by Rj Barker
“So the assassin must have been in the room already,” I said.
“But he was not,” said Gonan. “The troops walked through it in full torchlight, as did I, and as you can see, nothing is hidden. There is nowhere to hide.”
“I will need to inspect the room,” I said. Gonan nodded. “And the guards that were with you that night, where are they?”
“In rooms in the Speartower,” he said. “As we can see no way this was achieved, we must wonder if they were somehow involved.”
“I would speak to them also.” Gonan nodded again.
“Can you see how this was done, Girton Club-Foot?” said Marrel ap Marrel, and there was something in his voice, the same note I have heard in men or women signing the gods’ books in hope of some miracle. But I could not give him one.
“No, not yet,” I said, “but I can promise you one thing.”
“What is that?” he said, suspicious.
“It was not sorcery,” I said, and I knew that without doubt as the Speartower was well within the souring. I could feel it gnawing at my spirit. “Which means the hand of a man or woman was involved, and I will find that hand for you, Marrel ap Marrel, even if I have to cut it off and bring it to you.”
He nodded, seemingly satisfied at that—though I knew what I had said was rash. For the life of me, I could not work out how Berisa Marrel had been killed in this room without the assassin being seen.
Marrel looked around the room once more and then left us, and with him he took Gonan, leaving four guards and instructions to ask them when we wanted to interview those who had accompanied Berisa on the night of her murder.
“Look, Girton,” said my master. She pointed at the floor to show me a small round hole. I knelt by it, smelled it. It had the rank odour of water that had stood undisturbed for far too long.
“A drain,” I said. “This was not an oratory, it was a bathhouse.” I remembered the massive bathhouse Gamelon had shown me, the builders of Ceadoc had clearly liked to keep clean. “I am not sure how it helps us,” I said.
“All information is helpful, is it not?” said my master, and she started to climb the steps. I followed, and though we spent an hour going around the walls searching for secret passages, we found nothing.
Next we were taken up the Speartower, which was an eccentric building constructed around a spiral staircase with rooms going off to each side. No room shared a floor with any other—each was slightly higher or lower than the last—and when we went into the room we were to use to question the guards it was an odd shape, ceilings and floors sloping strangely.
“You know, Girton,” said my master, “if I wanted to put someone on edge I cannot think of a better way to do it than to place them in this tower.”
“Aye, it is twisted like Dark Ungar built it. Gamelon’s doing, no doubt, but why?”
“I think he delights in others’ discomfort. I have seen his type before.”
“Do you think he also tries to influence the succession?”
“Undoubtedly,” she said.
“For whom?”
“Maybe he acts in a way that will allow him to say he helps whoever wins.”
“Killing Berisa Marrel is hardly that, Master.”
“Aye, but he delights in the menageries. Who really knows how such a mind works?”
“This place gets worse by the minute, Master.”
Once we were settled, my master asked for paper and charcoal and sketched out a picture of the circle room. As we talked to each guard, we marked where they had been standing to get a clear picture of the night. What they said was of little help. The only curious things were the guards who were on the top level mentioned feeling light-headed before the torch went out; my master looked over at me the first time this was mentioned, as if it were the key to something. But I did not see the lock it fitted.
The only time I thought we were coming close to something was with the second-to-last guard, a small woman called Missel, with a scar down her face. She was so nervous she may as well have danced around telling us she knew something. After speaking to her for ten minutes my master leaned over to me.
“Scare her,” she whispered. I leant forward.
“Have you heard of Arketh, Missel?” She nodded. “And have you seen the menageries?”
She shook her head.
“Heard of ’em though. ’Tis a place of horrors for honest folk.”
“Marrel is desperate to find who killed his wife, and I have promised him I will find them. You know what I am, right?”
“Assassin,” she said.
