Age of Assassins

by Rj Barker

  “Yes, but …”

  “But?”

  She stood and walked to the door, leaning her head against it. “I have been among them all for days now. They all spy on each other but they are generally a small and timid lot. I have not yet met one I think would risk voicing an opinion Adran may disagree with, never mind one who would plot against her.” She turned to me, her make-up leaving a smear of black on the honey-coloured pine of the door. “Doran ap Mennix picked his sycophants well, mostly. Which brings me to tonight.”

  “I see you have put out a nightsuit,” I gestured at the black clothing on the bed.

  “Yes, hastily stitched but it should hold together. I hope you have not grown too much since the last time I made you clothes.” She stepped towards me and placed her hand gently on the side of my head. “You are nearly a man now, Girton. Sometimes I forget.”

  “I do not feel grown up, Master.”

  She shook herself out of her reverie and took her hand away from my face. “Tonight Adran throws a feast for the guards. I will perform Death’s Count.”

  “That is a children’s rhyme, Master.”

  “I know. Stay long enough to be seen, in case any ask where you were, but after I perform there will be uproar and Adran will command me to dance again. I will do something less patronising. Her ministers at the top table will have to stay but you can use the uproar to sneak out. No one will be paying attention to a squire. Return here, blacken your hands and face and put on the nightsuit. Two floors up and three across is the room of Neander the priest. Search it. One floor down from there and one across you will find the room of Daana ap Dhyrrin. Search that too. Find me something, Girton—anything.” She sounded almost desperate but her face remained an unreadable deathmask. “Now get ready,” she said.

  “A kilt?”

  “You are spared that; tonight is to be informal.”

  “Well, small mercies are all one can expect of dead gods.”

  “Have you suddenly become religious, Girton?”

  “When I must climb the sheer face of a castle in full view of anyone below? Yes.” I knew I sounded moody, but she laughed, short and sharp, before leaving the room to make her way to the main hall. Soon after, I followed.

  Soldiers filled the benches, the noise of their drunken chatter like a wall, and even unarmoured the cloying smell of rancid fat and sweat clung to them. A whole bench across the centre of the room was unoccupied. About two thirds of the guards sat before it, while the rest, with occasional splashes of red, were behind. Every so often food would be thrown from one set of tables at the other, but it was good-natured and the room was filled with laughter. As I fought through to my place on the front bench I saw why. Gusteffa, the king’s jester, was staging a mock fight with a tame bear. She wore a skirt of red which had been cut and shaped to move like the legs of a mount, two twigs in a crown served as antlers. I took great joy in Gusteffa’s performance, but while I laughed at her I also listened to those around me. I sat among the larger group of guards, loyalists, and quickly learned they were not loyal to Aydor; it was his mother they respected. Now I understood at least a little of why Daana ap Dhyrrin had felt able to talk so freely of treason. His son would outlive Queen Adran and, unless she worked a miracle, Aydor would find little loyalty in his own castle.

  Gusteffa finished her act with the bear, the end of which seemed needlessly cruel. At the last she produced a spear and slashed the bear’s throat with it, leaving a pool of blood and a smear of red across the floor as servants dragged the animal’s corpse out. I wondered whether this had been done to inconvenience my master, but it did not bother her. She walked into the area before the top table, approached the pool of bear blood and bent down and dipped her fingers in it. Then she smeared her cheeks with red like a warrior of old and assumed the start position while waiting for the guards to quieten.

  When they did she went through a set of acrobatic manoeuvres that earned a huge cheer and then fell into the posture of the teller.

  And then the dance really began.

  Death’s Count

  One is for Xus, the god left after strife,

  I am Xus the unseen the god who takes life.

  Two is for sorcerers who ravage the land,

  I am Xus the unseen, all come to my hand.

  Three is for blood, drip, drip life is bidden,

  I am Xus the unseen, always there, always hidden.

  Four for the living who make and they mend,

  I am Xus the unseen, I bring them their end.

