by Rj Barker
“Ministering to his flock, he said, but I have seen how empty his book of names is and do not believe him.”
“Good work, Girton. It does sound odd. Since we have been here I don’t think Neander has been near his buried chapel.”
“There is more. In Heamus’s room I found a five-tailed whip and a strangely shaped knife.”
“Did the knife have a kink a third of a way along the edge, so it curled in on itself?”
“Yes. But that is not all. I found a vellum covered in symbols that made me feel …”
“Ill?” she asked, and I nodded. “The Landsman’s Leash.” She looked like she wanted to spit. “Little wonder you found it unpleasant; it is a filthy thing. The Landsmen use the knife to carve the symbols into the flesh of magic users.” I shuddered at the thought. “It stops a magician accessing their power. Other parts of it cause pain or fear, but little is known as the Landsmen guard their secrets as fiercely as we guard ours. If Heamus has a copy it may be he has not left the Landsmen at all. On the other hand, they could be souvenirs and mean nothing. He was a Landsman for a long time.”
“But that is not all, Master.” I told her about the letters and Heamus’s love affair as a young man.
“That is interesting,” she said. “If these letters were all from the same women it gives him a motive, for revenge against the king at least.”
“Maybe he assists Adran in poisoning the king?”
“Possibly. Though she needs no help on that count.”
“But he lost a child too.” I felt guilty about throwing suspicion on a man I liked, but when I thought about the symbols and how it must feel to have them carved on your flesh a large part of my guilt vanished. “A child for a child. The death of Aydor would not be a huge leap to take for a vengeful man.”
She nodded slowly and chewed on her thumbnail. “You are right, Girton, absolutely right. It seems Heamus is another we must keep a close eye on.” She gathered her blanket around herself. “But our suspicions are for tomorrow, Girton.” A little light entered her voice and she took a slip of vellum from inside her black jerkin and gave it to me. It was a signed letter from the queen allowing me to go through the keepyard gate that night. “Go and meet your friend. Leave what you are here for tonight. Go to First of Festival without burden. Be nothing but a boy. Do nothing but enjoy yourself.”
Chapter 14
A long snaking queue of well dressed men, women and children destroyed any chance I may have had of meeting Rufra. When I got near the front I interrupted an argument the guard on the keepyard gate was having with a well dressed woman and showed him my letter from the queen. He looked it over and then looked me over and, grudgingly, let me through before returning to his argument. Traditionally, First of Festival is a holiday and everyone in the castles and towns Festival visits, guards included, but not tonight. Adran had decreed the castle guards would be on duty to protect the heir, and as I walked away it sounded like the guard was enjoying ruining First of Festival for others as it had been ruined for him.
Festival was arranged as concentric circles of tents and caravans with a wooden wall enclosing the centre and gateways into the greater Festival at each compass point. That afternoon the first livestock had come in, and in the outer circles the smell of animal droppings mingled with woodsmoke. I had seen Festival before but only from afar; this was the first time I had ever visited it and I don’t think I had ever been anywhere as busy or unfamiliar.
Outside the gate there was no sign of Rufra, but the night was thick with the smell of woodsmoke and the sound of music and excited people. Inside Festival’s wooden walls, huge fires had been lit to keep the chill at bay, and the tents and caravans threw capering shadows. I searched around the Festival gate for any sign of Rufra in case he had waited inside, but it was half past the hour of ten, and I had not really expected him to have waited so long for me, so I headed into Festival alone hoping to run into him. It was strange to move through the night without my master and without having to worry about being seen. Clouds had come in to block the stars and moon and where the light of the fires did not reach, the darkness was absolute. I understood why Festival worried Queen Adran now. It was a perfect place for an assassin, and I imagine the queen had made sure Aydor was locked up tight in his room. People loomed out of the night: a thankful wrapped in sacking, a Festival guard in black and red, groups of blessed from the castle in their ragged finery.
