at a high scream from the draymount. Two children were hanging from the stump left from one of its curling horns, causing the animal pain. “I better get back to the children,” she said, and stormed off, shouting, “Collis, Lelta, let go the poor animal ’fore it tramples you both to death.”
I walked away deep in thought. Those names. One of them had been familiar but I could not say which one or why. And I suppose I should not be surprised that the priest had doubted Rufra, though I was disappointed in Inla of Mayel. I had liked her and thought better of her. I made my way towards Arnst’s tent to find Danfoth. I needed to speak to him.
Danfoth was talking to his followers. He was arrayed for battle and looked fearsome in armour blackened by charcoal dust and his face freshly painted, but he spoke softly. His listeners were so silent that Danfoth’s voice carried across them to me.
“Arnst told us a great change was coming with his death. That Rufra would be the agent of that change, and the followers of the true god, Xus, would be swept up on the wave of that change. So now the battle is at hand.” He stood. In one hand he had an axe and in the other a shield painted with the crossed mount antlers on a white circle. “So do not worry that you are not trained for battle, do not worry that you have no armour or weapons. Go into battle in happiness, knowing that Xus, the lonely god, will greet with great joy those who have rushed to meet him without fear. We will fight!” Now he raised his voice. “We will fight for Rufra, and whether we live or die we are still victorious. So, children of Arnst, say goodbye to your families, blacken your faces with charcoal and be ready for death. For today we march!”
The crowd roared, and I was surprised by how many of them there were – over two hundred easily. Only about a third were soldiers; the rest carried whatever they could find as weapons – clubs or farming tools. They would be cut to pieces in battle. Danfoth was a warrior so he must know that. I reappraised him, again. At first I had thought him a silent, unintelligent bodyguard, then a zealot, but now I wondered if he was cleverer than all of us and had some plan I could not fathom. I would tread warily as I questioned him.
“Danfoth,” I called as I approached.
“Chosen of Xus,” he said, “will you fight with us in the battle against the hedging’s servants?”
“If Rufra commands it,” I said, and sensed his annoyance. “And I hope you will follow his commands too.”
“I have a higher calling,” he said. I wondered if he meant it.
“To be priest of these people?”
“Arnst told us Xus has been badly served. I serve in his name and for my followers.”
“Your followers?”
“It does not do for the chosen of Xus to stoop to picking at words, Girton Club-Foot,” he said. It was the first time he had ever called me by my name, and it felt like he used it to add a subtle undertone of threat.
Lightly, I touched the hilt of my blade.
“I need to speak to you, Danfoth. Best we do it in private.” I glanced at the blackened acolytes around him.
“Then please,” he said, “enter the tent of Arnst.” He stressed his dead predecessor’s name as if to make up for the earlier slip.
“Thank you.” I walked inside. The tent had changed again: everything that must have been Arnst’s had been carefully packaged up and was now stacked in one corner. Each parcel had a small la
bel attached with a golden ribbon.
“Are you going to start a museum?” I said.
“A temple,” said Danfoth, “so a great man may be remembered.”
“A great man,” I said slowly. “He wasn’t though, was he?”
When I turned, Danfoth stood blocking the entrance, his axe in his hand.
“What do you mean?” he said casually. I wondered how hard he would be to kill if it came to it.
“I asked you if you recognised a name, Forven Aguirri. You said you did not.”
“That has not changed.” His painted face was unreadable.
“Then let me tell you a little about Forven Aguirri, Danfoth.”
“I have a battle to prepare for—” he began.
I held up a hand to stop him.
“This will not take long, and you will hear it. Or do you not care about the chosen of Xus’s wishes?” His mouth moved a little – a smirk at being caught out or maybe a confirmation of what I suspected: Danfoth was no more a zealot than I was.
“Very well, Chosen,” he said and sat in Arnst’s chair before Arnst’s desk.
