by Rj Barker
“I need to talk to you about Marrel,” I said.
“Well, it seems we are in agreement there.”
“His apprentice Heartblade is dead.” Rufra stared at me, then put his head in his hands.
“What have you done, Girton?”
“Me?” It hurt, that he leapt to such a conclusion. “I have done nothing. My presence was requested by the Festival Lords. Bilnan either saw me in Ceadoc town or followed me. We spoke outside the walls and an archer killed him.” He raised his head, eyes shining.
“The same person who attacked Voniss?”
“I think so. On the arrow was a message to me, a challenge.”
“Dead gods!” He snatched the cushion offered by Gusteffa and threw it across the room. “Bring Marrel through, Gusteffa,” he said. “You will have to tell him, Girton. Answer whatever questions he has.” He looked away from me, tapping his lip with his finger until Marrel appeared, flanked by the old Heartblade, Gonan.
“The jester dwarf said you wished to talk to me again, Rufra,” said Marrel.
“Aye. I am afraid Girton has some poor news for you. I wish it could be delivered at some other time but it is best you know now. I would not have it appear that I kept anything from you. Not after our talk.”
Marrel’s bushy eyebrows almost touched and his dark eyes darted from Rufra to me.
“Does this concern my children?”
“No,” I said.
He nodded. “Then I will bear the news, whatever it may be.”
“It is about your Heartblade, Bilnan. He is dead.” Shock, both on Marrel’s face and Gonan’s.
“How?” said the old Heartblade. “He didn’t challenge you, surely? The boy worshipped you.”
“No, he came to speak with me. An archer killed him.”
“Why kill Bilnan?” said Marrel, creases of concern lined his face. “He was a good lad, and on his way to becoming a good Heartblade.”
“The arrow was meant for me,” I said.
“He sacrificed himself to save you,” said Gonan, and as he said it I realised both these men had held the boy in great affection. Behind them I saw Rufra give me a nod.
“Yes,” I said, “he did.”
“Then he can be proud in death, eh, Gonan?” said Marrel, “there is that at least.” He turned from me to Rufra. “Forgive me, King Rufra. I must tell Berisa. She will be heartbroken. She doted on the boy as she has no children of her own.”
“I understand,” said Rufra. “I need to speak with Girton and then I will come out and stand with you.” Marrel gave him a nod and left the room. Gusteffa watched him walk away, then shrugged, screwing up her face and miming tears. “He took that well,” said Rufra. “He is a good man.”
“And your opponent. Barin will give him his vote, you know, by recognising him you may have evened the field.”
Rufra moved in his chair, letting out a little grunt.
“Aye, someone was clever there, but it was not Marrel’s doing and he would need more than one vote. Besides, he and I have been cleverer than whoever is behind Barin.”
“You have?”
“Aye, Marrel is not a reformer, not like I am, but he is worried by the growth in power of the Landsmen and the Children of Arnst. He also distrusts Gamelon and his lackeys.” Rufra looked like he tasted something bad. “The purpose of this feast was for him to talk to me. He has proposed a dual high kingship. Both of us ruling no matter who wins. Together with the blessed who support us we should be able to curtail the power of the white tree. Fureth continues to overstep the mark and it has not made him popular.”
“And what of the Children of Arnst?”
He sat back in his chair and sighed.
“Never have there been odder bedfellows than the Landsmen and the Children of Arnst. But yes, we will curtail them too. I cannot help wondering if all my troubles started there, you know, Girton. If by allowing a man as vile as Arnst to create a religion I insulted the dead gods and brought misfortune on myself.”
“I did not think you believed in the dead gods, Rufra.” He stared at the floor.
“Three children, a wife and so many friends dead. What other explanation can there be but a curse?”
Two jesters.
“Ill luck.”
“It is more than ill luck, it is as if some force works against me.”
“The Tired Lands are hard, Rufra, that is the simple truth of it.”
