Blood of Assassins

by RJ Baker

  “To keep the air moving,” he said. “The breeze will take away the bad air from her lungs.” He pulled a small table over to her bed and started to take a selection of murky bottles from his satchel and set them out. “This wound she has, tell me more of it.”

  “We were caught by a group of Glynti coming out of the sourlands. She took a glancing blow. Barely a scratch, really.”

  “And she cut the poison out straight away?” His brow furrowed, turning his eyebrows into a dark “V” of puzzlement.

  “No, she did not know they were poisoners, not until she had spoken to one. It was a few minutes, five at most.”

  He turned back to my master, stroking his small beard. “I must find some herbs. Will you sit with her?” I nodded. “When I return I will give you some unguent for your foot. I see it pains you.” He slipped out of the tent and I sat by my master, a sudden ache running up from my club foot and through my leg to my chest. Curse the man. I had almost forgotten about the constant pain in my foot until he had mentioned it.

  “Master?” I said, and felt foolish. It was obvious, even to the untrained eye, that she was far away, drifting on the currents of the wine-dark sea somewhere between life and Xus the unseen’s black palace. Despite this I began to talk, telling her of what I had seen, who I had seen and how Nywulf wanted me to become Rufra’s spy to find a spy. “I cannot do this,” I said. “He thinks I saved Rufra before, but it was you, not I, who saw the web and cut the strings. You must wake, Master – I need you.”

  But she did not wake, and so I sat, listening to the ebb and flow of her breath, remembering the long hours of training – breathe out, breathe in – and instead of the deaths I had wrought I remembered the joy I had felt when I had been dancing stories and tumbling as a jester. As I watched her I knew that I could not do what Nywulf wished: I could not become Death’s Jester for him. Not simply because I was not good enough, but because as long as she lived she was Death’s Jester, and to take on her role would be the same as admitting she was never coming back.

  My veins itched, and to take my mind from the discomfort I found paper and made notes on the people I had seen. When that was done I sketched the scars I had seen on the inner arm of Bowmaster Varn. With that done I looked around for more to do. I found Mastal’s bags and went through them. They were packed carefully, full of strange bottles and odd herbs. In one I found papers covered in writing that made no sense to me. It was set out in columns, with some words underlined. It may have been code or it may have been the language of the place he was from. I committed it to memory, put everything away and then wrote it out on another piece of parchment and turned back to my master.

  “How is she?”

  I looked up, trying not to look guilty as I expected the healer, but it was Rufra. I let go of my master’s hand, only half aware I had been holding it, then swiftly covered the papers.

  “She sleeps.”

  “That is good. Sleep is good for wounds.”

  “I cannot be the Death’s Jester for you, Rufra. I am sorry.”

  “Do not worry for my sake. Despite what Nywulf says there is no traitor here. I suspect Aydor unknowingly spreads another’s discord – it is exactly the sort of trick Neander would play.”

  “Neander’s only faith is himself and what power he can get.” Neander had been priest of Heissal, god of the day, in Maniyadoc, and though my lover Drusl had taken her own life it was Neander who had forced her into the path of the blade.

  “True, and it is working for him. He is high priest of the Long Tides now.”

  “And you allow his priests into your camp? They could all be reporting back to him.”

  “I cannot ask people to give up their faith. Besides, Neander is not popular among his own and the priests do not sit on the Triangle. They do not know my real plans or get near enough to do me harm. Nywulf sets too much importance on what happened at Goldenson Copse, but the truth is I was overconfident. The error there was mine, not some traitor’s.”

  For a king it seemed he remained as naive as he had been as a boy.

  “Rufra,” I said hesitantly. I did not doubt he genuinely believed his council would not betray him, but I have never been one to trust blindly. “Nywulf introduced me as assistant to the ambassador of the Lean Isles, and as the ambassador is ill people would expect me to take over her duties.”

  “And?”

  “It would allow me to question the people close to you.”