  Five for the thankful to whom life is a gift,

  I am Xus the unseen, see them oft on my list.

  Six is for blessed whose hands guide us all,

  I am Xus the unseen, see them rise see them fall.

  Seven is for priests with masks and with books,

  I am Xus the unseen, leave the priests as they’re loved.

  Eight is for sourings where nothing exists,

  I am Xus the unseen, blame yourselves for those gifts.

  Nine is for mounts—

  wild, free and strong,

  I am Xus the unseen, even mounts heed my song.

  Ten is for rebirth, to be bought with Xus’ life,

  I am Xus the unseen, how can death ever die?

  It was a child’s rhyme more generally performed to amuse the very young. My master performed it exceptionally, drawing it out and making every rhyme poignant and sad, but the guards had no interest in her art. They wanted, and expected, something filled with bawdiness and fighting, and to them being presented with a children’s song was an insult. There was an explosion of noise in the hall. Food and cups were thrown at my master but she was nimble and easily dodged the missiles. As I pushed my way along the benches to the door, my master pulled silly faces at the angry crowd and jumped around ensuring all attention was on her. If Queen Adran had not stood and demanded quiet they would have ripped my master apart.

  Or tried to.

  “Quiet!” shouted the queen. “You are blessed to witness a performance by Death’s Jester.” More shouting. Most loudly from the rear benches where Adran was not loved. “And as you all know Death’s Jester is allowed to choose its own dance.” More shouting, and she held up her hands for quiet. “However, as queen I also have tradition on my side, and I may choose another dance if I am displeased with the first.” She paused, staring out into the quietening room and I marvelled at how easily she suddenly held the guards, even the ones who disliked her, in the palm of her hand. “So I ask you,” she said softly, “am I displeased?”

  A roar of “Yes!” went up, and it was hard not to admire how simply she bound these two disparate groups together.

  “Very well, Death’s Jester. You have displeased my guards and in doing so you have displeased me. You will give my loyal guards the story of how the first king defeated the three sorcerers.”

  Another roar went up. This is always a popular story, though it was more suited to travelling mummers than an artist like my master.

  Before she had even started, I had left to begin my journey across the walls of the castle.

  Chapter 18

  My stomach looped and twirled like a black bird in flight as I transferred my weight from the window ledge to fingertips lodged in the brittle mortar of the wall. I had fashioned a climbing device, a piece of wood with nails sticking from it in place of my useless toes, and had lashed it around my malformed foot so tightly it made me gasp with pain every time I found a foothold.

  A bitter wind, tinged with the scent of sulphur, was blowing out of the sourlands to batter Castle Maniyadoc and wrap itself around me with icy fingers, before gathering its strength and trying to rip me from the wall. It thrust my hair into my eyes and numbed my hands and feet. Again I had the feeling of the wind as a living thing—malevolent—beating just out of time with my heart and waiting for the moment when I loosened my grip or found a toehold that would crumble before it tried to push me from my roost, high above the courtyard. I was than
kful when I entered the lee of the side walls, where I found respite from the wind’s grasping currents.

  In the courtyard below I watched toys of people I knew march around the water clock and hoped they did not look up. I had decided against the rope and nails. Even with its coating of soot, the rope was still pale, and a quick glance upwards would have given me away, so I climbed the hard way—free hand. Occasionally I found a stone sticking out, probably a support for the scaffolds used to raise the keep, and would hang from it and gather my breath for a while. On one such rest stop I heard voices—familiar but not clear enough to give names to. The wind distorted the voices by elongating the vowels or turning consonants into hisses that sounded like ghosts, conversing about the secrets only the dead knew.

  “… have had enough …”

  “… this … or duty …”

  I tried to pinpoint where they came from. Leaning back to listen.

  “… sick of … cruelties …”

  First they came from one place then another as the wind bounced the sounds around me.