He looked up at me, his eyes brimming with something long held inside and the room seemed to warm, not in the oppressive, dry way that this yearslife was bringing us, but in a familiar way as Rufra let down his guard. Our old friendship felt within reach for the first time in years.
“Aye,” he said quietly, “the Tired Lands are hard.” Rufra tapped his hand on the arm of his chair, thinking.
“Do you suspect anyone in Bilnan’s death?” said Rufra.
“I watched everyone come in, Rufra, and the merchant …”
“Leckan ap Syridd,” he said.
“Aye, his Heartblade is a real assassin. Unlike any of the others.”
“You must speak to her then.”
I nodded.
“I have been trying to.”
“Do you think she killed Bilnan, attacked Voniss? Leckan has no love for me.”
“Truthfully, it seems unlikely to me he would parade his assassin so obviously if he intended to use her. But you are right, I must speak to her.”
“They are still here,” croaked Gusteffa, “feasting on the king’s meat.”
Rufra nodded, staring at the floor.
“Did you believe any of that show out there, Rufra, that Barin has changed?”
He shook his head.
“I once held in my own hands the skin of a Rider I knew well—liked—skin that Barin cut from him while he lived. Such men do not change, Girton, we both know that. They may become cleverer, and better at hiding what they are, but they do not change.” I nodded. “Which brings me to Boros.”
“I can get him out of the dungeon.”
Rufra let out a short laugh and tugged on his beard, grinning at me, but it was not a full smile. Some element was missing, some worry hid within him and it would not allow him to be truly amused.
“I do not doubt for a second you could get him out, Girton. But you must not.”
“They will burn him,” I said.
“If you get him out, what do you think he will do? Leave? Run from here never to be seen again?” He stared at me and I avoided his gaze. “Of course he will not. He will go after his brother and no force in the world short of Xus the unseen can stop that.”
“Maybe that would be for the best, he has had his tongue ripped out, Rufra. Imagine what that does to him? He already mourns the loss of his looks, all he had left was his wit. Barin has stolen everything from him. We could assist, clear the way and then get Boros out of Ceadoc once the deed is done. I could make it look plausible.”
“No,” he said. “No matter how plausible it looked people would still know what really happened. Marrel is a stickler for the rule of law, if he even suspected I was involved in such a thing any hope of an alliance would be gone.”
“So what hope is there then?”
“None, Girton.” He looked up and I saw a hollow man—one cored by the experience of being king—but it was gone almost before I recognised it. He raised the facade of a ruler again, as strong as any keep curtain wall. I felt our friendship slipping away into dark waters.
“There is no hope for Boros. You are his friend, Girton. Go to him. Speak to him. Tell him to forgive his brother because the most he can hope for here is an easy passing.”
Of course, I was the last person Boros would listen to. He considered me almost as much of a monster as Barin.
“He will never forgive Barin. Never. And you know it.”
Rufra sat back in his throne. “Then maybe you have something that can …” He let the words trail off.
“Can what?” He did not speak, only l
ooked at the floor. I raised my voice. “Can what?”
“Ease his passing.” The words rushed out of his mouth as he leant forward on his throne.
“You would have me murder him?” I said.
“It is not as if murder is difficult for you,” he spat, standing. And I had no words, no answer to the scorn in his voice. Rufra looked shocked at what he had said. He slowly lowered himself back into his throne. “Girton, I—”
“Have said enough,” I replied, turning away from him and walking out. As I left I heard him shouting.
“You have not seen this place, Girton, not as I have. Compared to what Castle Ceadoc holds, even a fool’s throne is preferable—”
And then Rufra’s voice was lost in the hubbub of the feasters as I let the curtain fall behind me. Aydor tried to talk to me and I brushed past, ignoring him. I could hear Berisa Marrel crying and someone called my name, but I had no interest in what they had to say.