  “There is no traitor, Girton.”

  “Think of it this way, Rufra: if you do not let me look into this you will never hear the end of it from Nywulf.” He was about to argue with me – I could see it in the set of his jaw and wished he would simply be reasonable – then a smile crept onto his face, one I did not much like the look of.

  “Very well, but if I let you do that you will have to let me assign either Crast or Neliu to watch over your master.”

  “I told you, I do not need a nursemaid. I—”

  “And what of her?” He pointed at my master. “You say you are still both under sentence of death for betraying your calling. Tomas has also put a price on your head. If an assassin comes and you are not here, do you expect a healer to save her?”

  I stood, anger rising within me at the idea I could not look after my master, but I tamped it down. This was not Rufra’s fault; it was no doubt Nywulf’s doing. He was a clever one, and this way he had me looking after Rufra and ensured I would not be too distracted by worrying about my master.

  “Very well, Rufra.” I shook my head.

  “I am glad you are not going to be stubborn about this.”

  “Me? You are the stubborn one.“

  He opened his mouth to argue but then instead grinned and clasped my arm. “Maybe we are both stubborn on occasion.” I nodded, laughing quietly.

  “Aye, maybe.”

  “But you more so,” he added quickly, a glint in his eye.

  I shook my head but argued no further as I did not want to prove him right.

  “Did Nywulf suggest having his apprentices guard us?”

  “He did.” Rufra gave me a sheepish smile. “He said you would not like it. He always seems to be one move ahead of me. Nywulf tells me his only wish is to retire, but he organises my life even when I am unaware of it, and now he has taken on responsibility for you as well.”

  “To be Nywulf’s responsibility is a terrifying thing.”

  “Aye, imagine how Crast and Neliu feel. He practically lives in their pockets.”

  “They fight well. Where are they from?”

  “A village called Amherd, right at the beginning of the war. The villagers were packing up to move into my protection when Nonmen hit it. They were the only two to survive, including the soldiers I had sent to help. Crast and Neliu hid in a haystack. They were terrified when they came. Gusteffa took them under her wing first and then they passed to Nywulf.”

  “Captain Thian said Nonmen did not attack defended targets.”

  “They don’t usually, but they are unpredictable.”

  “Or when they are doing Tomas’s dirty work for him.”

  “I do not want to believe that, but yes, it often seems that way and most believe it.”

  “But not you?”

  “I try not to. I want him to be better than that, but …”

  “It seems unlikely?”

  “He is badly advised.”

  “And he has created two more young people who want to kill him.”

  “Aye, that is part of the reason Nywulf took them on. Hate is a powerful motivator, though I wish it were not the case. Life would be easier if people hated less and loved more.” A soft sadness had descended on the tent and Rufra seemed to draw himself up, pulling out of the encroaching melancholy. “But that is not why I am here. There is still a little light left, and I thought you may want to see Xus before night falls.”

  “I would love to, if he remembers me.”

  “Dead gods, I hope he does.” Rufra grimaced. �
�There is no one here who can control him. I was hoping your arrival may give my mountmasters some respite.”

  He took me through the camp just as twilight was pushing the light away. Torches were being lit and a misty stillness had settled on the camp; work had ceased for the day, and all was quiet apart from the occasional calls of sentries letting each other know they were still at post.

  “Why are you camped here, Rufra, rather than in Maniyadoc?” In the haze of last light I could make out the huge castle on the horizon. “Surely your army would be safer behind its walls.”

  “Much safer,” he said. “Too safe. I want Tomas to fight me, and he is not so badly advised that he would attack Maniyadoc. If I hide behind its walls Tomas will never come against me and the land will remain ravaged by war.” He stooped, plucking a long stalk of grass from the verge. “He has more troops than we do and I hoped a camp might tempt him across the river.”

  “But it hasn’t?

  “No.” He whipped at the ground with the grass. “He sits in his camps or behind the walls of his keeps and hopes disease will strike my army and do his work for him, though of course he takes the same risk. But he must come soon, Girton, he must, or he will run out of food. I am slowly starving his army.”

