by Rj Barker
I stood near so we could speak more privately.
“Yesterday,” I whispered, “a guard may have been found outside the kennels, asleep and drunk. I want to know who he is and where I can find him.”
Gusteffa stared at me. I tried to think of a reason to give her when the inevitable “Why” came, but she seemed uninterested, only nodding her head thoughtfully.
“You mean the man found drunk outside the kennels when you were locked in?” I blushed and nodded. “I heard it had happened but not who the guard was. I shall do my best to find out for you.”
“Thank you, Gusteffa,” I said.
I left the kitchens to find the corridors full of people leaving the buried chapels, moving in little cliques and giving each other shifty-eyed looks. I saw more than one surreptitious elbow dig a fellow hard in the ribs, and the odd “accidental” kick to the shins. The castle guards’ attitudes varied markedly depending on who approached them. For some people they moved slowly, in what was clearly a calculated piece of disrespect, and for others they would jump to their task. The more I walked among the blessed the more aware I became that the corridors of the castle were crawling with old rivalries brought to the surface by the turbulence of Doran ap Mennix’s impending death. These were currents so deep and complex I had no idea how to navigate them.
Nywulf, the squiremaster, was not pleased when I entered the squireyard as I was both late and improperly dressed. He took one look at me as I tried to slip in through the door and shouted, “Swordplay!” I ached with the foreknowledge of bruises.
The other squires stood in their groups. Aydor was surrounded by his cronies and Tomas by his. I looked around for Rufra. He was standing with his back to me and seemed smaller than he had the day before. I was glad he was not looking at me; I did not want to see that wounded look in his eyes again.
I glanced over at Tomas. He had a haughtiness that befitted a king, and when I caught his eye he gave me a small nod, the way a king would a subject. Aydor sneered at him. I saw in the heir and his squires a group bound through privilege and riches, which held no appeal for me, but in Tomas and his boys I saw a small group of warriors—a brotherhood—a group of friends bound through force of arms, and I realised I wanted to be part of it. I saw in Tomas and his group the opposite of Aydor—a group committed to right where Aydor was committed only to himself.
But I was not a fool. I knew I had painted Tomas and his friends dented armour with storybook knights from our jester’s tales, and my master had always told me to judge by actions not by imaginings. Apart from disliking the heir what had they done to be worthy of a story?
Rufra stood alone. No longer welcome even on the outskirts of Aydor’s group, and that was probably because he had spoken to me.
It is difficult to describe the powerful draw of a band of brothers to a boy who has never had companions. It washed over me in a tide of longing as I watched Tomas laugh about something with Boros and Barin. Rufra could not offer me that. His nervousness made me uncomfortable and he was an ap Vthyr—reviled throughout Maniyadoc. He probably deserved to be set up as the assassin’s client; his family had done terrible things and I did not owe him anything. Also, my master wanted me to find a way in with Tomas …
But Rufra had walked away from boys who had, however grudgingly, accepted him, and he had done that because he thought he saw a kindred spirit in me.
“Dead gods paint my face for a fool,” I whispered to myself and went to stand by Rufra at the sword rack. I started sorting through the practice swords. “I have forgotten my armour, Rufra,” I said, “so please do not take too much advantage of me when we fence.”
He turned, making a puzzled face that turned a startlingly plain visage into an ugly one. “I do not want your pity, Girton,” he said and turned away. I grabbed his arm, turning him back.
“Outsiders, you said, Rufra. I thought on that all night so do not think it pity that I recognise a kindred spirit.” He smiled at me then, a curious reaction to my anger. “You are amused, Rufra?” Words that would cut him waited in the back of my throat but he spoke before I could launch them.
“Sorry, Girton. I let my hurt pride speak. I am thankful that you have chosen me as a friend. Truly I am.” He laughed. “But Nywulf said I am not trying hard enough and should tax myself more in sword work. I am glad of the offer of your friendship but I am worried he will think I am being lazy, choosing you as a partner.”
For a second I was insulted, and then the truth of what he said struck me. I started to laugh. He knew me only as Girton ap Gwynr, who was more of a danger to himself than anyone else with a blade. Rufra joined me in laughter, and his laugh was an infectious thing that made me laugh more. Soon we were helpless, no longer warriors in training but only two boys doubled up in hysterics while tears of laughter streamed from our eyes. We laughed so much we could not look at one another and were too young to recognise we laughed from a sudden break in the tension between us.
“Something funny, boys?” said Nywulf, his ire drawn by our amusement.
“No, Squiremaster,” we said together, though the words were barely discernible as we had to hold our breath not to laugh.
“Well, Rufra,” he said, “you may think your new friend means an easy ride for you, but it is not the case. You can spar with me today.” The smile fell from Rufra’s face.
“Yes, Nywulf,” he said and then the squiremaster turned to me.
“You have other business—the castle calls,” he said and passed me a square of paper. It was sealed with the queen’s symbol, though the paper was cheap.
“Thank you, Squiremaster,” I said, but he had already turned away to choose a practice sword.
Outside the squireyard I opened my note. It was from Gusteffa. It gave me no name, only a time and a place to be if I wanted to intercept my guard, and I wondered at how she had got the information so quickly. From the height of the sun I didn’t have long to act so made my way around the wall and to the barracks at a run.