“And you know assassins are not like other men or women?” She nodded. “Well, I can hear the words of Xus the unseen.” I leaned forward so my skull-painted face filled her vision and my quiet voice would carry to her. “He whispers in my ear and he tells me that you lie.” She leant back, her eyes widening. She started to shake her head, opened her mouth to voice a denial. “Since Darsese died, Missel,” I said, “no creature has survived the journey to the menagerie, though I understand Arketh tries her hardest to make the route to Xus an unpleasant path to tread. Your master will have no mercy if I tell him you lie, Missel. He will give you to Arketh and if you are lucky you will end your days as a monster for others’ amusement.”
“No,” she said, “please. Queen Berisa said it would be all right.” I sat back in my chair, using Arketh and the monstrosities of the menagerie to get information made me feel like I needed to wash. But it had worked.
“Told you what would be all right?”
“There were another key,” she said. “I had it made for her.”
“And who had it?”
“Berisa.”
“Why?”
“Said she wanted a baby, said there were a wise woman in the town and she wanted to visit her. Didn’t want Marrel to know, said his seed were weak and—”
“Did Berisa keep the key with her?”
Missel nodded.
“But it weren’t on her body.” She stared at the ground. “It is my fault she died. She were good, were Berisa, I deserve Arketh’s touch for what I did.”
My master leant forward.
“You tried to help her, that is all. Do not blame yourself. Tell no one of the key,” she said, “and if we can we will not mention it either.” The woman nodded.
“One other thing, Missel,” I said. She turned back to me, but she would plainly rather have spoken to my master. “The name of the wise woman.”
“Dokar. She lived near where the goatherds chose to drink.”
“Thank you,” said my master. And she sent the woman away. “Well, Girton, I think we know how the trick with the torches was done.”
“We do?”
“Of course, come on, it’s not hard. Access to water, a hiss, light-headed guards and the flames go out?”
“A chokebomb,” I said. She nodded.
“Aye, the assassin uses the key. Knowing Marrel and Berisa always go down and up the steps. She balances the bomb on the edge of the drain, it need only be small as no one would be looking for something like that, they would probably not even recognise it.”
“It must have been what Berisa tripped over, she kicked the bomb into the drain. The hiss was it dissolving in the water below and releasing the choke gas. The choke gas rises, kills off the flames and makes the guards light-headed.” My master nodded. “But why not just knock them all out?”
“A bigger bomb would be needed and that may be noticed.”
“Well, that is good to know, Master, but I still cannot work out how the killer got past the guards at the door without being seen, and then got out again.”
From the look on my master’s face, neither could she.
Chapter 18
I left my master to return to the Low Tower and slipped away into Ceadoc town. I’d had enough of Ceadoc Castle and wanted to escape it. Finding the wise woman that Missel had mentioned was as good a reason as any to get away. I was also curious about those in the city who cla
imed Darsese still lived, I could see no reason why anyone in the town would care for the high king: he had certainly cared nothing for them.
The heat of the day clung to the city, making the air still and soupy with stink. Sound carried through the muddy streets in the night—the sound of couples making love in shacks far away, or it could have been the dying moaning their last in the dark alleys between buildings. It was hard to tell.
I became a ghost, slipping from shadow to shadow, making use of my skills so they did not become rusted and cracked with disuse. There were people about, as always in towns, no matter the time: refuse pickers, thieves and pleasure sellers walked through the darkness. I avoided streets that were well lit, though there were few of them. It was good to employ my skills. It felt like sloughing off the weight of the castle and the mysteries it held.
I followed a corpsers’ cart. The two corpsers, a woman and a young man, were dressed in long black robes as they led a limping dray mount through the streets. In the poorest areas the ritual of death was different, instead of leaving gifts for Xus that the priests would take along with the corpse, they simply marked a white X on the door. The corpsers would come and take away the body, leaving a small amount of coin in return. Though their work was necessary the corpsers were shunned: corpser families lived apart and arranged marriages between themselves. It was rare for most to see them and the cart existed in a bubble of silence, none wished to witness death at work and avoided it where possible. The corpsers did not speak as they went from house to house, looking for their marks. I had imagined they would be coarse and full of jokes, but they were not and they handled each corpse as if it were a loved one of their own. Only when they handled the dead did I hear their voices: “Easy there.” “Watch ’er arm.” “Lay ’em gentle now.” I found a strange solace in these two tender figures. This was the work of the god I knew: quiet, gentle and remorseful.
