I snorted and rubbed my face. ‘I see. If I had my father’s skull, you could swear over it, but I don’t even know which one it is. It’s in the Singing Garden.’
‘Which skull is his, you asked,’ he stated while I sipped mead. I stared at the thin man, who was scuttling over to fetch a thick tome. He came back, utterly oblivious of me as he skimmed the book. His fingers were running up and down the pages. He slammed the book aside, got up to fetch another one, and again skimmed the pages until I was done eating and drinking. Minutes passed, and he did not move as he mumbled over words.
I cleared my throat and placed the empty goblet on the desk with a clang. ‘Lord? You had some other business? Something to do with Gal?’
His eyes snapped to me. He looked reluctant as he abandoned the tome and turned his attention back to me. ‘Quite. I can do this later. There has to be information on which skull belongs to whom. I am sure of it.’
‘It does not matter, really,’ I told him. ‘I was being sarcastic.’
He looked supremely bothered as he struggled with his thoughts. ‘I will find it, nonetheless. So, you are the Trade Master’s nephew and as we were discussing the what after part of the plan.’ His fingers were twitching agilely. ‘And of trust. We will make a deal with him, and he will supposedly receive you in payment for his help with the Tower. But in the meantime, he will want something more. You are right. Trust, like with you, is hard to come to Gal.’
‘Trust is an issue, yes,’ I agreed.
’So I will give him Taram,’ he said. ‘As a hostage. I sent Lith a message by a bird last night. It came back not hours after. He agrees. He wants someone. I’ll give him Taram.’
‘It makes sense,’ I whispered, suspicious. ‘The least loved child would make a perfect hostage.’
‘I love Taram, Maskan, and he will survive Gal. He has skills. It all comes down to getting you to Tenginell household and you doing your bit.’
‘I will do it,’ I said, feeling uncomfortable.
‘As for your reward,’ he smiled.
‘I need none,’ I answered. ‘Only your true word.’
‘No?’ he asked with a bemused voice. ‘Gal is a man of … few political aspirations. He is a trader of the first degree, of course, and keeps Red Midgard fed and loves his position and easy life. But you are a Talin.’
‘What are you thinking about, exactly?’ I asked him, for I thought he looked a bit nervous. ‘You said you would make me a noble.’
He nodded sagely. ‘Since you are your father’s heir, perhaps you should take Gal’s place?’
‘Is he going to die?’ I asked, feeling very uncomfortable about the discussion.
‘Yes,’ Balan said. ‘Since we are being very honest, he must. He already extorts us. Lith will tie the king. But Gal? He is rich. And so shall you be. After he falls. He has not done an exceptional job, you know. You can do it. Just have to learn how to read and write.’
‘I can read!’
He waved his hand lazily. ‘There. All set for lordship. Scribes can do the rest. You will have deserved it. And you are the true, the legal heir of the dead lord of the house.’
That stopped me. Heir to the Seventh House? Sixth if the Danegells fall. ‘I surely have no heritance,’ I smirked uncertainly, sure I did not. ‘As my father was a traitor.’
‘Not currently you don’t,’ he smiled. ‘Gal was made the head of the house and his children if he had any, are legally the heirs. But such heritance can be restored when the criminal king is dead.’
‘I see,’ I said and nodded. ‘And now, you will set this up?’
He rapped his fingers on the desk. ‘You will do your bit with the queen. Then, later, you will support the crown in the unstable times that are sure to follow,’ he stated bluntly. ‘So be it.’ He swept his arms aside as if he had nothing to hide. ‘We will deal with the details and meet here to discuss it. Play the fool with Gal when you see him. It’s a splendid plan and a smooth one. Perhaps even so smooth that Shaduril will survive.’
‘I would love that very much,’ I said softly. ‘She needs hope to survive. Surely she is terrified.’
‘She is dead, Maskan,’ he laughed bitterly. ‘She will go through with it, but she is dead. With Gal and Crec, we will perhaps save her from the Brothers. Just act with us. And trust me.’
‘I will help in any way with Gal,’ I told him hollowly, feeling uncertain by his feverish plans and scared by the devious schemes. ‘And what of her?‘
‘Her?’
‘After,’ I hissed. ‘You say Lith will become the queen. But what of Shaduril.’
