by Rj Barker
I headed back to my room, sinking into self-pity, but was stopped by a slave in the keepyard.
“Blessed.” She bowed low. “The guard captain, Dollis, is drinking alone at a hole tavern in the townwall. We know you looked for him.”
“Thank you,” I said and dug in my pocket, taking out one of the bits Rufra had given me, a fortune for a slave. “Here.”
She bowed her head and made the coin vanish with all the skill of a Festival trickster.
I ran for the townyard wall and started checking the wall-room taverns, finding most full of raucous guards and Festival staff. As I searched for the guard captain I could almost hear my master advising me to stop—to think and not hurry into the encounter—but until then it had been impossible to find Dollis alone and I was worried I would lose the opportunity if I dallied. Time is ever man’s enemy.
I found him in the fifth wall room, one strangely muted and empty compared to the others. He was drinking alone and looked up as I entered, his hand going under the table to his blade, then he stared at me and a calculating smile crossed his face.
“Well, if it i’nt the queen’s favourite cripple.” He took a swig of his perry as I sat opposite him. “Dangerous places for cripples, these drinking holes.” It sounded like a threat.
“Then it’s fortunate you’re here to protect me, eh Captain Dollis?”
He stared at me. His missing front tooth had broken off just above the gum making it look like a new, angular, predator’s tooth was growing down to replace the lost human one. He leaned forward, squinting his eyes to see me better in the gloom.
“I don’t like blessed. Like smart-mouthed blessed even less,” he growled.
“What about Aydor?”
“The fat bear pays my wages but the yellower couldn’t win my respect if his prick depended on it.” Someone came into the hole and Dollis’s eyes flicked up. I wondered if he was worried Aydor was likely to walk in and hear the way his guard captain talked of him.
“Did the heir put you up to locking me in the kennels?”
He stared at me, weighing me up.
“What makes you think I was involved in that?”
“People talk.”
“Anjohn,” he hissed under his breath. “Well, it don’t matter. I was only obeying orders, weren’t I? Nothing wrong in obeying your betters, eh?” He cackled to himself
“Aydor’s orders?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” He took another drink and his eyes slid to the door hole.
“Yes. I would like to know.”
His glance strayed back from the doorhole to me. A strange grin spread across his face, one that I could not place the emotion behind.
“It weren’t the fat bear asked it, though ’im and his friend’s ’ad a good laugh about it.”
“Who then?”
He leaned forward.
“If I tell you, mage-bent, I’ll upset important people. Very dangerous people. So you’ll need to make it worth my while. Youse family are rich I ’ear.”
“I have three bits.”
“Three bits!” he burst out, laughing. “I wouldn’t piss on you for three bits, cripple. Fifteen is what I need to make it worthwhile.”
“Fifteen? You could outfit a troop for that.” Anger bubbled up and I leaned over the table, speaking in a whisper. “I think you need to lower your price, Captain Dollis. How would the queen feel if she knew the man in charge of her son’s guard was taking jobs on the side?”
Dollis’s hand shot out and grabbed my jerkin, pulling me off balance and forward to hold me in front of his face. It was all I could do not to go for my knife and slash the tendons in his wrist.
“You threaten me, boy?” he growled. “I should slit you from ear to ear for that.” He loosened his grip and pushed me back into my seat as if disgusted with me. “Adran knows I work on the side and as long as it doesn’t affect her or the boy she don’t care.” He picked at his teeth using his dirty thumbnail. “But I don’t like upstart little blesseds trying to blackmail me, and it’s going to cost you. Twenty bits is my price now.”
“I can’t possibly find—”
“The extra is for the insult, and be glad I don’t take it out your flesh. I still might. Feel good to scar a blessed …”
“But I can’t afford—”
“Then you should piss off, boy.” He stared into his drink and waved me away. “I’ve got my own problems to sort and I don’t like the mage-bent. You’re hedge-cursed and you sour the drink.” I stood, at a loss for what to say. “I said piss off,” he growled and drove his knife into the table. I backed away and out through the doorhole, sure I could hear Dollis chuckling to himself.