  “… then you doom us all …”

  And they were gone. All I knew was they had come from within the castle and not below. Had I heard something important or something of no consequence? Plotters talking of assassination or chamber boys talking of broken crockery and mean overseers?

  There was no way to tell so I put it aside and continued my climb. Twice I dislodged loose bricks which skittered and clattered down into the courtyard while I hugged the wall, hoping no one too sharp-eyed would look up.

  When I reached two floors above our room I started to make my way across the wall, my arms burned with strain as I returned to the capricious arms of the wind, though its determination to see me dashed to the ground had waned a little. I paused at the window of Neander’s room. The priest set me on edge and there was definitely something off with him. Not only had he hinted at gathering allies when he had spoken to me but I had found him sneaking around a derelict area of the castle. Whether that made him likely to be the one hiring an assassin I did not know, and he seemed close to Adran. Though, in my experience, a closeness often made someone more likely to want to kill than not. I listened for any sound within and, hearing nothing, thanked Xus the unseen and gently pushed the greased canvas away from the window, letting myself into the welcome warmth of the room. I took a moment to thaw my hands, which had become like claws, in front of Neander’s banked fire while wishing I was back in the main hall chucking apple ferment down my gullet until my stomach chose to throw it back up.

  Once I had finished feeling sorry for myself I set about my task.

  Neander’s quarters were full of knick-knacks. A priest is meant to live an austere life, but he clearly cared little for it. Worse, the room was filthy and dust coated everything. He may simply have been slovenly, but he was a clever man and it was as likely he knew a coating of dust would give away a careless intruder.

  But I am not careless.

  Sewn into my underwear was a garrotte chain, an extremely fine chain with tiny metal teeth cast into it. It had been a present on the day my master had deemed my fourteenth birthday and was one of my most treasured possessions. I did not intend to garrotte anyone with it, and if I had to I would have failed in my mission. Instead I used it as a marker—before I lifted an object I lay the chain around its bottom so I knew exactly where to return it to.

  In some ways the dust made my task easier. I could see what had been recently disturbed and avoided anything with more than the lightest coating of dust, knowing it had not been moved for a long time. Once I had checked something dusty over, I took a bottle of false dust, made by sloughing off my own skin with a rough sponge, from my inner pocket and used it to cover anywhere I had disturbed.

  From the dust it appeared Neander only ever touched a few of his books and only ever sat in one chair. Paths showed where he walked between his bed, the wardrobe, the fire and his desk. I ran my hand under his bed but left the covers alone as it would be impossible to put them back as they were. I checked under bottles, under cups and anywhere anything of interest could be hidden, but found nothing. Finally I checked his book of names. Mine was the last name written in it, and in the back of the book I found the only interesting thing in Neander’s room, though I could not fathom what it meant. Groups of letters, set out in columns: RTK, ATK, DTS, VTSm, HTQC and ZAG.

  It looked like there was some pattern but I could not fathom the code. It could be something of religious significance or a shopping list. I memorised the sequence, thinking that maybe my master could make sense of it, then left the room the way I had come in and continued my exploration of the keep’s walls. Below me I heard Rufra’s voice.

  “… an arrow in my back?”

  Then Tomas.

  “… not … Hallin. When … kill … will be … to face.”

  I hoped whatever argument they were having would stop them looking up and at the same time wondered why Tomas hated Rufra so much. A breeze wrapped itself around me just as a stone I was using as a handhold fractured under my weight. I let out a yelp as I clung on to my one remaining handhold.

  “What was that?” Rufra’s voice from far below as I dangled from the cold stone by an aching arm. The damp seeped through my nightsuit as the throb of tiring muscles seeped into my bones.

  “What was what?” Tomas’s voice.

  “I heard … thing.”

  “Spooked by … dark, Rufra?”

