Age of Assassins

by Rj Barker

  “It is not only me,” I said. “There are others.”

  “Bring them.”

  “They would not come. They have given their word, and besides we could not hide in Festival. It is the assassins who do not allow one of their own to live when exposed. They would find us wherever we went.”

  He stared at me as he worked through what I had said and I could see the same hurt and betrayal in his eyes that I had felt in the training yard. He was concentrating so ferociously I realised that he wanted, as much as I did, to reclaim our friendship.

  “You’re here to stop a killing?” He studied my face as if searching for some trace of a lie.

  “Yes.”

  Rufra took a step towards me.

  “What do your assassin friends think of that?” He watched me, waiting patiently while I stared at the floor, trying to find a reply in the dirt and finding nothing. And though I had been trained that silence was the best option I decided on honesty instead.

  “I don’t have any friends.” I raised my head, so he could read the truth from my eyes. “You are the first friend I have ever had and now even that is ruined.”

  He blinked, slowly, like a morning lizard before it trills its call.

  “You could not tell anyone what you are,” he said, sounding out each word as if tasting it, “because the queen made you promise not to?” I nodded. “Made you promise, on pain of death,” he added.

  “Yes,” I said, “on pain of death.”

  A smile broke over his face. It was as if a wind had risen to blow away all the hurt and puzzlement he felt and I knew a solution had presented itself to him. “Then you did not lie to me, Girton.”

  “I didn’t?”

  “No.” He smiled. “You really are a hostage. Just like you said.”

  “But I did lie. My name is not ap Gwynr and I am no fool with a blade”

  “No, but you are a hostage. Hiding who you are is part of your hostage conditions … so you have acted entirely honourably, and besides—” he shrugged and the echo of something dark returned to his face “—we all have secrets.” Then he brightened. “And as to your skill with a blade? Well, I would not be here to be angry with you without it.”

  He picked up his sword and then sat by me with his legs slightly apart and the blade tip down in the dirt between them, his hands resting on the hilt. At first the silence between us was uncomfortable, and I could barely believe he would forgive so quickly.

  Then he spoke softly:

  “Maybe it was two weeks training with the blade.” He did a poor impression of my voice and laughed to himself. “You know how time flies when you are doing something you enjoy.” He chuckled again. “That was a clever thing to say. I can never think of clever things to say. It made you sound like a hero from the old stories.”

  “That is because I stole it from the old stories. Gwyfher the bladesmistress says it in the tale of the Angered Maiden.”

  He looked at me disbelievingly. “You stole it from a child’s tale?” He looked so outraged that it struck me as ridiculous. That same hysteria that had bonded us fell upon us again and we could not stop laughing. In moments we were leaning against each other and so helpless with laughter that it hurt. Eventually, our laughter died down and a more comfortable silence fell.

  “That is an awful sword,” I said, pointing at his blade. “I would have been embarrassed if you had killed me with such a terrible blade.”

  More laughter, but it did not last as long.

  “I’ll have you know, Girton ap Whatever-it-might-be, that this sword has a long history of being given to the least popular members of my family, and contributing to their unheroic but convenient deaths.”

  “My apologies, Blessed ap Vthyr,” I said. “I did not realise it was such a storied weapon.”

  “Aye,” he said, suddenly serious. “Sometimes, Girton, I feel like death is always at my shoulder.”

  “I am.”

  He laughed again. “Oh, don’t make me laugh any more, Girton. My head still aches from yesterday’s fight.”

  “Rufra,” I asked gently, “why did you think I may have wanted to kill you? You ran into a trap yesterday so someone clearly wants you dead, but why?”

  He turned to me and his thick brows knitted together. “You really don’t know? I hope my life never rests on your investigative skills.” He idly played the tip of his sword backwards and forwards in the dirt. “The rumour I am Neander’s son is just that. When I came here a few knew the truth and spoke of it. They feed the pigs now.”

  “What secret is so terrible?

