The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  When it did finally approach, it was swift and without warning. The boy had stood his ground but felt nonetheless terrified.

  ‘Easy, boy, easy,’ Fynch had urged, trying not to show his fear.

  This was an enormous dog and when it had arrived to stand boldly in front of him, he was only just able to look down upon it. It had neither blinked nor flinched when he had tentatively reached out to touch it. But as he did so he had felt as though he was being blinded as a torrent of information had flooded into him. It took his breath away and suddenly he had a vision of Wyl Thirsk swirling into his mind. The vision had dissolved as quickly as it had come and he had found himself staring into the liquid eyes of the dog.

  Taking a deep, steadying breath, Fynch had sat down to regain his wits. The dog then settled by him and allowed him to absently scratch its ears and stroke its huge head whilst he thought about what he had experienced. When the dog suddenly barked, the huge sound frightened Fynch so much he fell backwards. As if to reassure him, the dog had licked his face before bounding away. The next day it had returned for more of the same. Just as Fynch had struck up an unlikely relationship with King Magnus, he had now become friend to this dog. They had nothing in common, no reason to pursue each other and still here they were, eager to see each other.

  Fynch often felt, in fact, that this beast could sense his thoughts, although he would never admit to such a thing. He was privately convinced that he and the dog did communicate on a deeper level than the ordinary man-to-beast relationship. It became important to him to learn its name and who owned this fine canine and so he followed it back one afternoon and found the dog playing and gambolling around the red-headed General, of all people. More than just coincidence, then, that he had experienced that strange vision. He knew very little of Wyl Thirsk but since that alarming vision and through his interest in the man’s dog — whom he noticed paid scant attention to anyone in the soldiers’ yards except the General — he began to learn more about him.

  He quickly discovered the dog’s name was Knave and realised that it did attend a few other people including the older soldier, Gueryn, the General’s sister and the always smiling, friendly Captain Alyd Donal. For almost every other individual, barring himself, the dog reserved a menacing stare or low growl.

  Fynch was a born observer, unconsciously absorbing vast amounts of visual and spoken information each day and then, without even realising he was doing it, he would sift through it all of an evening, taking from it what he wished. Although he never used this talent beyond his own interest, the lad had gathered an enviable resource of information on just about anyone who wandered Stoneheart. He knew their habits, their friends, their lovers. He shared his information with no one, but his memory for detail only grew more intense as he matured. Fynch realised he could extract items from years gone by, bringing them into instantly sharp focus.

  Over the months since he had befriended Knave — their familiarity now stretching to sharing his midday meal with the dog — he had begun to loosen from his memories various whispered conversations and scenes involving Wyl Thirsk and had soon produced a comprehensive picture of a man he now liked immensely. Finally he had plucked up the courage to speak with him last night, on the evening of the tourney, but that was not the first time he had been that close. No, the first time he had seen Wyl, he was new to his trade as gong boy. The General had collapsed at the witch-burning. Fynch had gone to the scene out of a childish curiosity. It was his first witch-burning and, appalled by the horror and the excitement of the adults around him, he had quickly decided it was to be his last. He was just four summers when he witnessed the terrible sight but what he saw afterwards would make an even deeper impression on his mind.

  Although the soldier, Gueryn, thought no one else had witnessed the phenomenon, Fynch, the lowly gong boy, who happened to be carrying his tiny water bag and offered it to help the young man, noticed that when Wyl Thirsk regained consciousness his eyes were of a chilling and strange hue.

  It had frightened him. But the General’s eyes had reverted to their normal colour, blue and unremarkable. He did not know what to make of all that.

  Now, at dawn, as he made his way through the grounds towards the royal dropholes, he mulled over the previous evening’s events. He had been surprised when General Thirsk had burst from the tent of the Widow Ilyk and ordered them back to Stoneheart. The General had been distracted and solemn as he grabbed his sore-headed friend and together with Fynch’s assistance, had helped the semi-conscious Captain back to the castle, Knave trotting happily ahead.

