by Rj Barker
“Only for a moment.”
“‘I, Rufra ap Vthyr, request the heir, Aydor ap Mennix, be removed,’” I said. My master stared hard at me.
“You knew about this, Girton?”
“No.”
“But that is what the letter said.”
“Daana ap Dhyrrin,” I said. “Dark Ungar curse him, he saw an opportunity and he took it.” I tried to rise from the bed but my master stopped me by placing her hand on my chest.
“Explain yourself. What does Daana ap Dhyrrin have to do with this? What have you been hiding from me?”
“Nothing,” I said. Rage started to build within me. Rage at the people in the castle and the way they twisted the lives of others to suit themselves, rage with my master for getting us mixed up in this and rage with myself for not seeing the danger sooner. “When I broke into his room there was a pile of vellum on his desk. I thought it was nothing, only requests from the squires to have Aydor removed from the squireyard. Rufra’s was on top. Daana had been scraping it—I thought to clean the vellum for reuse—but it wasn’t. It was to make it look like he wanted the heir dead.”
“Why would he want to make it look like Rufra was responsible?”
“Because Rufra is next in line to the throne.”
“Rufra?” She looked surprised, and I realised I had not had the opportunity to tell her of Rufra’s lineage.
“Rufra and Tomas share a father in Dolan ap Dhyrrin, Daana’s grandson. When Tomas was born, Dolan ap Dhyrrin was already married to Rufra’s mother, Acearis Vthyr.”
My master stared at me as if I had torn back a curtain mid-act to reveal how a trick was done.
“So Tomas is a bastard who cannot inherit? Well, now we know what Adran holds over Daana,” said my master to herself, “but what does he hold over her?”
“Rufra must be innocent, Master, he must be.”
She stood, paced. “You may be right. There is something far darker than simple murder and politics here, Girton. This business with Heamus, Neander and Drusl? Magic? It feels like the tip of a blade pointed at the heart of the Tired Lands. We have missed something. How did Neander know to leave? How did Daana ap Dhyrrin know when to place the letter in his room? It must have been done between Neander leaving and his quarters being searched. Hardly any time.”
“Did you mention Heamus when you asked Daana for authorisation to leave?”
“Aye, but only said we worried about him.”
“But if he knew what Heamus and Neander were doing …?” I said.‘I saw symbols in Daana ap Dhyrrin’s bin that resembled the Landsman’s Leash. He must have been preparing protections in case he needed them.” My master considered what I had said before shaking her head.
Did I catch a gleam in her eye?
“It is not our problem, Girton.” She turned away. “Adran has told us to go.”
“But Rufra will die.”
“We cannot solve this before dawn tomorrow, Girton. We have had our time here and found nothing. Events have only happened to us. And besides, you have given up.”
“Master, please, let us at least free Rufra.”
“Why should I care?” she hissed, tears in her eyes. “Why should I put myself in danger for your wishes if you only plan to kill yourself afterwards?”
For a moment I was lost for words. Then I realised my despair had passed, replaced by something new.
“I want to live. And I want revenge, Master, revenge for Drusl.”
“We are assassins, Girton; revenge is not our trade.” She said this quietly and before I could get angry she spoke again: “Adran has given us a chance to leave alive and we must take it. But—” she held up her hand before I could shout at her “—I think we can free Rufra. I can give you that at least, I think. If you will promise to live.”
She sat again, and this time I did not move my leg though she did not seem to notice. Her warmth seeped into my cold and painful clubbed foot.
“Thank you, Master.”
“The Landsmen have been sent for. They will scour this place, and if anyone else was involved in Drusl’s death they will find them. They will make them pay.”
She held my gaze. It was the moment I changed from child to adult. She lied to me and I knew she lied. A few weeks before it would never have occurred to me that she may lie as I had a child’s total belief in my guardian. A few days ago her lie would have made me angry, but no longer. She lied to me and I understood it. I understood it from the tear held in her eye, the lines in her face and the grey streaks in her hair. The Landsmen would no doubt find a scapegoat. It would be no one important. They would come and favours would be exchanged and everything would return to how it was before—only the names may change. I had once believed we were the hand of justice, but now I knew us for what we were—pinpricks on the back of a great beast that careened forward heedless of what it destroyed. We could prick it a million times and it would barely notice.