The Festival Lords were right, I should not be here. Rufra was not a man worth serving any more, let him have his high kingship—with Marrel or whoever else may be convenient in the search for power. Let events take their course without me. I ran from the Low Tower and out into the night, down to the stable block and I found Xus. The great mount whickered at me, letting out a low growl and then, when I threw my arms around his neck, he pushed his heavy body against me. I did not speak, had no words. The weight of disappointment was too great and I took what comfort I could from his warm fur and the homely smell of him. If it had not meant leaving my master I would have saddled him there and then and ridden away.
She found me, later, much later, though men and women still feasted and drank their laughter sounded alien and wrong. I sat with Xus as he slept in his stall, resting his huge antlers against the front of it. He had become quite lazy as he aged, though he was no less fierce.
“Girton,” said my master, stepping carefully around his back legs lest he kick out in a dream. “The guests are leaving now.”
“We should leave here, Master.”
“And where will we go?” She lowered herself down, hissing in pain.
“Anywhere. I am done with Rufra.” She shrugged. “He called me a murderer.”
“Most would.”
“He wants me to kill Boros, to take him poison.”
“Sometimes the embrace of Xus is the kindest one, Girton.” She sounded sad, probably because she knew she was right and here in the dark I sounded, even to myself, like a petulant child.
“I could free him.”
“And there would be repercussions if you did.”
“He is my friend.”
“Was your friend …”
“I owe him.”
“And what, his one life is worth the hundreds who will die if Rufra cannot make some sort of alliance here?”
“But Boros …”
“I thought you had promised revenge on whoever killed Feorwic?”
I had no answer. No good reply, no way out of the maze of responsibility and politics. She wrapped an arm around my head and held me to her. “You are too hard on yourself, my boy. And on others. Sometimes there is no easy way, sometimes there are only hard choices and none of them are good.”
I was about to reply but we were interrupted by the tramp of boots and the shouting of soldiers. I heard a voice, a man’s voice, screaming Rufra’s name in fury.
“That sounds like Marrel ap Marrel, Girton.”
“It sounds like nothing good,” I said.
Chapter 14
We left the stables to find Marrel ap Marrel at the head of a hundred of his guards. He was shouting up at the Low Tower, his voice hoarse with fury.
“Where is he? Ap Vthyr! Come down here! Where is he?”
Behind him his troops were lined up, serious expressions, men and women ready for battle. Many of Marrel’s soldiers wore visors carved into smiling faces and there was an incongruity to it, the anger on the faces of those unmasked against the false joy of those cast in metal. Marrel’s sons were with him, their expressions stunned as if they had recently been witness to something terrible.
I leaned in close to my master.
“Who do you think he speaks of?”
“I do not know, Girton, but look at him, he seems in a sore state.” She was right, tears streaked Marrel’s face and as he gestured with his blade at the castle his arm shook with emotion. The front of his tunic was covered in blood.
“Come out, coward! Come and do your own foul work for once! Come face the consequences of a name writ on the wall!” Something within me went cold at that phrase. He could only be referring to one thing: “a name writ on the wall” was a common way of referring to an assassination. Out of the Low Tower came Rufra’s guard, resplendent in black and red. They looked like they had been fully dressed and ready, though they cannot have been and maybe, if Rufra had thought this situation through, he should have made them look a little less prepared. Behind them spilled out the last of the revellers. In among them I saw Leckan ap Syridd’s assassin as she moved to the back of the crowd.
“What is this, Marrel?” said Rufra as he passed between his troops, limping forward with his hand on his side. “Why have you brought troops to my compound?”
“You know.” Marrel took a step forward, his sword held out. Aydor and Celot broke from the gathered ranks to stand beside Rufra, Celot with his blade ready and the same blank look on his face he always wore, Aydor holding a shield and looking utterly confused. “You know!” shouted Marrel again and this time I thought him about to break down. “Where is he? Your pet assassin? Bring him out to face justice!” I saw surprise register on Rufra’s face.
“Girton? What do you think he has done?”