Angry for not thinking the encounter through properly I returned to our room. I was unlocking the door when my master appeared, as if from nowhere, at my side and pushed me in.
“Girton, Heamus is busy with Adran and Aydor this evening between eight and nine. It would be a perfect time to search his room. Spend this afternoon familiarising yourself with the servants and slaves’ shifts around his quarters.” Her words were cold and to the point.
“Break into his room? But he is my—”
“Have you forgotten why we are here?” she hissed. “It is not to make friends.”
“No, Master, I have not forgotten,” I said, then added, “Leiss may have killed Kyril.”
“The stablemaster?”
“Yes, Kyril had threatened Drusl. Leiss and he had almost come to blows and Kyril came back with his friends later and they beat Leiss.”
“The stablemaster strikes me as an unlikely sorcerer, Girton. Did you find any signs of magic in the stables?”
“Nothing.” I had not looked. I had been too busy enjoying being nothing but a boy for a few moments. I do not know what possessed me to lie about it as my master can read a lie the way a general reads land or a swordsman reads the movement of an opponent’s feet.
“Nothing,” she repeated. “And how hard did you look? Or were you distracted by your friends?”
“I …”
“Don’t lie to me again, Girton. If you have not done something tell me so.”
“I’m sorry, Master.”
“Don’t be sorry, do better.” She sat on the bed. “I understand this may be hard for you, Girton, I do. You have never had the opportunities most boys your age have and you have had some—” she searched the air for the right word “—difficult news. But our lives are in danger. Queen Adran could lose patience with us at any moment.”
“I am sorry, Master. I will look properly tomorrow, I swear it.” Resentment bubbled within me.
“Good, now will you search Heamus’s room?”
“Yes, but—”
“What?”
“May I attend the First of Festival with Rufra this evening?” My words were so quiet I was surprised my master could hear them. She, in her turn, was quiet for a long time.
“If I say no, will you obey me?”
I stayed silent, frightened that if I spoke the simmering anger I had felt since she had told me about the magic within us would burst out. Meeting Rufra for First of Festival seemed like the most important thing in the world, even though I knew it was a small thing. Then she was in front of me, moving across the room with the Speed that Defies the Eye. Her skull face was all I could see, huge and unreal. Her eyes searched my face.
“I will not stop you, Girton,” she hissed, “but you would do well to remember that these people who think themselves your friends do not know you. They are friends with a fiction and you need to keep in mind what you really are.”
Then she was gone.
I remained in our room, in a black mood, and must have spent at least half an hour pacing backwards and forwards talking to myself about how unfair life was, and it was. Eventually I realised that if there was a rogue sorcerer loose in the castle then we were all in danger, including the people I said were my friends—Rufra and Drusl. What this could have to do with a plot to assassinate Aydor I had no idea
, but my master clearly thought the two were linked. Also, and whether this is a failing or not I have never been sure, I have always struggled to sustain a dark mood and my master has drilled into me that the best way to banish darkness is to occupy yourself. With that in mind I left our room, proceeded to Heamus’s room and set about memorising the paths of the servants and slaves in the corridors around it.
Heamus lived on the second floor of the castle in an inner room. It was a quiet area with little traffic, though annoyingly what traffic there was seemed completely random. I walked past Heamus’s door a few times, and each time I took a moment to examine the lock and listen at the door. Someone was at home. I could hear the scratching of bootnails on the floor. Once I had done as much as I could, and knowing I had time to spare, I decided to visit the kitchens and see if I could find something to eat.