My master was tired.
I was tired.
“Very well. Let us free Rufra and be gone.”
She gave me a small smile, more an acknowledgement of our shared impotence than anything else.
“Thank you. Now pack. Adran has made it clear that if we are not gone before the water clock strikes for the midnight signing sermon she will tell everyone we are here. A king cannot countenance assassins in his castle, even if he is dying. I would rather not leave with the castle’s guards on our heels.”
“But the king already knows we are here,” I said.
My master stiffened, and then stared into the air as if it contained secrets only she could see.
“He does. You are right. In my worry for you I had forgotten that.” She tipped her head back and let out a long breath then ran a hand through her hair. “Girton, tell me exactly what was said and done between you and the king.”
“I was on one of the towers,” I said, puzzled by her reaction, “and he told me he was familiar with the ap Gwynrs and knew they had only daughters, so I must be his assassin.”
“Those exact words?”
“Yes, he said, ‘So you must be my assassin,’ then he raised his head to offer me his throat. I was about to tell him I wasn’t there for him when—”
“Girton!” She sat me up, holding me by the tops of my arms and smiling her feral, dangerous smile. “Why didn’t you tell me this when it happened? He was not offering you his throat. That was a salute—subject to king or king to subject.” She stared at me, her gaze boring into me as if she expected some reaction. “Don’t you see, Girton? It changes everything.”
“It does?” She talked over me, no longer listening and the tiredness that had seemed to be all but overwhelming her a moment ago hadfled.
“There are times, Girton,” she said. “Times, moments when everything may change.” Her grip loosened but she did not let go. “You said your friend Rufra would be a good king. Are you sure?” I didn’t understand what she saw. I didn’t know what to say. “Are you sure?” She shook me.
“Yes. I am sure.”
She nodded and a gleam appeared in her eye that I had not seen for long on long. She let go of me and hopped off the bed to pace up and down the room. “Very well. Remember what Adran said? ‘We work with what we have.’ How many Riders did you say Rufra has at Festival?”
“Fifteen,” I said. “The woman Cearis said she had fifteen good Riders.”
“Fifteen.” She brought her hand up to her mouth, pushing the knuckle of a finger against her lips. “Fifteen good Riders, Girton. It is not many, but if the stables are taken no one else will have cavalry, and it might be enough you know. That may do it, yes. Go now, Girton. Free Rufra from the dungeons and get him to Festival. Tell him to ready his Riders.”
“Why?”
“To take his throne of course. Why else?” She picked up her blades and strapped them to her waist.
“With only fifteen knights? But Master—”
“Tonight the castle will be thrown into disarray.” Sh
e cinched buckles tight. “Rufra will never have a better chance. They want to burn him on a fool’s throne? Well, we will do what we can to put him on a real one. Do you still have the letter Adran wrote allowing you to leave?” I nodded and handed it over; she sat by the window and began to scrape at the ink with a knife as she spoke. “Find some slave’s clothes. By the time you have done that I will have altered the date, wording and authority on this to allow a slave carrying a message to pass through the gates. No one looks at slaves. Once you have Rufra away, tell Adran that this business is not over yet and if she values her son’s life she will meet me in the king’s chamber. You must get Adran, without Aydor, to the king’s chamber by—” she pushed her head out of the window so she could see the water clock “—ten o’clock. That should be enough time.”
“And what then, Master?”
She pulled her head back into the room and turned to me. Her eyes shone, and she smiled her assassin’s smile, more a showing of teeth than anything else.
“Then we shall do what you wanted to do in the stables and what I have dreamed about most of my life, though I expect it to cost us ours.” She took out her stabsword and checked the keenness of the edge. “Tonight, Girton, you and I shall bring this entire castle tumbling down around our ears.”