  The General had tossed him some coin and thanked him for his help that evening.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ Fynch recalled asking, a reflex to the man’s suddenly vacant stare.

  He remembered how the General, only an hour earlier so jovial, had finally focused upon him and replied. ‘I am well. A little startled from what I learned,’ he had admitted and then fallen abruptly silent as though regretting he had said as much as he had.

  Fynch had instinctively understood not to press further. ‘I am but a lowly gong boy, sir, but I am at your service at any time of the day or night should you need.’

  ‘Gallantly said, thank you,’ he recalled the General saying and had flushed with pride at the remark. Then the soldier had added curiously, ‘I see, Fynch, that my hound has taken to you.’

  ‘Yes, sir. We play together each day.’

  ‘Is that right?’ the General had commented, clearly surprised, adjusting his snoring friend into a prone position on the grass. ‘This is passing strange.’

  ‘How so, sir?’

  ‘Because Knave is deliberately contrary to all but a few. I can’t explain it better than saying he is just short of vicious to almost everyone.’

  Fynch had nodded then. ‘That’s true, sir … to all but the people you love.’ At this he recalled that Wyl Thirsk had stared at him, obviously taken aback and so he had quickly added, ‘I think he likes to protect you, sir.’

  ‘Yes,’ the General had admitted, ‘he is an odd animal but he likes you well enough, which pleases me, for you are a good lad.’

  ‘He hates the Prince, sir,’ Fynch had suddenly blurted. ‘I sometimes know when the Prince is near simply by the way Knave behaves.’

  The General’s eyes had narrowed. ‘You notice much for a gong boy.’

  ‘Perhaps I should not have said so much. Forgive me.’

  He pondered now as he came to the royal drophole and immediately set to shovelling, how Wyl Thirsk had smiled at this and then nodded. ‘Good night, Fynch. I’m sure our paths will cross again.’

  ‘Sleep well, sir,’ Fynch had said and then watched Wyl hoist a complaining Captain Donal and throw him over his shoulder.

  He had continued watching until the General had disappeared after a few quiet words with the gatekeeper and had not been surprised to see a familiar shape re-emerge from the darkness. Fynch had stepped back into the shadows as much out of sight of the guards doing their rounds as he could.

  ‘Hello, Knave,’ he had said quietly. ‘Come to say good night?’ The dog had nudged his hand and Fynch had knelt then to hug his friend. A soft sound had issued from the dog’s throat. ‘I know. You want me to look out for him, don’t you, boy,’ Fynch had said gravely, stroking the dog’s ears. ‘Though I don’t know how.’

  The dog had nuzzled closer to the small boy and they had remained entwined for a few silent moments.

  ‘You’d better go now, big fellow. I need some sleep too. I’m working on the Prince’s drophole tomorrow. He hates it if it goes beyond a day or two and I promised myself I’d clean further up the channel. Not very nice but it will be fresher for my efforts,’ he had mentioned brightly to the dog.

  Knave had then growled. Even the mention of Celimus made the dog’s hair bristle.

  Fynch came out of his thoughts and sighed to himself. He had made the pact with himself that today he would get on with the muckiest of tasks. Ignoring the eye-watering
smell he bent to look up the drophole which led to the lavvy attached to the Prince’s apartments. It was filthy and desperately in need of a good brushing out.

  He put down his shovel and after casting a quick glance around he took off his shirt and trews to reveal his pale, painfully thin body. No point in getting them all putrid; his sister would scold him harshly and at least he could wash the muck off his body in the nearby lake before he went home. He carefully folded his clothes and tucked them away in a small bundle.

  At that moment, Knave padded up softly and Fynch brightened.

  ‘Guard my clothes, boy,’ he said seriously and was bemused to see the dog settle itself by his garments. ‘I’m going up there, Knave,’ he explained, pointing up the drophole. ‘Nasty work, so don’t distract me, all right? I need to get it done quickly and my body washed because the stuff up there stings my skin. But, I’m very glad you’re here — it will help.’

  Knave barked playfully once. Fynch was quite sure the dog understood.