On my way down the tight spiral staircase I heard the echo of tears. This was not an unusual thing to hear in the castle—not a day passed without some slave being beaten, some servant being reprimanded or a blessed lady being caught in a web of romantic intrigue—but there was something haunting in the sound. I found myself drawn to it, winding my way down the stair and through a stiff and seldom-used door. Behind the door I entered a disused part of the castle. Dust lay thick on the floor and rose in gauzy clouds as my feet disturbed it. Dim light struggled in through layers of cobweb and illuminated a smudgy, but well-used, path through the dust. I followed the path and the sound of sobbing through grey rooms. Old tapestries wept loose thread into mouldering piles; chairs and tables were being slowly digested by woodworm. The sound of tears faded and grew as I walked, making it difficult to follow and leaving me wondering if it was real at all. Maybe this was some hedging, luring me to it in hope of a deal for my life. In such a quiet and decrepit part of the castle hedge spirits were much easier to believe in.
I rounded a corner and walked straight into Neander, the priest of Heissal. I did not immediately recognise him as he had covered his flowing orange gown with a nondescript brown cloak, waxed against wind and moisture, but there was no disguising the harsh landscapes of his face.
“Girton!” he barked. He was clearly as surprised to come across me as I was to come across him. “What are you doing here?” The raptor claw of his hand darted out and closed around my wrist as tightly as an iron cuff.
“I … I was running an errand for Nywulf and I got lost. Then I heard crying.” Running an errand for Nywulf was a good excuse, and one commonly used by squires who were not where they should be.
He looked me up and down, and it felt as if his blue eyes drilled into my mind in search of lies, though if he had the power to do such a thing I am sure he would quickly find himself lost among the web of untruths I had woven.
“Did you think the crying was your young lady?”
“No.” A blush rising to my face. “I have no young lady. Why would I think that?”
He examined my face, looking for a lie.
“In my experience young men are often unable to think of anything but young ladies.” He tried a smile. “I was much the same in my youth.” His grip tightened a little and he cocked his head to one side. “What is this errand you are running for our squiremaster?”
“He wanted me to find Rufra,” I said.
“Well, Girton—” Neander’s grip was cutting off my circulation and I could feel my hand beating in time with my pulse “—you will not find your friend here. He has many faults but is more sensible than to come into the disused areas of the castle. It is not safe here, a lot of the stonework is loose.” Another tightening of his grip. “There have been deaths, Girton, deaths.” I nodded, and I think he saw the question I was about to ask in my eyes. “You wonder why I am here if it is dangerous?” I nodded again. “I am here because of the tears you hear. A servant girl has got herself into trouble with a squire and wanted my counsel. The servants believe they will get more privacy in these disused areas of the castle, and as their priest I must go where they wish, even when it puts my life in danger.” The words slid out of his mouth so smoothly it was either true or a very well practised lie. He looked down at his hand, as if only now becoming aware of how tightly he held my wrist. “Am I hurting you, Girton?” He stared into my eyes. “Sometimes I am overcome with fervour for my vocation and forget myself.” He let go of my wrist only when he had finished speaking. His grip had left a ring of red skin on my wrist and pins and needles fizzed across my hand.
“No, it did not hurt, Blessed,” I replied.
“Blessed.” He laughed. “I am no blessed man of power, Girton. I am only a simple priest and that is my lot. I dream of no more.”
“Of course,” I said, but his laugh was false and there was a look in his eye that left me sure he did dream of more, of much more.
“Now, you be on your way back to the castle proper and stay out of this place, boy. Go, get on.” He tried to smile again. “I have no doubt Nywulf’s errand is far more important than gossiping with this lonely old soul.” As I walked away he stood staring after me and I could feel his gaze as an itch at the nape of my neck. It was odd that he had referred to Rufra as “your friend” rather than calling him “my nephew,” which was the fiction he wished to sell to the castle. A little shiver ran down my spine and I rubbed at my wrist. Something about the priest, possibly his naked ambition, set me on edge.
After my detour I visited the kitchens then returned to the corridor with a view of Heamus’s room. I settled into a shadowed alcove to wait in a state of half sleep until Heamus left his room. It was a long wait.