Chapter 25
Castle Maniyadoc’s dungeons had two entrances. One was within the keep and the other led in from the outside—so those who were to be executed or had been tortured didn’t trail their misery, blood or both through the keep. The inner stairway was well guarded and designed to be defended—a tight spiralling staircase that could be held by a single guard—and as I was known to be a friend of Rufra I knew I had little chance of getting past the guards without an alarm being raised. The outer door, however, was rarely guarded as it was garlanded with thick chains, heavy locks and, after all, who breaks into a dungeon?
I wore no armour as this would arouse suspicion, and all I carried to defend myself was my Conwy stabsword and my eating knife. I itched for the comfortable weight of a second blade at my hip, but my master had taken my longsword with her, saying it would serve me well later.
I felt alive.
The courtyard was quiet; only faraway shouts and calls from those enjoying themselves at Festival echoed around the shadowy landscape. A movement in the darkness below the wall caught my eye, a figure trying to keep hidden. He was not being obvious about it, no hugging the walls or moving at a crouch, but his walk was too casual for a man just strolling, although there was a familiar, taut, anger in every step the figure took.
Nywulf.
He was being followed: two people, a man and woman both dressed as slaves and utilising the same blindness to the doings of slaves that I intended Rufra take advantage of. They were good. They did not stay close to Nywulf and changed who watched him frequently. I melted into the shadows and reached for the Simple Invisibility, but where it should be I found a rock face as dark and pitted as the keepyard wall. The sigil incised into my chest throbbed and squirmed as if my chest were infested with worms. I put the sensation out of my mind and hugged the wall, keeping low and thanking my master for the nightsuit she had made me. Without shoes and with the hood pulled down I was skilled enough to remain practically invisible, even without magic. For a moment I thought about taking down the watchers—it would not be difficult—but then I put that thought aside. I would have to hide the bodies, and if they were expected to report to someone then who knew how long I would have before they would be missed? Besides, they watched Nywulf not me, and that could be used to my advantage. I easily outpaced the squiremaster and his watchers then waited behind one of the wedge-shaped buttresses of the wall. I hissed his name as he walked past.
He sauntered to a stop within a short distance of me as if he were a man having second thoughts about something. Now he was nearer I could see the bulge of weapons underneath his jerkin, more than one man would usually carry.
“Girton,” he said slowly. “I did not expect you to be here but I should not be surprised.” His hand went to the hilt of his blade. “Have you come for Rufra?”
“Yes,” I said. His hand tightened around the blade hilt at his hip.
“You must be angry,” he said, “about what happened to the girl. I understand that. But Rufra was not with Neander; he had nothing to do with the death of Drusl, no matter what you may hear.”
A stab in my heart at Drusl’s name.
“I know Rufra isn’t responsible,” I said. “I’m here to free him.”
“As am I. You would be a welcome help.”
“You are being followed, Nywulf.”
“I know,” he said. “Two of them.”
“They’ll bring the guards before you can free Rufra.”
“I am no amateur, boy.” His knuckles whitened around the hilt of his weapon. “Besides, you could easily take care of my watchers for me. I have a key to the dungeon and, in truth, I don’t expect that Rufra or I will make it past the keepyard, but it’s better that the boy die with a blade in his hand than on the fire.” He breathed heavily, like a bull about to charge. “I’ll not let them burn him,” he said. I remembered what Rufra had said about his awful sword and how it was given to those destined to die.
“He need not die at all.” Nywulf turned his head towards me, only a fraction, something barely noticeable, but I felt his scrutiny of me double. “Lead your shadows away, Nywulf,” I whispered. “Drop the key there and lead them away. I have a forged letter and clothes which will get Rufra through the postern door and keepyard gate as a slave. I will free him and send him to Festival. Trust me. There is a Rider at Festival called Cearis—”
“Cearis is here?” Now his concentration on me was almost a physical thing, like it pushed against my skin.