“Forven Aguirri was a member of the high king’s guard and an abuser of women,” I began. “This saw him thrown out of the guard in dishonour.” I waited but Danfoth said nothing. “Forven was a proud man and enjoyed the power that being high king’s guard gave him, so he sought power in other ways. He changed his name, joined the priesthood and trained to be a priest. But I suspect he lacked the discipline for it. Oh, he spoke well, but the learning was too much. And, when it came to it, he could not keep his cock in his pants. Then, one day the Nonmen raided his temple and among them he found others like himself.” I stared at Danfoth; he stared back. “Maybe they did not share all his appetites, but they shared something, a hunger fed by hedgings. Forven found his place among the Nonmen, and found that there were those who would follow a man with charisma and few morals. Then he fell out with the Nonmen. Maybe he met another like him, or maybe he picked a fight he could not win, but he was forced to leave. So he took his followers and used what he had learned in the temple and his words to start his own priesthood. And he ended up here, where he found himself on Rufra’s council. He probably could not believe his luck –” I took a step towards Danfoth, my hand on my blade hilt “– but he still could not control himself, could he?”
“A fine story you have invented,” said Danfoth.
“The story is mine, but I am sure the facts are Arnst’s,” I said.
“Do you think I was a Nonman?” Danfoth’s face remained expressionless.
“You were Arnst’s fixer, which made you someone, gave you power, which must be a good feeling for a Meredari, who most think are little more than thieves. But the higher Arnst rose in Rufra’s council, the more likely it became he would be found out – shamed, and you along with him.”
“Arnst’s death was foretold. It was necessary for the cult of the dead god to advance,” he said tonelessly.
“Did you help it advance?” I asked quietly.
He stared at me, and then he grinned. A moment later he burst out laughing.
“You are clever – so many pieces but not the right picture. I did not kill Arnst. It did not come to that,” he said. “Xus is kind to those who follow him.” Inwardly I cursed. As I was speaking it had occurred to me it could well have been Danfoth who had killed Arnst, though Danfoth could not know enough to be a spy so that would have seen only half my quest resolved.
“Do you believe a word of what you preach?”
He laughed again.
“Have you ever been to Ceadoc?” I shook my head. “I have. I was in the high king’s guard too. The high kings are mad, Girton Club-Foot, given over to lives of utter debauchery. They care nothing for the people, only for their own pleasure and for power. But they dance to the tune of their priests, because the return of the dead gods is all they have to fear. That is what I wish for, Girton Club-Foot. I will build up the children of Arnst, and I will become the piper of kings and dance them to my tune.”
“Those Arnst abused all vanished. Did you kill them to protect him?”
He looked at me as if weighing me up and then a smile spread across his face.
“I have looked through Arnst’s personal papers,” he said, smiling like we shared an unspoken secret, “and it is clear that on occasion he may have gone too far to protect his holy words.” I was sure he lied – that any women who had threatened Arnst had died by Danfoth’s hand – but I could not prove it, and I would not move against him without proof. I had learned that lesson at least. Then the Meredari added something that slotted another puzzle piece into place. He leaned forward. “If it was Darvin who put you on to this then tell him Arnst killed his daughter, if it may give him some peace, though I will deny it if asked by any other. You can also tell the priest that if he really loved her as much as he pretends he would have admitted she was his. And if he pushes me too far that fact will become common knowledge.”
And I knew which of the names Collis’s mother had given me I recognised and why. Fara. The woman Darvin had been searching for, saying she was his assistant. That she was his daughter changed things completely.
“I have to go,” I said. I pushed past Danfoth. And I ran.
The priest’s tents were not far from Arnst’s, and as I ran past them events were twisting in my mind. Things that had happened to which I had barely given a thought took on a new form. Words spoken took on a new meaning. First I went to the healers’ tents to find Tarris, who stooped over the corpse of a man whose stomach was bloated and gangrenous.