I had barely waited ten minutes before the guard who had been outside the kennels left to take up his duty at the keep. I checked I had my small eating knife on me and followed him, watching for the right moment to act. He stopped to chat amiably with the men and women on the gate. I loitered, pretending to be interested in the ruined carvings on the walls, until he moved on. The further into the keep he got the more nervous he became. It was like the man was a puppet controlled by an increasingly shaky puppetmaster: his body spasmed and tensed, his hands clenched and his breathing became staccato. Twice, he almost physically jumped when other guards appeared around the corner. All this made following him more difficult as he would stop to peer around and I would have to hide to avoid being seen. I trailed him to the higher floors of the keep where the corridors ran in a square with rooms off either side. As the guard reached the top of the stairs he turned left. I followed, almost walking into him at the top of the stairs as he had turned on his heel and was hurrying back the way he had come. Curious about what had made him retreat, I carried on walking and came across a group of guards with splotches of red on their armour. They watched in silence as I sauntered past and then their whispered conversation resumed behind me.
When I turned the far corner I saw my guard stationed outside a room. He was nervous, holding his pike tightly and constantly glancing up and down the corridor. When he looked away I inched my way along the wall using the door recesses to hide in. When I was near enough to make a dash for the man I slipped my eating knife from its sheath. A shudder ran through me and for a second I was back in the kennels, white teeth flashing, the scent of dog shit thick in my nostrils as one of the brutes launched itself at me.
Breathe out.
I was going to find out who had locked me in there and I was going to make them pay.
Breathe in.
I took a step forward and a hand closed around my knife, pulling me back into the alcove. A voice whispered into my ear and the smell of facepaint filled my nostril
s.
“What are you intending to do with that, apprentice?”
Muscles, tensed for combat a second ago, relaxed, though only a little.
“Find out who locked me in the kennel, Master.”
“You think he’ll tell you?”
“I think I’ll make him.”
She laughed quietly.
“How?” Her hand tightened around the knife. “Cut him? Has anger driven everything I ever taught you from your mind?” She cuffed me around the back of the head, hard enough to hurt. I wanted, more than anything, to lash out at her.
“They locked me in with war dogs,” I said through gritted teeth.
“And he likely knows nothing more than he was set to guard a door. One shout from him will bring every guard in Maniyadoc running. Unlike you, Gusteffa is only a fool in name and told me what you were about. I will get you your information. Stay here, stay quiet. Watch what I do.”
She let go of me and walked out into the centre of the corridor. The guard turned, looked her up and down and then ignored her. A jester was no threat to him. My master cartwheeled up the corridor, stopping in front of the guard and leaning forward until her face was right in front of his. She brought her hands up, pulling at the corners of her mouth and sticking out her tongue.
“Piss off or I’ll gut you,” said the guard.
She acted hurt, miming tears, and I saw her palm a small mirror on a string from her pocket and knew what she intended, the Careless Gossip, a way of causing someone to talk and forget all about it afterwards. Like the Wild Gaze it was a skill I lacked the patience for. As the guard opened his mouth to say something my master brought up the mirror. It dangled from her finger and she set it spinning with her thumb, then placed her other hand on the back of the guard’s head. He stiffened at the unexpected touch and she leaned further forward, whispering to him in the Voice of Sleep. He shook in her hands, frozen in place, and my master slipped the spinning mirror back into her pocket and continued to whisper to him. She gently removed his pike from a limp hand and leaned it against the wall. The she placed a hand on the top of his head and with a gentle push he fell to his knees, looking up at her like a quill holder at a priest on signing day.
“Girton,” she said quietly, “ask him your questions now and then think about how much easier tasks are when tackled with the right tools.”
I bristled at the implied criticism and placed myself between my master and the guard. He was drooling and his eyes were unfocused.
“What is your name?” I asked.
“Anjohn.”
“Anjohn, recently you were set to guard the kennels, is this true?”
“Yes.”
“Who set you to it?”
“Captain Dollis.”
“And who commanded him?”
“I do not know.”
“Don’t lie,” I barked, drawing back my hand to slap the man, but my master grabbed my wrist.
“He cannot lie, Girton, you know that. He will remember nothing of this, but if you give him a bruise his mind will wander back along this track to find the cause. Is that what you want?”
“No, Master.”
“Ask then.”
“What were your orders, Anjohn?”
“Guard the kennel. Wait to be relieved.”
“Who relieved you?”
“Dollis came, beat me for being drunk though I swear I never touched a drop.”
“There has to be more,” I hissed, looking back at my master.
“Doubtful—he is only a guard,” said my master calmly and then leaned in close to Anjohn. “Wake at the next waterclock bell, Anjohn. Remember nothing of this.” My hand itched for the knife my master had taken from me, even though I knew it would be pointless to hurt the man; he knew nothing and had not been responsible for locking me in with the dogs. My master took my arm and pulled me away. “Come. Best we are not discovered here.”
“Who is Dollis?”
“Aydor’s man. Captain of his dayguard.”
