by Anthony Ryan
“I suppose,” Caenis said. “Always bears at the Summertide Fair. Drunkards wrestle them for money. Plenty of other things too. When I went there was a magician from the Alpiran Empire who could play a flute and make a snake dance.”
Vaelin had been taken to the fair every year before his father gave him to the Order and he retained vivid memories of dancers, jugglers, hawkers, acrobats and a thousand other marvels amidst the mass of sound and smell. He hadn’t realised before just how badly he had wanted to see it again, to touch something from his childhood and see if it matched the whirlwind of colour and joy he remembered.
“The King will be there,” he said to Caenis, recalling a distant view of the royal pavilion, where Janus and his family looked down on the many contests played out on the tourney field. There were horse races, wrestling, fistfights, archery, the victors receiving a red ribbon from the hand of the King. It had seemed a poor reward for so much effort but the winners all seemed happy enough.
“Maybe you’ll get close enough to let him use you as a foot scraper,” Nortah said. “You’d like that wouldn’t you?”
Caenis seemed unperturbed. “It’s not my fault you’re not allowed to go, brother,” he responded mildly.
Nortah looked as if he was about to voice another insult but instead just pushed his plate away and got up from the table, stalking from the hall, his face set in a mask of anger.
“He’s really not taking this well,” Barkus observed.
After the meal Vaelin bade them farewell in the courtyard, gratified by the effort they put into their façade of reluctance.
“I’ll…” Caenis began with an effort, “stay if you want me to.”
Vaelin was touched by the offer, he knew how badly Caenis wanted to see the King. “If you don’t go, how am I going to get my boots?” He clasped hands with each of them and waved as they walked to the main gate.
He went to see Scratch and found to his surprise that the slave-hound had made a new friend, an Asraelin wolf-hound bitch almost as tall at the shoulder as he was, although nowhere near as muscular.
“She got into his pen a few nights ago,” Master Jeklin told him. “Faith knows how. Surprised he didn’t kill her outright. Think he wanted the company. Reckon I’ll leave ’em be, maybe have us a litter in a few months.”
Scratch was his usual happy, bouncing self at seeing Vaelin, the bitch cautious but reassured by Scratch’s welcome. Vaelin tossed scraps to them, noting how the bitch wouldn’t eat until Scratch had.
“She’s afraid of him,” he commented.
“With good reason,” Master Jeklin said cheerfully. “Can’t keep away though. Bitches are like that sometimes, choose a mate and won’t let go whatever he does. Typical women, eh?” He laughed. Vaelin, having no idea what he meant, laughed along politely.
“Not at the fair then?” Jeklin continued, moving away to toss some food to the three Nilsaelin terriers he kept at the far end of the kennels. They were deceptively pretty animals with short, pointed snouts and big brown eyes, but would nip viciously at any hand that came too close. Master Jeklin kept them for hunting hares and rabbits, an activity at which they excelled.
“Master Sollis felt I was slacking at sword practice,” Vaelin explained.
Jeklin tutted in disapproval. “Never make a brother if you don’t try hard. Course in my day they’d flog you with a horsewhip for slacking off. Ten strokes for a first offence, ten more for each offence after that. Used to lose ten or twelve brothers a year through flogging.” His sigh was heavy with nostalgia. “Pity you’ll miss the fair though. They have some fine dogs for sale there. Be off myself when I’ve finished up here. It’ll be terrible crowded though, what with the execution and all. Here you go, you little monsters.” He threw some meat into the terriers’ cage, provoking an explosion of yelps and growls as they fought each other for the food. Master Jeklin chuckled at the sight.
“Execution, Master?” Vaelin asked.
“What? Oh, the King’s having his First Minister hung. Treason and corruption, usual thing. S’why there’ll be such a crowd. Everyone in the Realm hates the bastard. Taxes y’see.”
Vaelin felt his mouth go dry and his heart sink into his gut. Nortah’s father. They’re going to kill Nortah’s father. That’s why Sollis kept us here. Made me stay too so it didn’t look suspicious…So I would be here when the news arrived. He found himself taking a closer look at Master Jeklin.