“Your work,” said Marrel, and now he sounded dangerous, anger transmuting into aggression, “as all know he does. And it will not work, ap Vthyr. I will not leave, and I will not give up on becoming high king. All you have done is strengthen my resolve. But first,” he spat on the floor, “I intend to put you out of the running.” He pulled down his visor and retreated into the mass of his troops. Rufra stood, bemused, one hand still held out as if to offer friendship, his mouth moving as words were stillborn on his lips. Marrel’s troops shouted, “Hut!” and shields locked together, a wall of painted castles that sprouted spears. Rufra was almost dragged back behind his lines by Aydor and Celot. His own troops brought up their shields: an answering line of black and red with golden flying lizards and bristling spears.
“What is happening, Master?” I said.
“Events are spiralling out of control, Girton,” she replied, “and they are blaming you for it.” She grabbed my arm and pulled me back into the stables. We were in a no-man’s-land between the two shield walls. “Hide here, Girton.”
“But Rufra will need me.”
“Think.” She tapped the side of my head hard enough to hurt. “Whatever has happened, Marrel blames you. Now there are two armies posturing at each other and working themselves up to fight. Look up.” I glanced up. The high king’s guard on the walls were bringing up archers and pointing down at us. “It will not be long before the highguard get here and put a stop to this, but if you are seen?”
“Marrel looks angry enough to charge the stables for me. He may get to me too.”
“Even if he doesn’t, Rufra will not allow him to try.”
“So I cower here,” I said.
“Or start a fight that weakens the two strongest blessed in Ceadoc Castle.”
“You think that is the point of whatever is happening?” Another shout of “Hut!” from Marrel’s troops.
“Aye, that or someone wishes to break up any alliance.”
A sound like the screaming of wounded mounts echoed through the courtyard and shock ran through me—a superstitious fear that some new horror was upon us, that I heard the scream of Dark Ungar come to take his price from me. Then I realised my own foolishness as silver-clad highguard flooded the area between the two lines of troops. What I
had heard was the portcullis going up. The captain who had brought us here, Hurdyn, stepped forward as his men set up in four lines between Rufra and Marrel, lances facing out. Then they neatly stepped forward, allowing twenty heavy cavalry to come in between them, mounts gilded and armoured for war.
“Marrel ap Marrel,” said Hurdyn, “what goes on here? Why have you broken the truce of Ceadoc?”
“It is not I,” said Marrel, “but the usurper king Rufra ap Vthyr who has broken the truce. He sent his filthy assassin to kill my wife.” His voice cracked and he seemed to stumble, being caught by his son. “My Berisa is dead.”
“Now, Master,” I said. “Now I must show my face.”
She nodded and I walked out of the stable.
“I did not kill your wife, Marrel ap Marrel.”
“I saw you!” he screamed, “as did my men and my sons and Gonan. We saw you do it!”
“It was not I,” I said.
“You expect me to believe you? First you kill Bilnan, to make the job easier, and then you kill …” He could not say her name. Tears flooded him.
“Girton did not do this, Marrel.” Rufra limped out from his men again. “On my word as a king.” He glanced toward me. It was a fierce look and it felt like he did not trust me at all. “I tell you Girton did not do this.”
“I saw him,” said Marrel again, forcing out each word.
“Could it have been someone wearing Death’s Jester’s motley, King Marrel?” I said. “Anyone can put on make-up.”
“Aye, they can,” said Marrel, “but none fight like you, Girton Club-Foot. None move as quickly as you do. And this killer was in and out so fast we barely had time to react.”
“There is another assassin here,” said Rufra.
Leckan ap Syridd stepped forward.
“Tinia Speaks-Not, my Heartblade, has not left my side,” he said.
“I do not mean her, Leckan,” said Rufra, “and I vouch for her presence also. There is the assassin who tried to kill my own wife, Voniss.”
“But she survived,” said Marrel, “how fortunate.”