Meat was being roasted, and soups full of spices bubbled away in huge cauldrons, the scents mixing with the fragrant smoke of fires sprinkled with herbs that made them burn with strangely coloured flames, blue, green and red. A huge bonfire in the centre of Festival attempted to scorch the sky. It had been fenced off to stop drunk people falling into it and was surrounded by a ring of stalls and entertainments. The Festival Lords’ huge caravans loomed over the people; black and red flags hung limp in the still air, the palisade walls had been painted with the symbols of Adallada, queen of the dead gods, on one side of the huge gate, and of Dallad, her consort and the god of balance, on the other. Outside the high king’s palace these symbols were seldom seen and were a silent reminder of the Festival Lords’ power. Hedgings, some horned, some made of twists of branch and grass, danced around the feet of the gods, in supplication to the masters they had served before the wars of balance.
I continued to search for Rufra, but in the heaving mass of people I had little chance of finding him. Stilt walkers moved through the crowd handing out drinks, and fire breathers shot huge plumes of flame into the air. Hucksters shouted their wares; cymbal bands played loudly to scare away hedgings; singers wailed along with them, and together with the roar of the bonfire it was almost impossible to hear anything. Whichever part of me faced the huge fire was always too hot, while whichever side faced away was too cold. All together Festival was as exciting as it was uncomfortable.
I bought a stick of spiced meat from a Meredari trader with bone-white skin, and a cup of alcohol to replace the one I had just finished then wandered aimlessly among the stalls looking at things I had no money for: bright materials, small statues of the Festival Lords in traditional dress, dolls made from corn stalks and so many different types of food it made my head spin.
Another drink.
Was this what it was like to be normal? To not have a care?
My face sweated and the world became a whirl of colours.
I would never be normal.
The dark mouths of alleys between tents and caravans gaped, and in each one I saw an opportunity. I saw thieves working the crowds and lifting purses. When one tried to ply her trade on me I could not resist using the Shy Maid, a double sidestep, to send her sprawling in the mud. The longer I stayed and the more I drank the more being surrounded by so many people made me feel like I was being followed, even if I thought it for no other reason than I knew how easy it would be. I started to become sure that every person who passed stared at me. I no longer saw bodies and people, I only saw eyes because that was where any threat began. If I was to be attacked I would see it there just as I had seen that thief mark me as an easy target in a glance she gave as I passed a stall filled with teetering piles of clay pots and plates.
A stilt walker, so dark-complexioned he seemed made of night, handed me another drink and I knocked it back. I considered heading for the stables but knew it was more likely Drusl would be here. Among the people.
All the people.
The need to get out came upon me in a rushing wave of fear and nausea. Maybe it would have been different if Rufra or Drusl had been there to distract me. Maybe it was the effect of the alcohol, which was sickly sweet and easy to drink. I was not used to alcohol and it fuddled all my senses, making me feel more vulnerable than I ever had before. Whatever it was, the urge to escape became overwhelming. I turned my back on Festival, on the food and the entertainments and, in a stumbling run, made my back towards the keepyard gate.
My sense of direction, which was usually so good, now betrayed me, and I cursed
every drink I had taken. My night vision had been ruined by the fires, and once in the dark I saw only amorphous blobs of colour which spun slowly and added to my nausea. I knew I was heading away from the centre of Festival, because the noise was slowly dying away behind me to be replaced by the grunting of pigs, but I couldn’t tell in which direction I went. I left through a different gate to the one I had entered through and ended up on the far side of Festival in an alley between caravans and the townyard wall. The stink there was as loud as the noise of the hogs and I rubbed my eyes, trying to rid them of the after-images of the fires. I turned from the pigs; figures crowded the other end of the alley. Five, maybe six people, but it was hard to tell in the dark smoky air and with my mind fogged by alcohol. I heard laughter and muttering and felt sure they wanted nothing good. I fell into the position of readiness. In hand-to-hand combat I should be able to escape five brigands easily enough. Surprise would be my ally; they would not expect a boy to be so well trained in martial skills.