He stared at me coldly. He struggled with his words, his thoughts and sat there, looking feverish. ‘So. Are you now making demands to me? I offered you a high house of much wealth and power. But you are looking at also securing her. Is that so? Answer.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I am. You hate the thought of me having her for my own, but I want to make her happy.’
He sat there, mulling it over for a while, and then he said, ‘I will think of a useful, calm occupation for her. She deserves a holiday after the coup,’ he said, thrumming his fingers on the desk. I thought there was a hint of some long lost emotion on his face. Sorrow? Love? Finally, he nodded. ‘She will decide such matters. There is a past you know nothing of, Maskan. You bargain hard, but I know you do so for love. Let her decide for herself; I shall also, and perhaps you will make her happy again.’
‘I thank you, Lord,’ I said.
He thrummed his fingers on the desk, very hard. Then he snorted. ‘But you did not thank me for the House of Talien. Never mind, you value what you value. I like a man who knows his cards are unbeatable. Ask me for a mound of gold, and I would procure it. And you are asking for such a mound, for I do love all my girls dearly. Yes. You will have your own House. The Sixth House. You will be groomed to nobility, you will be rich as a Master Thief, and life will be boring for you. So you will need a wife.’
I nodded.
‘A marriage to Shaduril is a great thing to ask,’ he said with a displeased voice. ‘Not sure I enjoy the thought of giving her to someone who has been thieving all his life, but she might do worse. She decides, but I agree.’
I blushed. ‘Thank you, again. I want this in writing.’
He blinked and shuddered in shock. ‘Writing?’
‘Writing,’ I growled. ‘Everything we discussed. With your signature and seal and witnesses. And I can read, as I said.’
He was nodding and did for so long I thought he had broken his neck. Finally, he said yes. ‘I will deliver it to you. An insult, but I shall.’
‘Thank you,’ I said with a polite smile.
‘Now, I have business to attend to.’ He waved his hand across a stack of papers, and as he did, one flew to the stone floor.
I grabbed it and saw it was a bill of sales for The Dead End Tavern. He scowled at me. ‘It’s being auctioned, as Valkai no longer uses it. The king sells it, and I want it.’
‘Going to turn a criminal?’ I asked him smoothly.
‘We were ever in the Trade. You know it.’ He laughed softly. ‘Now don’t look at me like that. Coin is coin, and I’d be a fool not to prepare to make some money out of all this. I am in this for Red Midgard. And our family.’
‘And for the king’s artifacts,’ I whispered, and he heard me.
He glowered at me and shrugged. ‘No word to Sand.’
‘No, Lord,’ I said miserably.
‘It’s for his own good,’ he added and tapped the table. ‘Make sure not to speak to Illastria either. She likes it in that corner of the main hall. Makes her feel safe. Let her be. Sand should as well.’
‘Safe from what?’ I asked him.
‘Go,’ he breathed, his face twitching.
And I went. He aimed to rob the nation of its royals and its magic.
We trained for three months.
CHAPTER 10
Living in the Crimson Apex was a curious affair. In the evenings, the main h
all filled with mild mannered soldiers. They sat there, sipping mead and ale and spoke gently amidst long tables while warming flames from the huge fireplace lit the room. They were rarely the same men, but often new faces. Some were like us, blond and tall, others stout and short, all apparently warriors by their hardened looks, scars, and their weapons. ‘Mercenaries, I am sure of it,’ Sand said one night. ‘He is buying men for Yule. He said their army is too small, but I guess coin can buy you anything.’
‘But they keep changing,’ I told him.
‘He sends them somewhere, bit by bit,’ Sand agreed.
To assault the tower, and Balan was hiding them indeed, I thought. In the Old City. There would be a thousand men there, perhaps. It would ruin the Blacktowers. I chuckled. Money was the least of their concerns.
Then there were the Blacktower men, who sat by themselves in the corners. They were hundreds strong, for I had seen Balan address them all in the yard; all wore house colors of the white lily on red, but the chain mail and leather armor they used was dark. They were a curious lot. Others were happy and young, farmer and herdsmen of High Hold, others sullen and scowling. Their wives and children would visit them during the days while they trained, and many stayed in the nearby villages.
