by Rj Barker
She stepped away, broke the contact and gave me a small smile.
I nodded, and I was glad we had shared this moment. I did not want to fight her. But if she had been involved with the attack on Voniss then that would mean she had been involved in Feorwic’s death and I had sworn to Xus that whoever was involved in her death would feel my blade.
Now I could cross off another suspect.
Chapter 21
That evening my master and I walked to meet with Aydor, near the entrance to the dungeons.
“And you are sure she was not responsible, this Tinia Speaks-Not?”
“As sure as I can be, Master. She showed me …”
“Ah,” she said. “I have heard of such things but never experienced it. What of Leckan ap Syridd, you think he plans something?”
“No. He is stupid and cruel and spoilt but not clever. He would probably get on with Prince Vinwulf.”
“The king-in-waiting is not stupid, Girton.” We passed through a door and into a dimly lit tunnel. I coughed on smoke from the torches. “Do not make that mistake, or think that he does not see your dislike of him.”
“He has said something?”
“No, but I spend a lot of time watching. Everything about him alters when you approach. He is not yet decided between his desire to impress you and his desire to best you. But one day the two desires will become one, do not doubt it.”
“You are jolly today, Master.”
“It is Ceadoc, it brings out my humorous side.” She looked miserable. “Rufra hides something also.”
“Rufra has been hiding things from me for years now.” She held up a hand, quieting me as we approached the door at the end of the tunnel and we stood in silence.
One, my master.
Two, my master.
Three, my master.
“Ah, it is nothing,” she said. “I think my ears were playing tricks on me.” She opened the door on to another gloomy tunnel. “What Rufra hides now is different. It tortures him. I think it may be to do with why he brought us here, because it is not power he desires.”
“No. I think it is the menageries that brought him. He cannot stand cruelty.”
“He cannot, you are right, but he has come to accept it as the price of keeping the peace with the blessed around him.” She rolled her shoulders, glanced around the dim corridor and coughed on the smoke from a guttering torch. “Has he told you it is the menageries?”
“Not in as many words but—”
“It is not. I am sure of it. But now we are at talk of cruelty, it brings us to tonight’s high jinks. Are you sure of what you intend here?”
“Yes.”
“You know, if you succeed, Rufra will think you have failed.”
“He thinks that of me anyway. One more failure will change nothing.”
“You are too hard on him, Girton.”
“And he on me. I …” I was about to carry on. In fact I had it in mind to get into a little rant about Rufra, when I was stopped by the stink of alcohol so strong that it made me choke and I fancied my head spun a little. Aydor stepped around a corner, holding a torch. The smell came from him.
“You two took your time,” he said.
“Dead gods, Aydor.” I covered my mouth and nose with my arm, “put the flame down before you go up with it. You smell like the inside of a barrel.” He grinned at me.
“All the stink, none of the fun,” he said.
“You intend to play the drunk?” said my master, a smile creeping across her face.
“Well, it’s always worked for me before. Why fix what isn’t broken?” A smile shaded my master’s face at his words.
“This is how you intend to get Barin’s guards out of there?”
“Aye, guile,” he said. “Guile and …”
“Stealth?” I said. He grinned at me.
“Something like that. You wait here. Let the master go to work.”
“How will we know when to move?”
“Oh,” grinned Aydor, “you’ll know.” He shambled off toward the dungeon, and when he approached the spiral stair leading down he started singing a lament for the dead, slurring his words and weeping as he sang. Occasionally he would call out Boros’s name and reel off some of his deeds in battle which, if not invented, were definitely exaggerated. Then I heard a crash and clang of armour as he fell down the last few stairs.
“I hope his plan was not to sing them to sleep,” said my master. She moved toward the stair, beckoning me forward. I loosened my blades in their sheaths in case Aydor got into trouble. I would not lose two friends today, no matter the cost to Rufra’s ambitions. At the top of the stairs I could hear the voices below us.
“I am here to guard!”—Aydor.
“Dead gods, you stink. You can barely walk never mind guard.”
“You dare to insult me? I am Aydor. I am the Bear of … of … A place! I am Aydor the place bear!”
“You are drunk, Aydor the place bear.”
“I am assaulted further by your words,” slurred Aydor. “I shall duel you, and win the freedom of Boros.”
“You will need weapons to duel,” sneered a voice. I heard the crack of a fist against flesh. Then all became chaos, shouting and crashing, and I began to draw my stabswords but my master put her hand on my arm.
“Wait.”
“Don’t kill him!” was shouted.
“What then? He’s knocked Captain Imalan out cold.”
“Yellowers!” Aydor screaming. “I’ll chew out your tongues! See how you like it!”
“Get the highguard. There’s some on the next floor. Saleh!” He shouted for the gaoler but there was no reply. “Dead gods, where’s that sack of piss? Saleh!”
“You can’t hold me, I am Aydor the bearplace! Dark Ungar eat your eyes!”
“Sit on him. Hold him down. We’ll have to take him out.”