“Did Master Sollis visit here this morning?” he asked
Jeklin didn’t look at him, still smiling down at his dogs. “Master Sollis is very wise. You should appreciate him more.”
“I have to tell him?” Vaelin grated.
Jeklin said nothing, dangling some ham through the bars of the cage, grunting a laugh every time the terriers jumped for it.
“Erm,” Vaelin stumbled over the words, clearing his throat, backing towards the door. “If you’ll excuse me, Master.”
Jeklin waved a hand, not turning, laughing affectionately at the squabbling terriers. “Little monsters.”
Crossing the courtyard, Vaelin felt that the weight of responsibility might force him to the cobbles. Suddenly he hated Sollis and the Aspect. Leadership? he thought bitterly. You can keep it.
But there was another thought, a growing suspicion as he reluctantly ascended the winding steps to the tower room, a lingering image of Nortah’s face as he stalked from the dining hall. Vaelin had seen only anger at the time but now realised there had been something more, a sense of determination, a decision…
He stopped as realisation hit him. Oh please, Faith no!
He took the remaining steps at a run, bursting into the room, panic making him shout, “NORTAH!”
Empty. Maybe he’s at the stables. He likes the horses…
Then he saw it, the open window, the absence of sheets and blankets on their beds. Leaning out of the window he saw the knotted linen dangling a good twenty feet below, which left another fifteen-foot drop to the roof of the north gatehouse and ten more from there to the ground. For Nortah, like the rest of them, it was hardly a challenging prospect. The lingering morning mist would enable him to slip away under the noses of the brothers on the wall, most of whom would have been preoccupied with the anticipation of breakfast.
For the briefest moment Vaelin considered finding Master Sollis or the Aspect but discounted it. Nortah’s punishment would be severe and he already had at least a half-hour start. Besides, Vaelin didn’t even know if Sollis or the Aspect were in the House, they may well have been at the fair too. And there was another possibility, ringing loud and terribly clear in his head: What if he makes it there first? What if he sees?
Vaelin quickly gathered a water bottle and a couple of knives then strapped his sword across his back. He went to the window, took a firm grip on Nortah’s rope and began to descend. As expected it was an easy climb, taking barely a moment to reach the ground. With the mist all but gone he had to be wary of being seen, standing flat against the wall until the brother on the battlements above, a bored-looking boy of about seventeen, wandered away, then sprinting full tilt for the trees. The run would have seemed short on the practice field, scarcely two hundred yards to the forest, but it felt like a mile or more with the wall at his back, expecting every second to hear a shout of alarm or even the thrum of an arrow. At this range few brothers would miss. So it was with relief that he entered the cool shadow of the trees and dropped his speed to a half sprint, still faster than he would have liked for comfort but he couldn’t afford to waste any time. He stayed in the trees for half a mile or so then turned onto the road.
It was busier than he had ever seen it, packed with farmers driving carts laden with produce for sale at the fair, families making the once-a-year journey to see the contests and the many spectacles on offer, this year no doubt the promise of a First Minister’s execution added a certain spice to the occasion. None of the travellers seemed daunted by the prospect. Vaelin saw cheerful, laughing faces everywhere, he eve
n passed a cart full of what he took to be woodsmen from their collection of axes, all singing a raucous doggerel about the impending event:
His name was Artis Sendahl
He was a greedy old goat
King Janus came to count his purse
And stretched his greedy throat.
“Don’t run so fast, Order boy!” one of the woodsmen called to him as he passed, swaying as he raised a stoneware bottle. “They can’t choke the bastard till we get there. Some bugger has to cut the wood for the fire.” The rest of the woodsmen roared with laughter as Vaelin ran on, resisting the urge to see how well a drunkard could cut wood with his fingers broken.
He heard it before he saw it, a dull roar beyond the next hill, the sound of thousands of voices speaking at once. As a child he had thought it a monster and snuggled into his mother’s embrace in fear. “Hush now,” she said, stroking his hair, turning his head gently as they crested the rise. “Look Vaelin. Look at all the people.”
