Written in Blood

by Span, Ryan A.

  He pulled his hood down and hurried to catch up.

  “I've never been to Tunson Down before,” the squire explained as we entered the valley. He kept one hand on his dagger and the other on his purse. “They used to warn us about it. Very dangerous.”

  I couldn't help but scoff. “Remind me to show you round the back alleys of Newmond someday. A boy like you'll be lucky to only get mugged and left for dead once a night.”

  The roads turned from cobbles back to dirt, the houses from stone to wood and straw. I was a little pleased to find they really did stand on stilts, at least down in the deep end where the water collected in streams and lakes. A tiny river was being formed before my very eyes by the persistent rain.

  A few rough-looking types ‒ more unwashed than dangerous ‒ stood under awnings or porches, and turned their heads to stare as we passed by. I spotted at least two trying to look tough by cleaning their nails with big knives. It might've been more impressive if they'd been old enough to shave. Any man of military age left in Kingsport now was wearing a uniform.

  I almost wanted them to try something. I had my breastplate and Adar's sword on under my cloak, though I doubted I'd need either of them to show some of these local lads the error of their ways.

  Funny, that. Three days ago I lay in the back of a cart half-dead of fever, and here I was spoiling for a fight. Didn't even need a cane anymore. I shrugged and chalked it up to healthy living.

  Yew Street ran all the way from one end of the Down to the other, and the Black Lion stood right in the middle. It wasn't hard to spot. 'Patrons' crowded around the doors, ready to pick some easy pockets. An old man lay passed out in the gutter. He'd been stripped of just about everything but the clothes on his back. Were we in a properly civilised place, he'd be naked, and dead.

  From the outside, the pub looked both old and new at the same time. This particular building might not have stood for very long, but many of the component timbers went back hundreds of years. The walls leaned dangerously to one side, propped up by fresh scaffolding.

  An ancient sign creaked in the wind. The rearing lion's red, stylised tongue made it look like it were breathing fire.

  The clump of thieves parted before us. They wouldn't hassle fighting men. Inside, we went straight for the counter, bypassing sticky tables and their sad, wretched occupants, and one too-young barmaid being manhandled against her will. Maybe the proprietor's daughter. The man behind the bar, if he was her father, was obviously afraid to intervene.

  Faro went red in the face, quaking with righteous anger. He tried to get my attention but I shushed him.

  I ordered three pints of the house ale. One for the squire, one for me, and one for the back of the handsy fellow's head. He never saw me coming. The heavy earthenware tankard shattered into pieces against his skull. He dropped face-first onto his table and did not rise again.

  A soldier, by the look of him. I understood why that worried the locals. I, on the other hand, was ready to push my newfound power and status as a personal guest of the King to its limits. It might prove entertaining.

  I relieved the man of his knife and gave it to the girl. She took it, trembling, and ran into the back room.

  Returning to the counter, I started on my own beer. Dark, salty-sweet, and strong as a kick in the face. The barman went to have a talk with the thieves outside, who were only happy to help. They hustled the unconscious trooper out into the alley and I didn't care what happened to him after that.

  “You Army men?” he asked.

  “Not really. Just here to have a good time.” I nudged Faro, who put down a silver falcon and some coppers. “Liven this place up. I know it's early, but we want music, and girls. Pour those lads at the door a round while you're at it.”

  The money vanished, and the barman rang the ship's bell hanging next to the counter, signalling that someone had bought a round. A ragged cheer went up. Minutes later the tavern was filled with noise. People toasted the squire and myself. Two young boys played fife and lute in the background. A dancer in a delightfully scanty dress arrived and began to sway to the music. All the pickpockets were now inside and enjoying themselves, without any larceny on their minds.

  It was nice to make friends.

  Even the young waitress returned, a little calmer, and very grateful. She attached herself like a limpet to Faro's arm. I winked at him. This one, he wouldn't even have to pay.