  “Do you remember me saying that Tomas hated me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tomas hates me because he is my brother, Girton, my half-brother. I am second in line to the throne, though Adran and Daana ap Dhyrrin have buried the truth under a mountain of fear.”

  “But Tomas is older than you.”

  “Aye, by two years. What is kept secret is that Tomas is illegitimate.”

  I sat straighter. “How can that be?”

  “Our father was Dolan ap Dhyrrin, and when he was my age he was sent on an outing to make sure the ap Vthyrs knew their place and were behaving themselves. He met my mother, Acearis Vthyr. They fell in love and they married. My great-grandfather, Daana ap Dhyrrin, was disapproving and had the marriage declared improper. They said it was never consummated and quickly married Father off to someone politically useful, an ap Mennix, but he kept sneaking away. Father had also written a letter swearing he consummated the marriage with my mother and it was legal. There were witnesses too: my grandfather, my mother, my uncles and our priests.”

  “That sounds like a crowded bedchamber.”

  He tried to smile at my joke but it faded from his face.

  “They are all dead now. As is my father and his other wife, Tomas’s mother. There, now you know my secret. Are you impressed?”

  “As a friend? Not really. But as an assassin? Well, I am impressed that you have lived this long.”

  He laughed, though there was little humour in it.

  “But to answer your question—of who would want me dead. Well, first there is my uncle, Suvander, who rules the ap Vthyr. Grandfather is still remembered fondly among the ap Vthyr and my mother was always his favourite. To Uncle Suvander’s way of thinking this makes me a threat. But my death would more directly profit Tomas and his great-grandfather as I have a better claim to the throne, and even my existence is a problem for them. Aydor and his mother would also love to see me dead as my claim is as strong as the heir’s, stronger in many ways.”

  “Rufra,” I said, turning to him, “how have you survived this long? Honestly?”

  “Nywulf,” he said simply.

  “The squiremaster? But I thought he was an … I mean he looks …”

  “He was a friend to my father when they were young—they trained together here. Nywulf was meant to take over from the old Heartblade but a few weeks after my mother announced she was pregnant Nywulf turned up at our hall. He’s followed me around ever since. I don’t think he likes me much, if I’m honest. I always seem to let him down.” He dug the tip of his sword into the earth. “But I trust him.”

  “And me?”

  His brows came together again, that puzzled expression that turned an already plain face into something undeniably ugly. “It hurt when I thought you had betrayed me,” he said. Again the sword tip carved intricate little nonsense symbols in the dirt. “But I had lied also.” More scratching. Then his brows parted and he went from puzzled and ugly to plain old Rufra. “Yes. I don’t know why, Girton, but I do trust you.” He stood and put out a hand to help pull me up.

  “Thank you, Rufra,” I said. He seemed much older than me then. Maybe because, though he was a year younger, he was taller than I was. “Your friendship is precious to me.”

  We left the tent and found Nywulf waiting outside. The squiremaster stared at me for a moment and then gave a shrug. I wondered how much Rufra had told him and touch
ed my neck nervously. My hand came away wet with blood where Rufra’s sword had nicked it.

  “Here,” said Nywulf, and passed me the black scarf he wore. “I want it back tomorrow. And make sure you wash it.”

  “Yes, Nywulf.”

  “Did you tell him the truth?” The trainer looked at me.

  “Truth?”

  “You want me to say it out loud where any may hear?”

  “He did, Nywulf,” said Rufra.

  “You did know then,” I said. Nywulf nodded and a shiver ran through me. “And you let him come alone?”

  “He generally doesn’t tell me when he’s going to run off and do something foolish,” said Nywulf, staring at Rufra

  “Or brave,” said Rufra.

  “Often the same thing,” the squiremaster growled before turning to me. “He likes to sneak off alone and I have to track him down.”

  “Nywulf shares very little with me also,” said Rufra sullenly.

  “For good reason,” said Nywulf. “Did you tell him the truth as well?” Rufra nodded. “See, Girton. Boy can’t keep a secret to save his life.”

  “How did you know?” I said quietly.

  Nywulf came close enough to me that I could smell the stale sweat on him.