To his boy’s eyes it had seemed every subject in the Realm had come to the expansive plain before the walls of Varinshold to share in the blessings of summer, a vast throng covering several acres. Now he found he was amazed to see the crowd was even larger than he remembered, stretching the whole length of the city’s western wall, a haze of mingled exhalation and woodsmoke hanging over the mass, tents and brightly coloured marquees rising from the carpet of bodies. For a youth who had spent much of the last four years in the cramped fortress of the Order House it was almost overwhelming.
How can I track him in this? he wondered. Behind him came the song of the drunken woodsmen again as their cart caught up, still rejoicing in the death of the King’s Minister. Don’t look for him, he realised. Look for the gallows. He’ll be there.
Entering the crowd was an odd experience, mingling exhilaration with trepidation, the throng enveloping him in a mass of moving bodies and unfamiliar odours. Hawkers were everywhere, their shouts barely audible above the noise, selling everything from sweetmeats to earthenware. Here and there a knot of spectators had gathered around players and performers, jugglers, acrobats and magicians, drawing either cheers and applause or jeers of derision. Vaelin tried not to be distracted but found himself stopping at the more spectacular sights. There was a hugely muscled man who could breathe fire and a dark-skinned man in silk robes who pulled trinkets from the ears of people in the crowd. Vaelin would linger for a few seconds before remembering his mission and shamefacedly moving on. It was as he stopped, amazed at the sight of a half-naked female tumbler, that he felt a hand inside his cloak. It was deft, almost unnoticeable, searching. He caught the intruder’s wrist with his left hand and dragged the owner forward, tripping him over his left ankle. The pickpocket went down heavily, grunting painfully with the impact. It was a boy, small, skinny, dressed in rags. He looked up at Vaelin and snarled, lashing out with his free hand and desperately trying to pull away.
“Ha, thief!” A man in the crowd laughed nastily. “Should know better than to try it on with the Order.”
At the mention of the Order, the boy’s efforts to free himself redoubled, scratching and biting at Vaelin’s hand.
“Kill him, brother,” another passerby suggested. “One less thief in the city’s always a good thing.”
Vaelin ignored the voice and lifted the pickpocket off his feet; it wasn’t difficult, the boy was little more than skin and bone. “You need practice,” he told him.
“Fuck you,” the boy spat, squirming frantically. “You’re not a real brother. You’re one of them boy brothers. You’re no better’n me.”
“Needs a beatin’ this one,” a man said, emerging from the crowd to aim a cuff at the boy’s head.
“Go away,” Vaelin instructed. The man, a plump fellow with a large ale-soaked beard and eyes showing the unfocused gaze of the newly drunk, gave Vaelin a brief appraisal and quickly moved away. At fourteen Vaelin was already taller than most men, the Order’s regime making him both broad and lean. He stared in turn at the several other spectators who had paused to watch the small drama. They all moved on rapidly. It’s not just me, Vaelin surmised. They fear the Order.
“Lemme go, y’bastard,” the boy said, fear and fury colouring his voice in equal measure. He had exhausted himself struggling and dangled in Vaelin’s grasp, face set in a soot-stained mask of impotent rage. “I got friends, y’know, people you don’t want to cross…”
“I have friends too,” Vaelin said. “I’m looking for one. Where are the gallows?”
The boy’s face constricted in a puzzled frown. “Wassat?”
“The gallows where they’re going to hang the King’s Minister. Where are they?”
The boy’s creased brows formed into an arch of calculation. “Wossit worth?”
Vaelin tightened his grip. “A broken wrist.”
“Miserable Order bastard,” the boy muttered sullenly. “Break me wrist if you want. Break me bloody arm. What odds does it make anyway?”
Vaelin met his eyes, seeing fear and anger but something more, something that made him relax his grip: defiance. The boy had pride enough not to be a victim to his fear. Vaelin saw how truly ragged and threadbare the boy’s clothes were and the mud covering his bare feet. Maybe pride is all he has.
“I’m going to put you down,” he told the boy. “If you run, I’ll catch you.” He pulled the boy closer until they were face-to-face. “Do you believe me?”
The boy shrank back a little, head bobbing. “Uh-huh.”
Vaelin set him down and released his wrist. He saw the boy fight the instinctive impulse to run, rubbing his wrist and edging back a little. “What’s your name?” Vaelin asked him.