  Really, this wasn't such a bad place, despite being in Tunson Down. The cheap stools and sticky tables looked appropriately worm-ridden. I liked the incongruous old ship's wheel hanging above the bar. I liked the huge fireplace, blackened from long years of use, and the even larger set of deer's antlers above it. The people were only a little bit too clean. The beer was definitely too nice, but I could live with that.

  I moved from stout to rum. Then I got annoyed with the tiny glasses the barman gave me, so I took the bottle off him and swigged while the dancer came and wriggled against me. I dropped a few pennies down her top to applaud her efforts. For a second she looked like she was going to slap me, then laughed and resumed rolling her hips through the room.

  The barman snorted. “Mate, I think you have a drinking problem.”

  “I'm not the one who has a problem with my drinking,” I groused.

  “You do drink a lot, though,” said Faro, still nursing his second pint.

  “Nonsense. I'll tell you about somebody who did. The story of Willard Owens.” I raised my bottle to him. “We were in the King's Own together, me and Willard, or Blind Bill, as we used to call him. Not because he couldn't see, but because he was blind stinking drunk all the time. On the march at day, in camp at night, and in mornings on parade too. Didn't matter where we were in the world or how far from civilisation. Bill would have his little silver flask full of something tasty, hidden away where not even a furious drill sergeant could find it. He never spoke a word to anyone about it, and never admitted to anything.

  “I was promoted to Sergeant after the Battle of Ironstones, and that's when Blind Bill Owens became my problem. He was a big bugger, twice as big as Sir Erroll, so there was no way I could hide him in the ranks during parade. Nothing I tried could stop him drinking, either. Probably the high point of Bill's antics was the time I had to take his name while he was on the cross. He took three hundred lashes without making a sound. When we cut him down, it turned out he'd fallen asleep halfway through!”

  Faro laughed, as did a few others who'd stopped to listen. A fresh pint of beer appeared in front of me without having to pay for it.

  “So how did you straighten him out?” the squire asked.

  “I didn't. Ducal soldier did it for me, planted an axe between Bill's eyes at Caincarlin. He was dead sober after that.”

  He smirked. “None of your stories have happy endings, do they, Byren?”

  “Pray as hard as you can that this one will.”

  We drank, told more stories, bought rounds, and listened to other people's anecdotes for hour after hour. It felt good. My purse weighed less than when we started, but it was worth every penny and I had money to spare on this bloody trip. I ended up sprawled across several chairs, clumsily wrapped in my cloak, dozing after a long session with two inexpensive women. They'd done a fantastic job distracting me from heavy thoughts of treason, assassination and regicide.

  Meanwhile, Faro blushed and tried his best to dodge the waitress's kisses and propositions. If not celibate, he had to stay faithful to his Harari love-slave, right?

  It was mid-afternoon when a filthy boy burst in from outside. Syrupy sunshine followed on his heels, that special colour of gold you only ever saw on rainy autumn afternoons. He waved his arms to get everybody's attention.

  “There's a procession arriving at the gate!”

  Everyone stopped what they were doing. Almost as one, they rushed out the door to see what the fuss was about. All except the squire and me, the barman, and Faro's new concubine.

  “What's going on?” Faro asked.
His girl quickly offered an explanation.

  Processions were nothing new to Kingsport. Lots of nobles came and went over the course of the year, but arrivals were something of an occasion. Fine horses, gilded carriages, aristocratic people in posh clothes. They all wanted to make an impression. Some, keen to win the adoration of the masses, would even throw gifts to the crowd. Handfuls of copper or bread or some other little bribe. For that reason alone, half the bloody city would turn out as a welcome party.

  “That sounds like it might be fun. Byren, do you want to go?”

  I shrugged. I was drunk enough to feel adventurous, but not too drunk to walk. Why not?

  The sun rode high in the sky, glittering down on the wet, clean world below. After the long climb out of the Down, we cut across the valley wall, then down again into Aran's Cross. Even from here we could see the crowds starting to gather around the city gate. A few coaches already shimmered on the horizon.

  Like many of the locals, we found ourselves a rooftop to watch from; the squire, his girl and I. We dangled our legs over the white-washed wall and enjoyed the soft rays of the sun pouring down between the clouds. Flocks of sparrows twirled and twittered all around us, using Kingsport as a rest stop on their annual journey south.