“We’re not meant to leave.”
“Won’t take us long.”
“I’ll whore your brothers and your sisters,” shouted Aydor. “Whore them to the pigs!”
“Shut yer face.” I heard Aydor yelp at the same time I heard the meaty thump of a kick being delivered.
“Let’s take him to the highguard,” said the other of Barin’s guard. “We can make sure he falls over a few times on the way.”
“Aye.” Laughter, and then we backed away from the stair as two men brought out a struggling—but not struggling too hard—Aydor. As soon as they were gone my master said, “Now,” and we moved. Her crutches and damaged leg barely slowed her as we made our way down into the dungeon. There we found chaos. It was easy to forget how much damage Aydor could cause if he wished to: tables and braziers were overturned and a guard captain lay in a heap, eyes closed and blood pumping out of a broken nose.
“We must be quick, Master.” She nodded and darted forward to the door which barred Boros’s cell. Then she worked the lock, what would have taken me long minutes took her seconds and the lock clicked open. I pulled the door open and slid into the cell, turning to look through the small window. “Lock it again, Master.” She nodded and I heard the familiar scratching sounds of a lock being worked. Then her face appeared at the viewing window. “You are sure about this, Girton?”
“As sure as I can be.”
“What if it doesn’t work?”
“That will be unfortunate. Go, Master, do not get caught down here.” She nodded and her face vanished as she pushed the viewing slat into place.
Boros was in the corner of his cell, chained and curled up on himself, a thing of utter misery. His once beautiful hair was caked in blood and filth, and his chains were so short he was forced to sit in his own waste. He did not look at me, or even show any indication he was aware I was there. As I approached I could smell the overripe, sickly sweet smell of corrupting flesh. There was nothing obviously rotting about him, though it was hard to tell because of the dirt. I tried not to think about it being the root of his tongue that was dying, of the horror of your own tong
ue rotting away in your mouth—not only the pain but being unable to escape the smell of the slow dissolution of your own flesh. Could he still taste without a tongue? I hoped not.
Rufra may have been right: death may be a blessing for Boros, Xus’s touch was never so obviously needed. But that was not why I was here. I had other reasons, other plans. I crouched by him, touching him gently. He did not move, so I cupped his jaw, as softly as I could, and made him look at me. There was a madness in his eyes—the madness of the hunted animal, in pain, unable to escape the baying of the hounds and knowing Xus could not be avoided for ever.
“It is me, Boros. It is Girton.” Something shone for a second in his clouded eyes and he tried to move, to raise a hand, I think, to stop me touching him but he lacked the strength. “I know what you think of me, Boros, and I will not say you are wrong. But I can give you the revenge you seek on your brother. Do you remember us speaking of it?” His eyes narrowed. “I will not force this on you. I know your hate of magic and if it is your wish I can end the pain now. I can bring you the touch of Xus and you will no longer hurt, you will no longer worry and maybe one day you will greet me as a friend when I enter Xus’s dark palace myself.” Which would probably not be long after he was found dead, as I would have no way out. “Blink once if you understand me.”
He blinked, slowly, his eyes full of pain.
“Very well. I can give you revenge on your brother and I can give you your face back, but it will involve magic. Blink twice for this. Or if you would have your suffering end now, blink once if that is what you wish.” I wanted there to be no doubt in his decision.
He blinked. Eyelashes crusted with yellow filth came together over eyes that were dry and shot through with the red pathways of veins. I watched, waiting as he breathed.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
No second blink. So, there it was, his loathing of magic, of me, was stronger than the hate for his brother which had powered him through life.
“Very well,” I said, “I have nightsmilk with me.” I reached into my pouch. “In a strong dose it is a painless death, a pleasant one even, or so I have been told. It is just to drift away and all your cares will be gone. I will help you drink it.” I reached into the pouch. He moved his head, more a slack rolling of it on his shoulders and watched the nightsmilk jar come out of my pouch. Watched me unstopper it and all the time there was some battle going on behind his eyes. I tipped his head back, opening his mouth by inserting my thumb and the scent of corrupted flesh wafted from his mouth. At the moment I was about to pour the nightsmilk, he shuddered, made a noise, a hideous, gobbling, choking sob. I felt a pressure on my thumb, weak, but almost as if he were trying to close his mouth.
“Boros?” He was looking at me, staring straight into my eyes. His were clear then, free of pain for a moment. He blinked twice, very deliberately, then shook, as if overcome by what he had done.
“You are sure?” I said. And he made that terrible sound again. Then blinked twice, even more slowly, even more deliberately.
I nodded. “I can still give you a little nightsmilk,” I said. “It will ease your pain.” He shook his head and I wondered if, somehow, he guessed what I intended and that was why he refused. “We must wait for Barin. I will be in the shadows, over there.” I pointed at a corner of the cell that would be behind the door when it opened. “Do not give me away when your brother enters, or all may be lost.” It would not be, of course, but it may mean I would have to cut my way out of the dungeon, and I did not wish to be forced into that. If everything worked how I intended I would be able to walk out and no one would ever know I was here. Boros nodded, almost imperceptibly, and I let go of him. He curled back up into his painful ball and I moved to my corner to wait for his brother to arrive.