“Frentis,” the boy replied cautiously. “What’s yours?”
“Vaelin Al Sorna.” There was a flicker of recognition in the boy’s gaze. Even he, at the bottom of the pile in the city’s hierarchy, had heard of the Battle Lord. “Here.” Vaelin fished a throwing knife from his pocket and tossed it to the boy. “It’s all I have to trade. You get another two when you show me the gallows.”
The boy peered at the knife curiously. “Whassis?”
“A knife, you throw it.”
“Couldja kill someone with it?”
“Only after a lot of practice.”
The boy touched the tip of the knife, tutting painfully and licking his bloodied finger when he discovered it was sharper than it looked. “You teach me,” he mumbled around his fingers. “Teach me how to throw it and I’ll show ya the gallows.”
“After,” Vaelin said. Seeing the boy’s distrust, he added, “My word on it.”
The word of the Order seemed to carry some weight with Frentis and his suspicion receded, but not completely. “This way,” he said, turning and moving into the crowd. “Stay close.”
Vaelin followed the boy through the mass of people, sometimes losing him amidst the crush only to find him a few steps on, standing impatiently and muttering for him to keep up.
“Don’t they teach ya how to follow folk then?” he asked as they struggled through a particularly thick knot of spectators at a dancing-bear show.
“They teach us how to fight,” Vaelin replied. “I’m…unused to so many people. I haven’t been to the city for four years.”
“Lucky bastard. I’d give me right nut to never see this dump again.”
“You’ve never been anywhere else?”
Frentis gave him a look that told him he was very stupid. “Oh yeah, got me own river barge I ’ave. Go anywhere I please.”
It seemed to take an age of struggling through the crowd before Frentis halted, pointing at a wooden frame rising above the throng about a hundred yards away. “There y’go. That’s where they’ll stretch the poor sod’s neck. What they killin’ ’im for anyway?”
“I don’t know,” Vaelin replied honestly. He handed the boy the two knives he had promised. “Come to the Order House on Eltrian evening and I’ll teach you how to use them. Wait by the north gate, I’ll find you.”<
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Frentis nodded, the knives quickly disappearing into his rags. “You gonna watch it then? The hanging.”
Vaelin moved away from him, eyes scanning the crowd. “I hope not.”
He searched for a good quarter hour, checking every face, watching for any sign of Nortah, finding nothing. He shouldn’t have been surprised; they all knew ways of avoiding searching eyes, subtle ways of making oneself unrecognisable and just another body in the crowd. He paused by a puppet show, feeling a mounting knot of panic building in his gut. Where is he?
“Oh, blessed souls of the Departed,” the puppeteer was saying in a mock-tragic tone, his expert hands working the strings, moulding the wooden doll on the stage into a pose of despair. “Ever have I been Faithless, but even a wretch such as I deserves not this fate.”
Kerlis the Faithless. Vaelin knew the story, it was one of his mother’s favourites. Kerlis denied the Faith and was cursed to live forever until the Departed consented to allow him entry to the Beyond. It was said he still wandered the land, seeking his Faith but never finding it.
“You have made your fate, Faithless one,” intoned the puppeteer, bobbing the collection of wooden heads that represented the Departed. “We do not judge you. You judge yourself. Find your Faith and we will welcome you…”
Vaelin, momentarily distracted by the puppeteer’s skill and the craftsmanship evident in the dolls, forced himself to turn back to the crowd. Look, he told himself. Concentrate. He’s here. He has to be.
His survey stopped when a face in the audience caught his attention, a man in his thirties with lean, strong features and a sad gaze. A familiar gaze. Erlin! Vaelin stared in astonishment. He came back here. Is he mad?
Erlin seemed completely rapt by the puppet show, his sad gaze utterly absorbed. Vaelin puzzled over what to do. Speak to him? Ignore him?…Kill him? Dark thoughts flickered through his head, driven by panic. I helped him and the girl. If they catch him… It was the image of the girl’s face and the feel of her scarf around his neck that forced sanity back into his thoughts. Walk away, he decided. Safer if you never saw him…