  I couldn't remember the last time I felt such uncomplicated contentment. The whole world was on hold right now. No duties, no responsibilities, and nothing to do but enjoy myself. I swallowed another mouthful of rum and smiled.

  Carriages began to roll through the gate one by one. It turned out to be every bit the promised spectacle. So many bright colours, gold and fine things, streamers tied to every possible surface. People cheered and ran alongside the coaches at a respectful distance. Black and white horses of the best stock gleamed in their bridles. The drivers laughed and threw farthings and apples into the surging crowd.

  At the rear of the procession came the largest carriages, the most important folk, the ones with titles and heraldry. I admit I got a little curious. Shifting for a better look, I saw a running boar, a vine and cup...

  No, I thought suddenly, eyes wide as dinnerplates. It couldn't be.

  I swallowed hard and wiped beads of cold sweat from my forehead. A woman had worn that same emblem on her dress, even as my hands slipped the silk off her body. It had been on the scarf she gave me before they tied me to the cross. The wrath of her husband was etched in my memory. As was the sight of my dagger slitting his throat, ringing in the end of my days in the King's Own. He was the last of his line. How could his symbol be here, now?

  It occurred to me that the only surviving member of that family was her.

  Oh, God.

  Frozen, I watched that coach pass me by. She leaned out of the window to wave at everyone. For a moment I was convinced she saw me, but no sign of recognition showed on her face. I bit my tongue hard. Sharp tang of copper and iron in my mouth, the taste of blood.

  I stood up abruptly. “I'm going back,” I said, and left Faro to his own devices.

  It was a long, jittery trek through Aran's Cross. My heart pounded with warring emotions. Until now I hadn't known she was alive, and the last thing I expected was to see her bearing that awful coat of arms again. The things he'd done to us... Memories blew through my mind like an ill wind. I twitched as if fresh lashes were biting into my back.

  Climbing the Twins, I felt a dreadful sense of certainty creep over me. I knew what I'd find at the end of the road long before I reached it. Some fine carriages were parked in the outer yard of the Ivory Tower. A crowd of servants busied themselves handling horses and baggage. I followed the line of coaches to their inevitable conclusion before the steps of the Great Hall.

  “Hello, Karl,” she said, waiting at the top.

  She looked like the heavens themselves in her blue-white dress, as though clouds and sky had been captured in the form of crushed velvet and lace. Crow's feet and smile lines aged her in the way of a fine wine. They made her deeper, richer, and more astonishing.

  Nerell went on, “It has been such a long time, and I thought we were overdue for a catch-up.”

  I swallowed and found myself without a thing to say.

  We met an hour later in the atrium outside the Royal gardens. The autumn sun had warmed things up in record time, turning the air into a muggy, breathless soup. Sheltered under a canvas roof held up by elegant pillars of marble, we watched some noble children play in the grass. A few of them tried to draw her attention with cries of, “Lady Nerell!” She smiled at whatever antics they wanted to show off.

  “You're looking well,” she said in one of the quiet moments. She fluttered a delicate cloth fan at herself, disturbing a few locks of tightly-wound hair.

  I mumbled, “Thank you,” not sure if she was joking. “It... It's good to see you.”

  “And you. I get so few opportunities to see old friends. It's lucky I was going to Kingsport anyway.” Her eyes, such a light brown they were almost red, twinkled. “I don't suppose you ever expected to run into me again.”

  Dumbstruck, I shook my head. The children laughed as one of the boys, ten or eleven years old and solid for his age, ran straight through a hedge and out the other side. He had his mother's eyes.

  “I can tell what you're thinking, Karl. So many questions. How did I make it home on foot, naked and alone? How am I wearing these colours after being sent away in disgrace? Why am I talking to you now?”

  A waiter arrived with a tray. It bore a clear decanter of grass wine, green as fresh leaves, and two fine crystal glasses. I was thankful for the interruption, and the wine, which ‒ for once ‒ I sipped rather than gulped down. It gave me time to gather my thoughts.