  ‘I’ll see you in a while,’ he said, just stopping himself from waving at his friend.

  He picked up his sturdiest brush and, naked, ducked into the opening. Indentations in the vertical tunnel had been cleverly hacked out by the stonemasons of ages gone for this very purpose of climbing to clean. He flinched as he felt the first cold touch of the slime covering the walls of the drophole. Fynch smiled grimly in spite of it, taking a fierce pleasure that most gong boys only have a short life span at this job because they grow too big for it within a year or so. Not him, though. His all but skeletal frame still fitted Stoneheart’s dropholes with room to spare.

  Fynch had long ago learned to distract himself from the nauseating odour of his work. He had taught himself how to breathe through his mouth but nothing was more effective than his unique ability to lose himself in his thoughts. He glanced down and saw the outline of Knave’s dark head staring back at him and that made him think of the General again.

  Climbing instinctively now with slow care he gave himself over to his ‘information’, as he liked to call it, and delved into where he kept his details on the General. There was no way that General Thirsk should have lost that contest to the Prince. Even a dolt could see that Thirsk had the heir well and truly beaten and still he yielded. And then that business with the fortune teller later in the evening. That was most odd. Fynch was sure she was only a fairground fake and yet something had happened in that tent to rattle the General.

  He was not that far from the top now and he slowed down to consider the connection he had suddenly made between the General’s strange behaviour last night and that equally odd moment when Wyl Thirsk had collapsed at the witch-burning and how his eyes had changed colour. Fynch had to admit it. Curiosities definitely surrounded Wyl Thirsk, not the least of which was his mysterious dog. He had gleaned from overhearing some of the soldiers talking that Knave was a special gift from the woman who had died at the stake, in exchange for his small kindness to her. As Fynch brushed away the slime he laid out tidily in his mind all of the information he had gleaned, including his disturbing experience when he first touched Knave.

  His agile mind picked its way across all that he knew and finally, disturbingly, it crossed Fynch’s consciousness that perhaps the General was somehow touched by an enchantment. The woman who burned was hailed a witch, after all. Fynch did believe in sorcery, though he could never admit to such a thing to others. The idea of enchantment was whimsical, he granted, but it nagged. He continued his slow climb upwards and as he toiled he came to the conclusion that Knave was somehow part of it. When all was said, Knave was the witch’s dog.

  An enchanted General. A fanciful notion, he chided himself, but one he could not let go of as he looked up to see dim light coming from the small windows hewn out of the stone walls of the lavvy above. Soon he would be able to slip his fingers over the lip of the drophole and start his more vigorous cleaning, steadily moving downwards and back to Knave whom he could sense was still watching him. Just as Fynch was about to heave himself to the opening, he heard an unmistakable low rumble coming from below. It was the dog. Knave made many sounds and, as strange as it seemed even to him, Fynch believed he could understand many of them. It was as though the dog were speaking to him. And this sound was unmistakably the growl which Knave reserved for Prince Celimus.

  He was warning Fynch that the heir was near.

  Fynch ducked to cower in the darkness. Surely the Prince did not need to use the lavvy now! Worse, he was afraid of Celimus and wholeheartedly shared Knave’s feelings towards the man. Carefully, Fynch began lowering himself as he too could now hear footsteps. His first thought was to let go and jump. Whatever breaks or bruises occurred, so be it. He could not bear the thought of being caught like a peeping tom by the Prince — Shar alone knew what the man might do to him.

  The growl intensified and then Knave fell silent and in that moment Fynch froze. He heard it too. Speech as well as footsteps … and it was not just one voice. Fynch recognised Celimus but he was talking to another man and they were in the lavvy. Why?

  He carefully and silently lowered himself to where he thought he was in sufficient shadow to be hidden and then he listened intently. It was uncanny how clearly he could hear them.

  It was the other man who was speaking. ‘…yes but why here?’

  ‘Because it is the only place where I feel we can speak plainly without risk of being overheard,’ Celimus warned. ‘The walls are made of thick stone, my friend, but most of them have ears.’