Wisps of alcoholic fog blew from my mind. What if these were not brigands? Rufra had warned me that events in the squireyard had consequences outside it. If these were squires coming to administer a punishment beating then fighting back was not an option if I wanted to keep up the fiction of Girton ap Gwynr.
Why had I been such a fool? Rufra had warned me not to walk about alone.
Or had Rufra lured me here? It had been his idea for me to come to First of Festival. What if he had never been by the keepyard gate? Never been my friend at all?
And if they were brigands and I did not defend myself? My life could end here with a quick blade between my ribs and my body pitched in with the pigs. There would be nothing left of me in the morning.
“Lost, boy?”
The voice was almost recognisable behind the muffling effect of a cloth mask. Did I know it?
“Who asks?” I said into the darkness, and words were said in return. What words? I could not hear them properly. It could have been “It’s him,” or it could have been “Get him.”
Breathe …
No time.
Brigands or squires?
Death or the shame of giving myself away?
With a roar I ran at the figures, my arms windmilling just as a boy with no idea how to defend himself would do. I heard laughter and as I approached the nearest figure sidestepped, leaving a foot in my way and sending me sprawling onto the filthy ground. Then the kicking began. I curled myself into a ball and did my best to roll with each kick to minimise the damage done. The beating seemed to go on for a long time but there were too many of them and they got in each other’s way, that and my rolling protected me from the worst of it. Once they had tired themselves they stood back and I heard the scratch of a flint. A torch flared into life.
Six men. Two hung back—they could have been squires as they were a little smaller in build, but it was hard to tell as they were behind the light of the torch. The other four were definitely not squires—too big. My bet would have been on guards but they could also be hired ruffians. Plenty in the Tired Lands would happily take coin to hurt another.
“Show me his face.” Rough hands on my body, pulling me to my knees, and then my hair pulled so my face was in the torchlight. “This definitely him?”
“Yes.” Whoever spoke did so quietly, too quietly for me to decide if I knew them.
“Girton ap Gwynr, I have a message for you, country boy—” I knew the voice, I was sure of it “—a message about knowing your place among your betters. Ain’tn’t you in the right place now, eh? In the pig shit!” A round of laughter. “You understand, cripple?” I tried to nod but was held too tightly to move. “In future you shoot your bow like a fool from the country and learn to respect your betters.” The hand holding my hair let go. “Wait,” said the speaker. I could not see his face for the torch but the voice, I knew the voice. “I have my own score to settle with this boy.” A knife glinted in the torchlight, an invisible hand gripped my stomach. Dollis. That was the voice. It was Dollis, the man who had locked me in with the dogs. I tried to kick out but I was too well held. “I can think of a way to ensure that he never outshoots anyone again, and to settle a score of me own.” He laughed and then growled out, “Hold him still.” I struggled but it was in vain. The men who held me were strong. “Told you in that drinking hole, didn’t I, boy? Always fancied scarring a blessed. So, you favour your left eye or your right eye?”
“No,” said one of the figures in the background. “That was not what you were told to do.” I was sure it was one of the blond twins, Boros or Barin, who spoke.
“Quiet or I’ll do you too!” roared Dollis “The cripple insulted me—this is between me and him.” He pulled down his cloth mask so I could see the grin on his face and the gleam in his eye. “I might even go down as low as ten bits for your information after this, boy, if you survive. He cackled, and the point of the blade grew huge and silver in my vision.
I threw up, hot vomit spewing from my mouth. Dollis laughed.
“Scared of a bit of pain?” He grabbed my hair, bending my head back and starting to bring the point of his knife down. “Not feeling so blessed now, are you?”
His fun was interrupted by a single, quietly spoken, word.
“Enough.”
Dollis turned. His grip on my hair loosened so I could turn my head to see a stocky figure standing between the two shadows who I thought were the twins.
“This is castle business,” said Dollis. “Who are you to tell me enough?”
“You know who I am. The boy’s learned his lesson; now leave him be and we’ll agree never to speak of this or each other again.” I knew the voice of the speaker but alcohol and panic had left me confused.