As I watched, several figures came out of the shadows, all dressed in black rags and led by a tall man.
“Elsire,” said the man in the corpser’s robes, tapping his partner on the shoulder and pointing down the street, “they’ve come.” The other turned, then took something from the cart, a club.
“Well, Padris, we knew they would.” Her words were a sigh. I watched from the shadows, curious.
One of the ragged figures came forward to speak to the corpsers.
“Youse were warned,” he said. In his hand something sharp glinted.
“It ain’t for anyone to interfere in this,” said Elsire, her voice soft. “This is the god’s work.”
“Our god,” said the ragged newcomer.
“Xus comes to all, Gargit,” said Padris.
“There’s a charge to take bodies in Ceadoc now.”
“Never been the way for the poorest,” said Elsire. “Won’t be now.”
“Youse were warned,” said the ragged man, Gargit, again and he stepped forward. He had about ten others with him. “The Children of Arnst have domain over death in Ceadoc, and soon the Tired Lands over.”
“This is our lives, and our families’ lives before us,” said Padris.
“You could have had new lives, somewhere else,” said the ragged man. “Somewhere you would not be outcasts. Now you will end up riding your own cart.”
“If Xus calls,” said the other corpser, Elsire, quietly, “we will answer.”
“And now you blaspheme,” said the ragged man. He sounded pleased with himself and raised his voice. “They blaspheme. Using our own words against us.” His little group raised makeshift weapons, scythes and hoes.
It disgusted me: the needlessness of it, the greed of it. People scraping a living and being forced to fight among themselves. The casual cruelty of the Children of Arnst, a casual cruelty that I and Rufra had helped give life to. I wanted it to end.
“Stop,” I said, appearing from the shadows, and the shock of what I was, a walking representation of death, caused the Children of Arnst to halt.
“A jester,” said Gargit. “Why are you here, Jester?” I walked past the corpsers, the knife in my left hand spinning.
“Your leader, Danfoth, does not call me Jester. He calls me the Chosen of Xus,” I said. “I am Girton Club-Foot. I am death walking and those behind me,” I pointed with my knife, “do the bidding of my god.”
Gargit stared at me. “I have heard of you, a man given a great honour, right enough.” He turned to his people, a smile on his thin face. “And yet he denies it. He refuses to join with us.” His hand slid into his robe and beneath his rags I saw the glint of armour and the hilt of a sword. “Maybe he is not so chosen after all, eh?” His people laughed and I wondered at how I had missed what he was. I should have seen it from the way he moved, Gargit was clearly a warrior, not some poor citizen of Ceadoc.
“If I am not worthy, maybe you should try and take my title,” I said. “But if you cannot, these people,” I pointed at the corpsers, “will be left alone.” Gargit stepped forward. Now there was the prospect of a fight his whole attitude had changed.
“Tarst, Benil,” he said, “circle round ‘the Chosen.’” Two more broke from the pack. Both had longswords and the elastic walk of the well-trained fighter. White-blond hair had escaped from below the hood of the man Gargit called Tarst.
“You are Meredari?” I said. The blade spun in my hand: turn and turn and turn.
“We are all the children of Xus,” said Gargit. He dropped into a crouch and his two fellows did the same. The rest backed off. “We are all Chosen.” He grinned at me and I nodded back.
“Let’s find out if that’s true then, eh?” I said.
We circled. I had never fought Meredari but knew that, like a lot of the tribes, they favoured one-on-one fights rather than banding together to rush an opponent, something which suited me fine.