  ‘All right,’ said the other. ‘Your privvy it is then. Why am I summoned, my lord?’

  ‘Because my sources tell me you are the best.’

  ‘I am competent in many things, your highness. I wonder to what you are referring?’

  ‘Don’t be glib with me, Koreldy. You are a mercenary, am I correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And an assassin for the right price?’

  There was a pause and Fynch felt himself holding his breath for fear of them hearing even his heartbeat.

  Finally the other man replied. ‘It depends on who and how much.’

  ‘Several hundred crowns,’ said the Prince without hesitation.

  Fynch’s eyes widened in surprise. Even to the wealthiest noble, this was a fortune.

  ‘You must want this person dead very badly, your highness,’ said the assassin, politeness in his words yet it was clear he was not daunted by the Prince.

  ‘I make no jest. Will you do it?’ Celimus sounded impatient and seemed not to have noticed the man’s direct manner.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon. I must arrange a few things to ensure your job is easier — see what a considerate employer I am?’ said Celimus.

  ‘And payment?’

  ‘Half this very minute, if you agree. The gold is in my chamber.’

  Fynch heard the other man whistle low and softly.

  ‘Who?’ he finally asked.

  ‘General Wyl Thirsk.’

  Fynch felt the shock shudder through his tiny frame. He almost lost his grip on the slimy wall.

  ‘Ah, I knew it could not be that easy to earn so much,’ the man said, resignation settling into his voice.

  Fynch could hear Celimus move around the confined space. He was agitated. ‘He is but one man and unsuspecting. Surely you can handle it?’

  ‘Yes, of course I can handle it, your highness,’ the assassin replied smoothly. ‘The trick is in feeling comfortable about doing it to a man I respect.’

  ‘How about five hundred crowns … will that help ease your guilt?’ asked the Prince, just a hint of sarcasm edged in his voice.

  Again there was silence as the man considered.

  Celimus filled the quiet. ‘You are falling for history, my friend. Wyl Thirsk is no more of a hero than you. You’re from Grenadyn,’ he pressed, ‘how can you care?’

  The man replied so softly that Fynch’s excellent hearing had to strain to catch it. ‘My family is originally from
Morgravia, sire. Before our families moved away from these parts, my grandfather fought with his. I hear old man Henk Thirsk was a fearsome warrior and a fine commander — apparently this one takes after him.’

  ‘You seem to take a strong interest in history,’ Celimus said.

  ‘I remain Morgravian at heart even though I was born across the oceans,’ the man said coolly.

  ‘Well, you hear tales, I’m afraid. This one is a coward who throws up his dinner at the sound of a bone breaking,’ Celimus said.

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes. Which is why I want him dead. He is useless to me and threatens the safety and security of Morgravia. As a mercenary I assume you have no allegiances?’

  Fynch presumed the man must have shaken his head because Celimus continued.

  ‘Good, then you should feel nothing at his death and I am paying you a vast sum of money to suffer no regret. We follow a rather quaint and, if I might add, senseless tradition of promoting the Thirsk males to Generals without so much as a thought to whether they are any good at it. This one, it appears, does not bear comparison to his predecessor you speak of.’

  ‘Can you not demote him, your highness?’

  ‘Only when I am King.’

  ‘I gather that may occur soon, my lord.’

  ‘Not soon enough,’ Celimus spat.

  ‘I see,’ the man replied, and again Fynch was amazed at how direct he was with the Prince. ‘Why not have him killed by one of your own, then? It seems extravagant to spend so much on a foreign assassin if the man is so incompetent. Surely one of your own soldiers would do your bidding for one tenth of what you would pay me?’

  Fynch waited, willing his numb fingers to hang on. The mercenary was no idiot and the boy marvelled at the man’s composure in front of the Prince who intimidated most.

  ‘It would not look good. I’m sure you understand,’ Celimus answered, disguising his discomfort with a harsh chuckle. ‘I do not want Wyl Thirsk’s blood on any Morgravian’s hand. The Thirsk family is revered and closely connected with my own.’