  “If there is a spy or an assassin in your council you will need them uncovered before you fight Tomas.”

  “If there is.” He turned, a half-smile on his face, he looked young and lost – overwhelmed. Then he brightened. “Look, my herds.” He pointed ahead of us at the paddocks, where massive mounds of hay stood like giant hives. Around them were clustered the mounts of his army, huge and finely antlered. Even among all the great beasts I could easily spot my Xus. Rufra grinned at me as he saw my eyes lock on the mount. “I may be King of Maniyadoc and the Long Tides, Girton, but there is only one king of the paddocks, and he answers to none, not even me.”

  “Xus!” I shouted, and if I had expected some show of joy at my return I would have been sorely disappointed. I had not of course – I knew Xus better than that. He raised his long slim head at the sound of my voice and I saw him in silhouette, huge spreading antlers blackened by the falling sun, then he lazily trotted across the paddock towards me, occasionally pausing to nibble something on the ground with an air of insouciance. He stopped his own body length away from the fence Rufra and I leaned on. His small black eyes stared over my shoulder and his ears twitched as if he was unsure whether to deign to recognise my voice.

  “Our master is sick, Xus,” I said. The words came out as a whisper. Rufra briefly put a hand on my arm and then stood back so I could speak without being overheard. “She is sick, and she would be here if she could be. You will have to do with me for now. I will bring her when she is able. The sight of you will be a balm to her.” The huge animal lifted his head and considered this for a moment, blowing air noisily in and out of his nostrils, and then his whole body shivered – I noticed he had not been brushed in a long time – and he stepped forward until he was towering over me. Then he lowered his head so his neck lay on my shoulder and his great head, with those heavy antlers, rested against my back. I put my arms around him, losing myself in the smell of him, the bristles of his yearsdeath coat just starting to moult and the softness of the yearsbirth coat beneath. “She will come, Xus,” I said, “she will.” I do not know how long I stood like that with him, but it was a long time, time enough for twilight to finish her retreat, and all that time Rufra stood quietly behind me, giving me the space I needed.

  “He has missed you,” he said when I finally let go of the animal. “Tomorrow I ride out. You should bring him, give him a run.”

  “I would like that.”

  “But first you should tour the drinking holes tonight and tell people you intend to ride Xus, put on some bets. You could become a rich man.”

  “He is that feared?”

  Rufra nodded.

  “It became quite the sport for a while, to try and ride Xus. Eventually I had to put a stop to it as I was losing more Riders to injury from falling off him than I was to the blade.” He laughed, and I joined with him. I had missed this: I had missed Xus and I had missed my friend.

  “I will take him to the stables,” I said. “He needs a brush and attention paid to his claws – they are ragged.”

  “That is because all my stable hands are terrified of him. You should introduce Xus to one of them, Girton. It would do them good to see he is not a hedging that accidentally wandered into my paddocks.” With that he clapped me on the shoulder and pointed out the stable tents before walking away into the night.

  I watched him, feeling strangely out of sorts and alone. Despite my friend being here, despite my mount being here, I was still wondering if I would ever find a place that really felt like home.

  Chapter 10

  I woke before dawn the next day. The chill of the yearsbirth night still clung to the ground and misty kisses had left a rime of frost on the short grass, it crackled under my boots as I limped along. My master had slept right through the night without disturbing me for the first time since she was poisoned. That morning I had not heard her breathing and panicked that she had died in the night. I got up too quickly while half asleep and ended up tangled in my blanket and nearly overturning Mastal’s table of medicines.

  “Enough, Girton. She rests,” said Mastal, and he passed me a bowl of hot porridge. From the bags under his eyes I suspected he had been awake all night. I took the porridge and quickly spooned it down while he bent to pick up the papers which I had knocked to the floor. I froze, worried he would spot my copy of his own papers, but he only paused at the sheet showing the scarring on Varn’s arm. “I did not know you understood Tak, Girton.”