Tarst came in first, with a roar. He must have been the least experienced as the others stood off, watching me. Fourth iteration: the Surprised Suitor. Jump back from the downswing of his sword. It thuds into the mud where I had been and he looks surprised, shocked, that I am no longer there. He has time to look up, see me. I am on him. Smashing down my foot on the side of his rusted sword, breaking it in half. He stumbles forward, suddenly denied the weight he is so used to, and my Conwy blade slides into his throat. With a flick I pull the blade out to the side, spraying a crescent of blood over the mud of Ceadoc.
As Tarst fell to his knees, clutching his throat and choking out his last, I returned to the position of readiness midway between Gargit and Benil.
“He is not the Chosen,” I said.
Gargit watched me and nodded.
“And you are like no jester I have ever seen.” I brought my hands up, framing my face, using my blades to mimic the gesture of surprise.
“You noticed?”
They came at me quickly, Gargit high, Benil low and angling for behind me so I could not use the same move I had used to avoid Tarst’s sword.
Fortunately, I have many moves.
Sixth iteration: a Meeting of Hands. I catch Gargit’s sword as it comes down. Benil’s blade is coming round to cut at my legs and I jump, breaking the meeting, left sword beating Gargit’s blade away. With my right I punch Gargit in the face with the hilt of my Conwy blade, sending him reeling backwards. I land behind Benil’s sword after it cuts through the air where I had been and curse silently. If I had landed on his sword the move would have been perfect—I have not named it yet. Benil staggers, still surprised that I was not where he expected me to be. He is all fury and little skill. I cut back with my Conwy blade across his face and he drops his sword, hands coming up to where I have opened his face. I extend my reach. Legs apart, arms outstretched, and the tip of my blade cuts into his throat, finding the artery. Move. Blood. Death.
Gargit stands as his fellow falls face first in the mud.
I return to the position of readiness.
“He is not the Chosen either,” I said, as Gargit stared at the second of his men to die. “Do
you still think you are?” He comes at me with a scream of rage, mouth open, the saliva between his teeth twisting as the air from his lungs hits it. He holds his blade at hip height, double-handed for a gutting thrust. He comes on, and he is already dead, he simply refuses to admit it. As he thrusts. I sidestep, refusing him the beauty of the iterations, and his rage takes him past me. I lash out with a fist, the basket on the hilt of my left stabsword hits him in the temple and he stumbles, runs into the side of a house, his steps giddy and drunken.
I am angry—angry with the whole of Ceadoc and its casual cruelties. It is a cold anger.
“Get up,” I said. He held up a hand. His sword shone between us where he had dropped it and I picked it up and threw it over so it landed by his feet. “Get up,” I said again and he did: struggling, groggy, in no state to fight me. I turned my back on him and addressed the rest of the children. “If Xus has chosen him,” pointing my blade at them, “or any of you, then you cannot lose.”
He comes at me when I turn my back on him, as I knew he would. Feet pumping in the mud and I spin to meet him.
He slashes at me. I deflect the cut with my right blade and slice the fingers from his hand with my left. His blade falls. He falls. Crashing into the floor and tumbling, once, twice. Then lying still, wrapped around the pain of his hand, moaning.
“Get up.” He did not do so and I said it again, louder. “Get up!” Nothing. The more I shouted, the more people gathered to watch. Where they came from, these sad and ragged people, I did not know. They had not been there a moment ago and they seemed unreal. “Prove yourself as Chosen by Xus, if that is what you say you are!” I was screaming the words. “Get up!”
He pulled himself up, but did not pick up his blade. He backed away, keeping his gaze on me, one hand wrapped around where I had severed his fingers, dark blood flowing down his arm. Then he turned and ran. I took two steps, a throwing knife sliding into my hand, and as I let the small blade loose I shouted after him, “None can escape Xus!” And he fell. Dead the moment the steel cut into the back of his neck.