When the water clock struck eight I was itching for Heamus to leave, but he did not. At half past eight I was cursing him under my breath, and by nine, when he finally left, I had become sure my master had known he was leaving later than she said and had lied to keep me from First of Festival with Rufra. I waited five minutes, counting out the my-masters faster than I should have, and then ambled over to Heamus’s door. I had tied my picks inside the sleeve of my jerkin and dropped them into my hand with a twitch of my shoulders. Standing with my back to the door so I could see both ways down the corridor I worked the lock behind me. Usually this was a frustrating way to work but the lock on Heamus’s door was so simple it clicked open almost immediately. With a quick glance around I let myself in.
Inside was nothing of the man. No personal mementos, no trophies of battle, no ornaments or reading material. It was like the cell of a hermit. A thin hard bed with one blanket sat against one wall and opposite stood a sturdy set of drawers which came to my knee. On top of the drawers was a washbasin, a rag and a candle. The dim light in the room came from a skylight above the door that let in reflected light from the corridor, but like most inner rooms in the keep it was a gloomy little place. I had brought a stub of candle with me—nothing surer to give you away than using the candles already in the room—and lit it. I used the light to check under the bed—nothing. Then I checked through the drawers. Clothes mostly. In the bottom drawer I found a tidily curled five-tailed whip and an oddly shaped knife. Something about the drawer bothered me, so I removed the whip and the knife. Beneath them was a badly fitted false bottom and beneath that two packages of notes. One was slim, no more than one sheet, and the other fatter and tied with ribbon. I slid out a note from the tied package. It was an old and faded love letter. The rest of the package was more letters, all in the same handwriting until I came to the final letter which had clearly been written by someone else and read simply, “I am sorry, Heamus, but Mathilda died in childbirth. The baby also.”
I sat back. “Oh, poor Heamus,” I said to myself, remembering the look on his face when he had told me he had loved a girl once. I could only imagine these letters were from her. Why had he lied and told me she still lived? Maybe it was easier for him that way. Like the magic roiling within me, maybe his lover’s death was something he could only cope with if he hid it from himself. Making sure I put the letters back in the correct order I replaced them and opened the
second package.
I dropped it immediately.
It was a single piece of vellum. Written on it were symbols. The lines and curls made no sense to me, but they writhed and moaned in my mind and left a taste in my mouth like I had been forcing down rotting meat. I tried to commit them to memory but, as with the magic, my mind slid off them. I couldn’t understand why. My memory was prodigious. I had practised and practised and could commit to memory whole pages after only a glance. But these symbols defied me, and it soon became clear that if I continued to stare at them my stomach would rebel and I would end up leaving undeniable proof someone had been here. Touching the paper to pick it up felt like handling hot irons. I tidied it away as best I could and replaced the false bottom, put the whip and the knife in the drawer and left.
As I made my way to our rooms I heard the water clock strike half past nine and cursed. Rufra would not be waiting for me any longer, but it was important I tell my master what I had found. Something about those symbols would not leave me.
My master sprang up from her cot the minute I entered.
“Girton?”
“Yes, Master. I have found something in Heamus’s room.”
“Good,” she said, and pushed herself up. Where she had been lying down her black hair was mussed and sticking out at odd angles. “But before you tell me I must speak to you.”
“Yes?” I wondered whether she was about to tell me off again.
“What I said earlier, about your friendships …” She ran a hand through her hair, as she often did when worried. “I cannot apologise for the truth in my words, Girton, but I apologise for speaking in haste and anger.”
“I understand, Master.” I had never heard her sound so sad and it melted away the anger in me like the sun melts snow. “I have things to tell you.”
“You will be late for First of Festival.”
“Not if I am quick. I have two things and then a question.”
“Well, speak, Girton.”
“First, I came across Neander in a disused part of the castle.”
“Why was he there?”