“Aye, with her Riders, and she says they will follow Rufra. Tell them to be ready. Bring any others you can find.”
“Be ready for what?”
“I don’t know yet. Not exactly. But an opportunity will present itself and you must make sure Rufra is ready to act.”
Nywulf stared up at the slow dance of the stars.
“I’m a fighting man,” he said, his voice rough as newly cut planks. “I’m not fitted out for this sort of skulking in the shadows.” He glanced at me “You promise you’ll get Rufra out safe? Promise he’ll get a fighting chance?”
“I can only promise I will do my best.”
He turned to look at me, gave me a quick smile and ran a hand over his bald head.
“If you’d said anything else I’d have known you for a liar and killed you here.” He stared up at the castle, swore and turned to walk away.
“Nywulf,’ I whispered. He slowed. “Take the stables. My master said that you must take the stables.”
He gave a small nod and walked away from me with the air of a man who had changed his mind. Where he had stood a key shone in the dirt. I counted out a hundred my-masters and heard Nywulf talk to the guards, be let out, then the postern door shut behind him. Fifteen my-masters later the door opened and closed again. I waited without moving for another fifty my-masters to see if I picked up any movement in my peripheral vision, but there was nothing. Nywulf had taken his shadows with him.
Now Rufra’s life depended solely on me.
Nywulf’s key opened the huge locks and the chains fell away. When I lifted the bar from across the door it seemed so loud I thought the whole castle must hear. I waited, first tracking the movements of the guards at the massive gate until I was sure they had heard nothing. Then I pressed my ear against the door to make sure I was not heard by anyone inside. If there was a crossbowyer behind the door then my attempt to free Rufra ended here.
The door inched open at my touch. The heavy wood was bound with iron hinges that creaked loudly as I slipped in and shut it behind me. It seemed impossible I was not heard. I crouched, holding my breath and waiting in the dark for my eyes to adjust and for someone to investigate the noise, but no one came and I breathed again.
In front of me a staircase curved away, and torchlight from below created an arc of warm light against the stone. Within the light was the shadow of a helmed head—a guard further down the stair.
I remained still, listening.
Voices echoed up the stairs. Three male, one female, and they were taunting Rufra. I heard snatches of laughter and cruel words, talk of fire and the pain it caused. At first they spoke in such a way they could pretend it was an innocent conversation, but it was obviously enacted entirely to cause pain to a fourteen-year-old boy.
“Nah, Forig. I reckon they stay alive for at least half an hour on a fool’s throne.”
“Could be—remember Banil? He were twitching and screaming for ’is mother for a good hour.”
“Aye, wonder who you scream for if you don’t have a mother? Hey, traitor! You ain’t got a mother. Who you gon scream to help you when you burn?”
The anger within suddenly had a target. These people were hurting my friend, delighting in it, and I would kill them for that. No turning back. No doubt. No room to get this wrong.
Down a step. Breathe out.
Fear made my hands shake. Fear of facing the guards in the dungeon. Fear of failing and leaving my friend to burn.
Down a step. No time for fear.
The back of a guard’s head just visible around the tight turn of the staircase. He takes off his helmet and scratches his head. He has a scar high on his pate that shows pink and tight against his dandruff-filled hair. A crossbow dangles at his side. Beyond him is the dungeon.
Down a step. Breathe in.
In front of the guard is a large room with a wide corridor between walls that run with damp. Inset in the walls are thick wooden doors. The same cells my master and I had been kept in. Where is Rufra? Is he hurt? Have they beaten him? What if he can’t walk? Sometimes they blind traitors …
Down a step. No room for fear.
I see him. They have opened his door the better to taunt him.
Down a step. Breathe out.
He is chained to the back wall of his cell. His clothes are filthy. He stares at the dirty straw of the floor. Around the dungeon burn torches and in the fireplace a piglet roasts while the guards laugh about how good it smells and ask Rufra if he likes it, if he wants some roasted flesh.