“Tarris,” I said. He turned to me, his porcelain facemask almost hidden by his grey hood.
“Ah, now your foreigner has left I see you come back to me for healing. Well, maybe I do not—”
“I am not here for healing.”
“Then why are you here? Do you chase ill luck?”
“Sometimes it feels that way,” I said, “but that is not why I am here. Darvin, tell me of him.”
“He is a good priest.”
“Despite his child?”
“Child?”
“Fara.”
“Ah,” he said, “now his mania for her makes sense.”
“Mania?”
“She tarried with Arnst’s people, and he was desperate to bring her back. That is why he stayed when most of the other priests left, I think.”
“But he did not acknowledge her?”
“Not to me.” The old healer sounded sad.
“He could have though, under Rufra’s new ways. And he would not have been forced to leave his calling.”
“No,” said Tarris, “but Darvin is a traditionalist at heart and—”
“It is a strange place for a traditionalist, Rufra’s camp.”
“Aye,” said Tarris. “I thought that too, but Darvin seemed to be coping well enough until …” He turned away as if realising he had said too much.
“Until his daughter was killed?”
“She was killed, then?” he said.
“Yes, but I cannot prove it.”
“Darvin said she had vanished,” said Tarris. “She believed in the new ways and he hoped to teach her the error of her ways. Privately, I thought he had driven her away and knew it, so guilt drove him to find her. But if she was his daughter …”
“‘The error of her ways’? He is not for Rufra’s new ways at all then? But I heard him saying …”
Old eyes peered out from behind the white mask. “I have said too much.” He turned away. “If you do not need healing, please leave.”
I did as he asked. What had been a suspicion was growing into a certainty as I made my way to the paddocks looking for Cearis or Boros. I found Cearis with her cavalry, saddling up their mounts and shining weapons for war.
“Cearis,” I said.
“Girton, are you ready to ride?”
“Not yet. I still have work to do.”
“Aye. Tomas is the only work that concerns me th
ough. We ride out within the hour to meet him in the field. This will all be finished within a couple of days and then Rufra will be the only king in Maniyadoc.” She swung herself up onto her mount. I took hold of the bridle.
“Cearis, tell me something of Gwyre.”
“You were there, Girton.” She looked pained at the thought of the place; we had all fought hard.
“Yes, but in a different part to you. When you fell back from the gate to protect the healers, did any of the Nonmen get past you?”
“Past us?”
“Into the buried chapel.”
“I cannot see how they could,” she said, “though you know what battle is like. Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” I said. Although I was now almost entirely sure of what had happened, I did not want to cast aspersions until there could be no doubt, no doubt at all. I had been blind, everything had been laid out before me and I had seen none of it.
I headed to Darvin’s tent.
The priest of Lessiah’s makeshift chapel was gloomy and almost empty apart from one acolyte refilling the lamps. There was no sign of Darvin, though his bed and small pack were still there at the back of the tent. I had not thought it odd that a priest should live in his chapel, but now I realised it was the habit of a fanatic. I started to go through his pack.
“What are you doing?” said the acolyte. “Those are the priest’s things …”
“Be quiet,” I said, drawing my blade and pointing it at him. He scuttled back to stand by the door, watching as I went through Darvin’s few belongings. I found only a change of clothes and a spare mask with a crack running across the centre of it. I sat back on my haunches staring around the tent, sure there must be something. Apart from the acolyte and the lectern holding the signing book it was almost empty.
I stared at the lectern, a wooden box as high as a man’s waist. Around the bottom was a very thin line of dead grass. It had been moved, and recently. I scrabbled over the muddy floor of the tent and pushed the lectern, hard, sending the signing book flying into the mud. The acolyte let out a screech of dismay and made a dive for the book, clutching it to him and shrieking abuse at me. I ignored him. Under the lectern was another book, much smaller. I picked it up and opened it at the first page. It was a diary of sorts, the diary and fears of a penitent. I started to read.