There was always soft singing in the hall as a bard sang of past wars and lost treasures. There were many legends of the past, of the gods, of creatures that had tried to take the land. Of beasts and giants, dragons, and even elves. Men listened, nodded, and some of the young farmers sang with the bards, but the mood was ever drowsy, almost like a dream. Balan never joined the celebration, but old Illastria would gaze at the singers, sometimes, afraid, her white hair a halo around her head as she sat on the side, hunched over her desk. What was she afraid of?
We had a hard time sitting still.
We were sore. So very sore. Every day, every evening.
We swam in the mornings, as Taram forced us down to the beach. He would jog on the fine-grained sand while we waddled in the cold water for an inordinate amount of time, back and forth until we nearly drowned. I dragged Sand out one day, another day he had to punch me in the gut to force out all the salt water I had swallowed. Taram would snicker at our sorry states, and then he would run us up an obscure track that led to the fort. This involved a hefty amount of climbing. Sweltered by the morning’s heat, lathered in sweat, we managed it each time, but our arms and muscles were trembling madly as we struggled with the last strides up the hill. Those last fifty yards were especially grueling. Taram did not break a sweat. Often, as we re-entered the Apex, we saw wagons stop by the old keep of High Hold, unloading great bundles of gear. ‘Weapons, no doubt,’ Sand always noted.
We cursed Taram, and then we ate breakfast. The few hundred Blacktower men were being drilled, and they joined us in the breaking of fast. The mercenaries had always marched off. By the fall, the Blacktower clients were unhappy. There were archers in their light leathers and helmets. There were men-at-arms with halberds and men with shields and spear. They looked splendid, but it was clear by their whispered cursing that they thought they should be reaping their harvests. The north was always on the brink of famine, so I could understand them.
Then, in the afternoon, the training commenced.
The first day had been brutal.
The following were nearly dull. That second day of training, Taram stared at me as he was picking out a staff for me. ‘I know he told you to give me skills with a sword, and mainly staff, but I would still prefer the longer sword.’
‘Father insisted you train with a staff,’ he said with a shrug. ‘It’s best we obey, no? He gives me my coins, and I can hardly live without them, and so you get to learn the staff.’
Larkgrin, I thought. Balan wanted to make me proficient with that weapon, despite his words about his own training. I scowled, for while the weapon was an artifact of power, it felt somewhat disappointing. It was not heroic. Of course, it was, but it also was not. I gazed at Sand looking at some fine chain armor and a scimitar of a beautiful make. ‘Slightly shorter than you, I think … this one,’ Taram was murmuring. He picked out a sturdy brown staff that was not very tall. ‘Don’t mope. It can kill a man easily if you know how. You will learn some sword, yes, but not a two hander as you liked. The staff is a deadly thing. Put a point in it, and it’s a spear. Learn to strike with it, and it’s good for two-hander sword training as well. I’ll teach you. I had a master who taught me many things. I cannot claim I’d prefer it myself, but you will not feel inadequate after you learn to love it.’
‘I’ll try,’ I said darkly.
He snorted and turned a reluctant eye to my friend’s direction. ‘And you, Sand? Daggers? Thieves love knives when they cut purses and murder in the dark.’
‘I’ve never cut a bag,’ Sand said, and I realized it was the truth. I had. He had guarded me. ‘I’ve only carried loot. And I haven’t killed anyone either.’
‘All right,’ Taram said dubiously. ‘I was joking about the daggers. Good for a back alley and perhaps a fight in the shield wall, but in war you also have to have something taller to put inside the man before you.’
‘Shit,’ Sand whispered. ‘I’ll take this scimitar then.’
‘And a chain. You will train in chain mail, gauntlets, and pauldrons and chin guards. A helmet as well. Will shed some of that extra fat. We will make you into proper little soldiers. For some reason.’ He kicked at some rubble and cursed profusely. ‘A few months is hardly enough to do this, so it will be terribly cruel to you. No holiday for you in the Crimson Apex, boys. You’ll learn a skill that can make you rich. Then you will join my father’s war. I don’t understand what all the men being recruited are for, and so I suffer. That is my lot. Ignorance and servitude.’
‘Yes,’ I told him patiently. ‘That’s your lot.’