  “A skilled man can’t hide his skill, and I trained as a Heartblade. You’re good, boy, I’ll give you that, and if we hadn’t been stuck together I may never have picked you up.” He leaned in even closer. “And if I hadn’t picked up on you I would never have noticed the jester.” I looked at the floor, feeling like I had betrayed my master.

  “Why did you leave Rufra and I alone if you thought—”

  He spoke over me before I could say too much. “I didn’t, not at first. I tried to get rid of you.”

  I had a sudden memory: Captain Dollis, nervous in the wall tavern and wanting a huge amount of money for his information, enough money to start a new life. How he’d approached Nywulf in the alley, his words like a threat—You should walk away unless you want me to t—

  “The dogs?” I said. “You paid Dollis?”

  “Yes,” he said simply. There was no a trace of guilt. “After you escaped the dogs, I followed you looking for an opportunity to finish what Dollis didn’t. I saw plenty of times you could have tried to kill Rufra and yet you did not. In fact, your friendship with him seemed real.” He glanced at Rufra and spoke quietly. “He deserves a friend, needs one.” Then he leaned in and grabbed my arm. It hurt but there was no menace in it, just a natural fierceness. “And you saved him in the wood,” he said. “I owe you that, and I never forget a debt.”

  “But you saved me from the attackers in—”

  “A small thing, boy, and it only made up for what I did to you in the kennels. Besides, I wanted rid of Dollis. That was why I was following him that night. Man couldn’t be trusted to keep his mouth shut.” His grip tightened on my arm. “I owe you,” he said again, and then walked away.

  “I am not sure whether having Nywulf owe me makes my life more or less frightening,” I said.

  “I have felt like that all my life.” Rufra grinned. “Girton, Festival will be gone soon. Let me show you it properly, like I wanted to before.”

  “I have already seen Festival.”

  “No, not truly. You have only seen the surface.”

  “Rufra!” We both turned at the shout.

  A Rider approached us, small with the familiar rolling gate of one who spent more time on a mount than off. The Rider’s armour was the red and black check of the Festival Lords, but as he came closer I saw the colour had been recently applied and in places I could see purple and green below.

  “Cearis?” said Rufra, looking puzzled.

  “Aye!” The Rider’s lifted his visor and, to my shock, revealed a woman beneath; scarred and rough-skinned from a hard life, but unmistakably female.

  Rufra’s face lit up.

  “Girton, this is my Aunt Cearis. I told you about her—she taught me the bow. Aunt, this is my friend, Girton—” a pause “—Girton ap Gwynr.”

  The Rider held out her hand. “I am Cearis ap Vthyr and well pleased to meet a friend of Rufra.”

  As I shook her hand, Rufra spoke:

  “Why are you here, Cearis? And why are you wearing Festival colours?”

  “My brother, Suvander, becomes less and less enamoured with the old ways every day.”

  “Uncle has stopped women from riding out?”

  She shook her head and her amour creaked.

  “Not yet, well, not as of a week ago which is how long the journey here took, but it would not take a tracker to smell his intention in the air. He’s finally thrown his lot in with the ap Mennix and is busily adopting all their ways in exchange for a smell of power. Neander has been trying to convince him to unsaddle his women for years, but something has changed recently.”

  “Changed?”

  “Messages from Maniyadoc, repositioning of his Riders and troops and gentle suggestions that I should spend more time in the long hall than on a warmount.” I did not need to see her face—though she looked like she had smelt something bad—to feel her disgust. “I am a poor seamstress as you know, Rufra, and rather than risk the ridicule of the ladies I chose to come here and see if Festival would have me.” She left a long pause. “Of course, your uncle has never been our most popular leader, has he?”

  She left that hanging, and Rufra’s eyes shone at what she implied.

  “Your troops must miss you,” he said quietly.