“Nywulf,” said Dollis. “Ain’t no need for you to interfere here.” He walked away from me and towards Nywulf. As he came within arm’s reach of the squiremaster he began to speak again, “You should walk away unless you want me to t—”
Nywulf’s arm shot out, and Dollis’s sentence ended in a scream. He fell to his knees in the filth, clutching his face and sobbing in agony.
“Anyone else?” shouted Nywulf. “Anyone else want to argue with me?” No one answered. “Then go.” The remaining five men and boys streamed past Nywulf while Dollis remained kneeling in the mud moaning with his hands clasped to his face. Nywulf stalked over to me. “Did they hurt you, boy?” he said surprisingly gently.
“No worse than after sword practice.”
He pulled me up and helped me walk to the end of the alley between the caravans. Lying in the mud in front of Dollis was his eye. Nywulf had plucked it out. “One moment, Girton,” he said and walked back to Dollis. He placed one hand on the man’s chin and one on the back of his neck. “Are you ready, Captain?” he asked. Before Dollis had time to reply Nywulf broke the man’s neck with a vicious twist of his upper body. Then he picked up Dollis’s limp corpse and threw it over a fence. The excited squealing of hungry pigs filled the air and I realised, with dismay, I would never find out who had ordered me locked in with the dogs. “No remembrance parade for him,” said Nywulf. “No great loss either. Come on, boy.”
“Thank you, Nywulf,” I said, staring at the heaving mass of animals. “How did you …”
“I saw you at Festival and then I saw Dollis signal to his friends and follow you. He’s up to no good, I thought.”
“I think the other squires—”
“Will be sorted out if they had anything to do with this. But that is for me to do, so no reason to mention what happened tonight to anyone else, you understand?”
I nodded. Nywulf saw me up to the castle, and I did my best to sneak into our room without waking my master. I may as well have been trying to grow corn in the sourlands.
“Girton?” she said, and sat straight up. “What happened to you? You stink and are covered in filth. Are you all right? Let me see to you.”
“I am fine, Master. I was set upon is all—some of the other squires trying to settle a s
core—but I am only bruised, nothing more.”
“I have salves.” She reached for the bag she had hidden under my bed. “You saw who did this?”
“No, they were masked.”
“And you let them beat you? They could have been brigands, Girton.”
“I did not want to risk giving myself away.” I peeled off my shirt with a grunt. “And I had been drinking. I wasn’t sure—”
“Child,” she said softly, “what a world this is I have forced you into. I am glad you suffer no worse than bruises. This is not the first beating you have taken, eh?” She rubbed salve into the bruises on my arms.
“No, but you were always there before, Master. This time …” The image of the knife descending sent a shiver through me. I may as well have written a letter to my master saying I had not told her everything.
“What else happened, Girton? Was this Rufra boy part of this?”
“No, I do not think so. From what was said it was Tomas. He hired the captain of Aydor’s dayguard, Dollis, who beat me.”
“The same who was involved in locking you in the kennels?” I nodded. “You defended yourself though? Escaped?”
“No, Nywulf, the squiremaster, turned up. He saved me. Dollis feeds the pigs now.” My master helped me remove my boots and then rubbed salve into my clubbed foot. My clothes were caked in mud and pig shit. I had got it on the bed but could not bring myself to care.
“You should stay away from alcohol, Girton. You are not used to it and it is not good for—” a gap in her words “—people like us.” I stared at her as her hands worked over my twisted foot and it all seemed too much—the beatings, the magic, the fear and the lies.
“He wanted to take my eye.” The words leaked out of my mouth as if they were ashamed of being heard.
“Your eye?” Her hands paused in their movement.
“He was going to blind me, Master.” A dam broke. Tears came in great shudders and my master put her arms around me, not caring that I was filthy with pigshit, holding me the way she had done when I was a child woken by yapping nightmares. “What use is a blinded assassin, Master? Who would want me then?”