‘Take the scimitar, that sword. That one,’ Taram pointed at a heavy wooden sword that was curved, ‘and that shield,’ he nodded at a huge, round iron thing. ‘Go and start stabbing at the target. I’ll show you how, in a bit. Get used to it, my peasant friend.’ Sand bit his teeth together, growled, and went, not looking back.
‘You have a way to charm my friend, Taram,’ I said with ambiguity. He was not fooled.
‘He hates me; I hate you.’ He grinned. ‘Usually I get along with soldiers just fine, but not you.’ There was strange intensity in his eyes, and I wondered if he would attack me. I thumbed my ring, preparing, but he turned away.
‘But I hate others as well,’ he stated with a grin. ‘It is not unusual. You are just one of the many, Maskan,’ he told me. ‘We shall train and see if that head of yours can take it. I’ll find out your secrets, Maskan, one day when I have no more duties with you.’
It was a chilling threat, delivered like a fact. I shook my head at him. ‘Don’t you have any other plans for your life, my lord? You gamble, you fight, and you enjoy women, no doubt. And plot revenge for imagined insults and things that do not concern you. Is there something you will be when you finally grow up?’ I asked him.
He hesitated and tilted his head at me. He shrugged. ‘I used to read stories when I was very young.’
‘You are young still,’ I snorted.
‘Very young.’ He chuckled and went on, ‘Of heroes and kings and wars. I wish nothing more than to be in a book.’
‘Then you are in the right family,’ I smiled. ‘Ask Illastria to pen you in some tome. That Moragorium for example.’
‘Oh! You know our lot? Yes, I get into some book, I am sure. Yes. We all do. Father and Illastria will pen the stories down. Father will do so until he dies. Then Shad will take over, no doubt. Poor girl.’ His face went lax, and he breathed deep, in sorrow, I thought. Then he went on. ’But I do not wish to be mentioned a drunkard and a fool. I would like to do a great deed, one day. Kill a king in battle? Or a god, even! I can. I’m that good.‘
‘Kings and gods,’ I grinned ‘A fine plan, Taram. I just wanted happiness and a home.’
‘Not w
ith Shaduril, you won’t.’ He grinned like a dead thing. ‘Enough of dreams.’ I was not sure if he meant his or mine. ‘Pick up the staff. And keep calm. I won’t let you go madman on me again.’
And so, he trained me. He taught me to stand, cursing me profusely for my lack of skill even with a most basic of stances. There was a horse stand, very balanced, suitable for changing into an offensive and defensive position. There was a cat stance, perfect for the uppercut hit. Standing and gliding from one stand to another was all I did for weeks, and one might not think it is so, but it actually tires you out quickly. Not unlike dancing, it built my stamina. When I did these steps over and over again, he trained Sand. Stab, stab, shield up, legs spread. It seemed simple, but there was nothing simple about it. It was an art form to stand and fight properly.
Only when I showed some more grace at the basics, he began to teach me to strike. There was the overhead strike, and he showed me how to bring up the knee and execute it with power and grace. There was an up-to-the-side thrust from the horse stance. I immediately excelled in a rib strike and slowly begun to understand how to transition from defensive stance to an offensive one when Taram changed his. I learned for Taram did not give me any mercy. I would often train against a padded dummy in the semi-dark room, meticulously working my screaming muscles next to Sand, who was thrusting, ever blocking with the shield, thrusting and only slowly learning slashes and longer maneuvers. But most of all I learned fighting with Taram. By the end of the second month, I managed to keep him at bay and launch somewhat dangerous counterattacks. Sand was growing better as well.
In the late afternoons, I was waiting in a pantry, where Gray, who was a grey-haired, stooped figure of a man would train me with my stance, again, with my walk, which was ridiculous and painful both, as my muscles were screaming in pain. He was patient and of mild manners, yet as authoritative as a god as he forced me to dress in tight finery, expensive clothing of embroidery and tight leathers. He taught me how to carry a tray filled with food, how to do it while armed, how not to make sudden, fatal movements, how to keep my face, in what he called, the Mask of Stone. He taught me how to eat properly with grace, and how to have my drink without slurping, taking only sips. I actually began to enjoy that part of the training, for he would make me deliberately drunk to make sure I could perform the noble acts even then. Eventually, I could.
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