Before long the guards returned, laughing and joking to themselves about the beating they had given Aydor.
“Halvan, I have never seen a man kick so committedly,” laughed one.
“Well,” said Halvan, “he should not have threatened to whore out my brother. Colvan, you are dear to me.” They laughed again. “We should wake the captain. Have you got any water?”
“Aye, yes. No wait. Get me a pissbucket, a full one.” More laughter, than a splash of liquid and the spluttering of their captain.
“Yellower!” he shouted. “Where is he?”
“Unconscious in a passage,” said Colvan.
“You left the prisoner alone?”
“No,” said Halvan, “course not. After the fat bear hit you Colvan hit him and he went down. Then he dragged him away from here and I waited, so we didn’t get in trouble like.”
“My yellowing head,” said the captain. “Where is he? You two can wait here and I’ll go cut a couple of the fat bear’s fingers off. They’d make fine trophies.”
“He’s in—”
Conversation ceased as I heard someone enter the room.
“How is my brother? In good spirits?”—Barin.
“Good as can be expected.”
“What happened to your face, Captain?”
“I fell down the stairs, Blessed,” said the captain quietly. I heard a sniff, as if laughter was stifled.
“I can smell alcohol,” said Barin. “And piss. If I find out any of you have been drinking when you should have been guarding I will cut off your ears, do you understand?”
“Yes, Blessed.”
I wanted to scream, “Stop talking!” at them. I felt so tense, waiting in the shadows. It was hard for me to believe they could not feel it too. Doubt flooded in. What was I doing? I had no idea if what I intended was possible and even without a souring beneath my feet I would have been unsure of myself. I had only ever heard of what I intended in a story, an old one that was seldom sung: The Child who Left their Bed. What sort of fool was I to believe in stories told to bring comfort to the sick?
We will do this.
I did not know if the fact the voice was here with me was a good or bad thing. Usually I loathed the voice and saw it as a sign my control was slipping—but here? Now? I would need all the help I could get.
“Well,” said Barin, “my brother burns tomorrow morning, so I suppose I should take this opportunity to say goodbye to him.” The men laughed, but not too loudly or too strongly, they laughed like men unsure of whether they should or not because the joke made them uncomfortable. “You three can go wait at the top of the stairs,” he said. “My brother and I deserve a little privacy on his last night, yes?”
“Yes, Blessed,” they said. I listened as they walked up the stone stairs, as Barin must have. Only when he was sure they were gone did he approach the door, unlocking it, his shadow touching the bare feet of his brother where he lay in his own filth.
“Ah, Boros,” he said, standing in the door. “I do enjoy the way you’re starting to smell, you know. You were always so particular about bathing and now you will end your life stinking like the slop we feed slaves. Well,” he stepped forward, “that is not strictly true, is it? You will end your life smelling like a roasting hog.” He took two more steps forward and I stared at his back, at the beautifully etched shoulder guards of his armour. “You know, I am sure if I ask they will bring me some of your flesh. I wonder what you would taste like, eh?”
I do not know how Boros did it, how he gathered the strength in his ruined body to move, but he did, twisting himself round against his chains. He could not reach his brother but he had enough energy to spit, a great stinking gobbet of putrid phlegm and rot that must have hit Barin right in the centre of his chest. Barin did not react, at first, then he squatted down by his brother.
“That was quite rude, brother,” he whispered. “Really quite rude. I think,” he let the word hang in the filthy and hot stale air, “I might have to break a couple of your fingers for that.” He grabbed Boros’s right hand by the wrist and lifted it up. Only now did I notice Boros’s little finger was twisted out of true and a jagged piece of bone stuck out from below the knuckle of his
third finger. “This is where we got to last time, right? We were ruining the hand you write with? Well, this will be our last night, best not waste any more time, eh?” He raised his other hand, slowly moving it toward Boros’s index finger.
I moved.
Forward from my corner. I hit Barin with my shoulder, sending him into the filthy straw, and grabbed the hand that had been holding Boros. With my other hand I grabbed Boros’s ruined hand and he cried out in pain: that hideous, gobbling sound.
“You!” said Barin. His eyes widened and he opened his mouth, ready to cry for his guards as his left hand went to the blade at his waist.
But the cry never came.
The blade was never drawn.
I ruled here now.
My word was law and darkness flowed from me, a darkness invisible, a darkness of the mind that froze those before me in place. It carved them into ice and fear, made them into playthings and puppets. These men were full of life and I was Girton Club-Foot, sorcerer, life was the clay with which I wrought terrible miracles.
And I would wreak one here today.
Chapter 22
Iam unbecoming. I am three and I am one. I am lost.
I am a slave watching a boy be torn apart by dogs.
I am a youth holding my father’s hunting dogs.