  Rufra chose not to answer. I could see the pale oval of his face staring up at the walls. He stared for a long time, and my arm was trembling with the effort of holding my weight. Suddenly I wanted to laugh. How terrible would it be if I was to be discovered by my only friend? Eventually, he shook his head and walked away. Then I found myself in the awful position of having to choose speed over care, crabbing across the wall as quickly as I could and hoping my burning muscles wouldn’t betray me and twitch or cramp at the wrong time, sending me falling to my death. It felt like it took an age to reach Daana ap Dhyrrin’s window. I barely even checked to see if the room was occupied before dragging myself over the stone lip of the windowsill and falling onto his carpeted floor.

  As the heat of the room warmed my frozen hands the hot aches hit, and to avoid crying out in pain I had to bite down so hard I thought I would crack my teeth. There was little I could do while I waited for the agony to pass and tears of pain streamed from my eyes. When the burning started to leave my hands it bit into my feet, and my club foot felt like it had been plunged into a fire. I fell to the floor and curled up into a whimpering ball, counting out my-masters until the misery passed.

  When I could walk again, I examined the room.

  It was far tidier than Neander’s, and if a man’s room was emblematic of his mind then Daana ap Dhyrrin was the exact opposite of the priest. No dust at all, and his books were stacked neatly. A square decanter of apple liquor and a matching glass were placed on the desk so their corners lined up perfectly with the corner of sthe shining darkwood top. Thankfully, his noisy lizards were with him at the feast. At the first sign of a stranger they would have squawked or spat venom at me.

  I was twice as careful in Daana’s room as I had been in Neander’s—a tidy man likes things just so and is more likely to notice something out of place. I took out my chain garrotte and started going through the books on his desk, though I found nothing except that he had an interest in folklore and a love of old books. I memorised some of the book titles as they were unfamiliar to me.

  A sheaf of vellum pages had been laid out on his desk. The top one had Rufra’s name on it, and I leafed through them to find they all read the same apart from the names. “I, Rufra ap Vthyr, request the heir, Aydor ap Mennix, be removed from Rider training.” Rufra had told me some squires had written to request Aydor’s removal, but I was surprised to see there were even a couple of requests from boys I thought of as Aydor’s cronies. Not that it mattered. Daana had clearly decided to ignore them and had started to sc
rape the vellums clean. The word “training” on Rufra’s request was already so faded as to be barely readable.

  Under the vellum was an elaborate family tree showing the ap Dhyrrin’s claim to the throne. There was little doubt that it was stronger than that of the ap Mennix, who ruled currently, but such things mattered little when King Doran had won loyalty with the edge of his blade. It was clear that Daana ap Dhyrrin intended his great-grandson to take the throne at some point in the future. But would he really be so blatant if he had contracted an assassin?

  Why did the queen put up with him?

  What hold did he have over her?

  I resumed searching. In the bin I found some slips of paper that had been scrawled on and ripped up. As I studied them I heard the water clock strike twelve. The feast would be finishing now. I stared at the torn slips of paper, trying to make some sense of them; they appeared to be nothing but angular doodles. Signs of a violent mind maybe but that was hardly a crime in the Tired Lands. I dropped the papers back in the bin. They fluttered through golden, luminescent air. Pain stabbed into my head, needles behind my eyes, and the lines on the paper connected in such a way as to remind me of the signs I had seen in Heamus’s room. I squeezed my eyes shut to banish the pain, a sure sign of too much exertion. Then I dipped into the bin and set about making a quick jigsaw of the bits of paper until I saw a definite familiarity, though these symbols did not carry the same sense of revulsion and sat easily in my memory. Surely Doran ap Mennix’s right hand would never mix himself up in magic?

  I went to the window, readying myself to go out again. The wind had come up and it howled around the keep, making my heart sink. My arms were so tired and my club foot so painful I was not sure I could make it back without falling. I cursed myself for not chancing the rope or at least knocking in some nails. I glanced down, and as if to reinforce my worries the priest of Xus appeared by the water clock in the keep’s courtyard. The gibbous moon of his mask was angled straight up at me. Surely an omen.