  “You were already pregnant.”

  Nerell quirked an eyebrow at me, then laughed. “I'd almost forgotten how clever you are. Forgive me.”

  Rather than call for the waiter again, she refilled her own glass, then stared into it as she dredged up the of our shared, harrowing past. “I bartered my way back. It was a hard journey, but I didn't know where else to go. I bashed and screamed at the gates until they let me in. That's when I found out my dear lord husband was dead.” A harsh chortle ripped from her throat. “His family threatened to put me in a convent, until I pointed out I had his unborn son in my belly.”

  “His?” I breathed.

  “Ha! That old slug didn't have half an arrow to his string. He couldn't even impregnate his whores at camp, though not for lack of trying.” She swirled the wine around in her glass, and her eyes took on a vengeful gleam. “Even I didn't know I was up the duff when he threw me away. Then my belly started getting big on the way home, even though I was barely eating. It was the best thing that could've happened. With him dead and heirless, all his holdings would've reverted to the crown. You should've seen it. His mother and his sisters suddenly welcomed me with open arms.”

  “Then the boy is...”

  The implied question hung heavy in the air, but she left it there. Her smile outshone the lazy afternoon sun, as brilliant as it was venomous. “What's funny is the doddering idiot never thought to annul our marriage. I don't think he expected me to live. So, in the eyes of the law, my Calum is a legitimate child conceived in wedlock. The rightful successor to all lands and titles belonging to my much-mourned Lord.” She watched the boy cartwheel through the grass and bit her lip. “I wanted you to see him at least once.”

  Speechlessness overcame me again. If there were words to express my feelings, I didn't know them. I watched the boy, my son, wrestle some noble's sprog to the ground. Then he lost interest and went after a bedraggled late-season butterfly instead. He probably didn't even know I existed.

  She broke the silence again by raising her glass in a toast. “To you, Karl. I owe you for my change of fortunes.”

  “They tried to charge me with murder,” I said, still lost in my own memories. “You can't murder an animal. You can only put it down.”

  The words seemed to please her. “To his death, then.”

  I clink
ed my glass to hers and drank. I didn't often bother with white or green wines, but I enjoyed this one. It was subtle like morning dew and bright summer days.

  She emptied her glass, placed it back on the tray, and closed her eyes. “You realise you put me through Hell.”

  “I'm sorry.” In truth, I'd been to Hell myself. The scars on my back burned like fire. “I was so careful. They couldn't prove a thing. Suspicion was enough to get me drummed out of the Army, though. In disgrace.”

  “Don't apologise, you noble idiot. I could've decided not to go to bed with you.” She opened one eye and spared me a lazy smile. “Speaking of marriage, have you met my new consort? Sir Graeme of Gernholm. I'm sure I shall get a chance to introduce you.”

  I kept quiet. My tryst with Nerell was something long in the past, dead and buried, but the idea of her not being available still bothered me for some reason. One of those inexplicable male quirks.

  Again it was Nerell who broke the silence first, wholly unafraid. “This has been lovely, but I must get ready for dinner. His Majesty is hosting us. It wouldn't do to be late.” She gathered up her skirts and rose, showing some of that elegant dignity I used to love. Warm lips pressed against my forehead. “I hope to see you there, my beautiful soldier.”

  At a call, her son ran after her, and they disappeared hand in hand into the white vastness of Winter Court.

  I walked around in a daze for a while. Minutes, hours, I didn't know. Eventually the squire came to find me. With Adar gone, he had become the designated dogsbody for every random, menial task that needed doing. I didn't notice him until he put his hand on my shoulder, and I almost jumped out of my skin.

  He squeaked, “Lady Sil‒ I mean, Lady Ioanna sent me to find you. She requests your presence at dinner, at her table.”

  “When?” I managed through a bone-dry throat.

  “About ten minutes ago. It took me an age to find you. You should freshen up first, though.” Tactfully, he tapped a fingertip against the side of his nose. I'd avoided any major spills but the smell of drink was all over me.