  “Only those that stayed, Blessed” she said equally quietly. What was being said was dangerous, and I felt like I should step away, but Rufra’s friendship was only just won back and I would not jeopardise it. “I am fifteen strong, Rufra. We wear Festival colours for convenience but we have sworn to no one, not yet. Your uncle has forty knights but we are better warriors and better Riders, far better, and not all of his forty are loyal to him. Some wait to see the direction of the wind and all still remember your grandfather.”

  Rufra’s step slowed to a stop and for a moment I saw something fierce in his eyes. Then he shook his head.

  “Cearis, such talk here will get you a knife in the back,” he said sadly. He stepped closer to her and unconsciously I used the Assassin’s Ear to listen in. “Even if we took the ap Vthyr lands, Aydor ap Mennix, his mother and the ap Dhyrrin would never stand for me in power, you know that. They would bring everything they had against us. I would need to hold somewhere as strong as Maniyadoc to stand a chance.”

  “But the Festival Lords—”

  “Would stand back and wait. They take sides in Maniyadoc and then every other blessed in the Tired Lands will look upon them with suspicion.”

  Cearis stared into his eyes and then, with a sad smile, shook her head.

  “Wise beyond your years, boy,” she said. “Sometimes I see so much of my sister in you it makes me ache.” With that she did a curious thing, she lifted her head to expose her throat to him. Then she turned on her heel and walked away.

  “What was that she did, Rufra? When she lifted her head?”

  “A gesture of respect from a Rider to their blessed, Girton. She was exposing herself to my blade. It’s one of the old ways. Now come. Festival awaits.” I followed him, risking a surreptitious glance behind me at the ground I had stood on while I listened, but there was no circle of death from my trick. “We should find Drusl too,” he added.

  “Yes,” I said. My heart leaped and all dark thoughts of magic were swept away.

  “You,” said Rufra, grabbing a passing slave. The boy looked terrified until Rufra produced a coin. “Go to Drusl at the stables. Tell her Girton and Rufra will wait for her by the fire breathers if she wishes to visit Festival.”

  As we walked through Festival towards the fire breathers I could not help noticing how popular Rufra was among the sellers and performers. In the shadows of the huge tents he became markedly more relaxed, the darting eyes and furrowed brows almost gone. It was like a huge worry had sloughed away, a
nd his step, usually deliberate, was light. If I did not already know how hopeless he was I may have thought he would make a dancer.

  “You must have spent a lot of money here, Rufra,” I said as a juggler gave him a cheery hello.

  “Money? No, what makes you think that?” His dark brows met in the middle, the way they always did when he was puzzled.

  “Everyone seems to know you. You are far more popular here than …” My words died away. “I do not mean to say you are unpopular, Rufra.”

  “Yes, you do, Girton, and it is true.” He gave me a smile. “But not here. You do not know about the ap Vthyr and Festival?” Before I could answer he shook his head. “Of course you don’t. Foolish of me to think you should.”

  “Then tell me, Rufra.”

  “Oh, it is common enough knowledge, I suppose. At least it is not suppressed like—” he paused and squinted up into the dying sun “—like some other things are. It is only that the truth is not as simple as people would like to believe. The ap Vthyr were one of the guard clans of Festival.” The surprise must have been obvious on my face.

  “Were you cast out?”

  “Cast out? No. Come, let’s get something to drink while we wait for Drusl.”

  “I think I have had enough alcohol today,” I said.

  Rufra laughed.

  “I thought you were easy to overpower. I was scared you know.” He looked away.

  “Of me?”

  “Aye. You killed five men on your own, Girton. I have never seen the like.”

  “But you still did it?”

  “It was right,” he said without looking up. “Follow me.” He led me around the fire breathers and we stopped at a stall selling cooled fruit juice. Rufra bought two cups. I noticed that although the stallholder would not take his money Rufra left it on the counter anyway. Then he steered me around the back of a tent and we sat on a bench with a view of the crowd

  The fruit juice was cold and both bitter and sweet at the same time. I had never tasted anything like it before. “This is good,” I said.

  “Aye.” He took a sip. “Usually they make it with four parts water but for me and my friends—” he nudged me with his elbow “—they make it half and half. It is better.”