“The heir. I should have known.” I remembered the man with the missing tooth and how he’d sneered at me.
She pulled me to a stop in the corridor, staring into my eyes as she spoke.
“Girton, I think you are best to forget this whole business. I am sure it is little more than a prank that went too far and we have far more pressing concerns.”
I remained silently staring back at her and she shook her head before walking away. Part of me wanted to go after her but pride made me walk in the opposite direction. I wandered downstairs deep in thought and, as if of their own accord, my feet took me out of the keep and towards the stables.
When I passed the squireyard I saw Rufra, sitting alone outside.
“Rufra,” I shouted, giving him a wave. “I need to go and check on my mount. Do you have an animal in the stables?”
“Two,” he said. “They are called Balance and Imbalance.”
“Would you show your animals to me?”
“Aye,” he said. A smile lit up his face and almost tilted the scales of his looks into handsome.
We made our way around Festival. Huge wooden walls, painted with capering horned and leafed hedgings, had been raised around the central caravans and the air was filled with the stink of animals. I had the uncomfortable feeling we were being watched and twice I thought I caught a figure in the corner of my eye, but Rufra was oblivious to my worry. He chattered happily, telling me Festival was still setting up and would be for a few days and until it was fully set up no one would be allowed to enter. As we came around Festival he slowed his walk.
“Girton,” he said quietly, “I must warn you not to go alone at night in the townyard, keepyard or anywhere that is quiet during the day. Slights are not forgiven easily here.”
“Slights?”
“Tomas prides himself on his martial skill, and you came close to making him look a fool with your bow.”
“That is not the way Riders are meant to act, Rufra,” I said.
“Girton—” he put a hand on my arm and brought me to a stop “—we are not Riders. We are boys. You should remember that.” Even then Rufra had a knack for seeing the truth of a thing.
“They are squires, don’t their Riders keep them under control?”
Rufra looked at me as if I was a fool.
“Girton, do you walk around with your head in the clouds? How many Riders have you seen in this castle?”
As soon as he said that I felt like a fool for not noticing, Heamus was the only Rider I had seen.
“Why are there no Riders here, Rufra?”
He kicked a stone across the ground. “The same reason some of us are still squires when we could easily pass for Riders. Aydor.”
“He sent them away?”
“Not him, his mother. When the Landsmen came and set up the trials Aydor did not pass for Rider so no one else was allowed to try. His mother could not have the heir shown up and, gradually, she has sent away all of the king’s Riders. Worse, no squire may take the trials until Aydor has passed, and he will never pass the trials. Partly because he is lazy and partly because his eyes are so bad he could not hit the keep with an arrow. I feel sorry for him sometimes.”
“A king does not need to pass for Rider; it is bestowed on him with the crown,” I said, more to myself than Rufra.
“Aye,” said Rufra. “For some the old king cannot die soon enough. We wrote to Daana ap Dhyrrin asking for Aydor to be removed from training, but nothing came of it.”
“Talking of Aydor,” I added, “do you know the captain of his dayguard?”
“Dollis?” His eyes widened and he looked away. “No more than I have to. He’s a nasty piece of work, hates anyone he thinks is better than him.”
“Does he do Aydor’s dirty work?”
“Aydor’s and anyone else who can pay. Why?”
“Just curious. Our paths crossed.”
“Then I’d uncross them as quick as you can.”
When we entered the stables
Drusl was leading out a stinking cart drawn by a heavily muscled draymount.
“Girton!”
“Drusl, you are leaving?” I could hear disappointment in my voice and hoped Rufra did not notice.
“Leiss is sending me to get fodder for the mounts and drop this pressed dung off for the farmers, but I will be back …” Her voice tailed off as she saw Rufra. “Blessed—” she gave a small bow “—forgive me. I did not see you there.” She seemed a different person when she noticed Rufra: smaller, meeker, the humour gone from her to be replaced with worry. It was almost as if she were trying to disappear into the ground.
“You are friends with Girton?” said Rufra.
“I only look after his mount, Blessed,” she said. She did not look at him.
“Well,” he said, and took her hand in his. “I think you are his friend then, and any friend of Girton’s can count themselves a friend of mine.” He executed a perfect court-style bow and the ridiculous formality of such a thing—a sweaty squire bowing to a stable girl in charge of a cartload of dung—was not lost on her. She let out a giggle. For a moment I hated Rufra.
“I cannot stay, Girton. Leiss will be angry if I dally but I will see you later? If you can come by?” Any dislike for Rufra vanished as her attention came back to me. She led the draymount and cart away and I noticed Rufra staring at me with a huge grin on his face. The heat of a blush rushed onto my cheeks.
“What?” He only grinned in reply and I hurried past him into the stable to see Xus. The mount was skittish, baring his tusks and snorting as if he picked up on my embarrassment. “Shh, Xus, shhh.” I said and stroked his thin muzzle. The animal calmed under my touch.
“… is beautiful,” Rufra said from behind me.
“Yes,” I said, “and he is fast too.”
“Fool,” laughed Rufra and gave my arm a push. “I was not talking about your animal, though he is a beauty. I was talking of Drusl. No wonder you were desperate to get down here yesterday.”
“We are only friends.”