  “Tak?” I said and took the other papers, folding them away into my jerkin before sitting back down to my porridge.

  “This.” He shook the sheet at me. “One of the old languages.”

  “I only saw it somewhere is all,” I said, glad he had not noticed the copy of his papers and of something to take my mind from the tasteless lumpy slop I was forcing down my gullet. Food in Maniyadoc had not changed. “What does it say?”

  “I do not know much Tak,” said Mastal. “I only learned enough to read their medical texts, but this seems to be a vow, ‘I swear revenge on those who destroyed my people.’ But that is approximate. Is it important?”

  “It might be,” I said, putting down my empty bowl and taking back the sheet. I placed it along with the rest at the bottom of my pack and left the tent, deep in thought.

  Outside, Neliu stood guard. She was similar in many ways to Crast, but where he had an easy demeanour and ready smile she offered only a scowl. Her thin body looked carved of wiry muscle and tendon and she looked me over the way a warrior looks over a prospective opponent. I do not think she found me too impressive and I, in turn, saw the ghost of my own cocky youth in her.

  “You stood guard all night?”

  “Someone has to look after the sickly and the mage-bent,” she said, and then turned away as if I were of no import, leaving me both angry and impotent to act upon my anger with a sharp reply. I walked away, the scars on my body fizzing as if a million biting midges had landed on my skin to feast.

  “Girton Club-Foot.”

  My name from another’s mouth, but I could not place where it came from. The voice seemed to echo around me, coming from all directions at once, and I half expected Xus the unseen to walk out of the morning shadows.

  “Who is that?”

  “How soon the youth forget,” said the voice, and I heard someone approach, though who it was I could not fathom. The pattern of footsteps and sound was wrong for someone walking or running. Out of the night came Gusteffa the dwarf, cartwheeling along the ground until she flipped herself up into the air in a perfect handspring and landed in front of me. Her face was painted pure white with small red lips and red dots on the cheeks.

  “Gusteffa!” I said, and to see her brought me some small joy. “I am glad Rufra kept yo
u on.”

  “Well –” the jester smiled “– unlike King Doran, King Rufra even pays attention to me on occasion. Though not enough, of course.” She performed a mocking bow.

  “You’re an artist, Gusteffa. Rufra would not be such a fool as to throw away a treasure.”

  She bowed low again, I suspect to hide the pleasure on her face from my praise. “So, Girton Club-Foot, do you come to jester for your friend? Is my time here over?”

  “Not at all, Gusteffa. My master is ill. We came here for safety is all.”

  “A funny place to look for safety, in a camp at the edge of war. And do not forget it is ill luck for a king to have two jesters.’“

  “But I am not here to be his jester, Gusteffa. I would never push you out.” She made the gesture of surprise, her startlingly ugly face framed by her hands.

  “And your other friend, Death’s Jester, where is she?”

  “In our tent and ill, gravely ill.”

  “I am sorry for that,” she said, bowing her head. “She is an artist, as you could be. But not with this.” And she was tumbling away from me with my warhammer in her hand, though I had no idea how she slid it from my belt without me noticing.

  “I no longer tumble,” I said. Gusteffa balanced the warhammer in the mud and pretended to walk away from it, acting like it was so heavy it kept pulling her back.

  “No wonder, it is as heavy as Castle Maniyadoc.” She mimed trying and failing to lift the warhammer. I walked forward to reclaim it but she flipped away, the weapon whirling around her as if it weighed nothing, and then, with a series of cartwheels, she vanished into the gloom.

  “Gusteffa!” I shouted, and out of the darkness my warhammer came sailing back to land at my feet, making me jump back.

  “We choose our own paths and burdens, Girton Club-Foot,” came a voice from the mist, “so choose them wisely, for once the path is chosen the way is set. You should leave, find yourself a blessed and pledge to do their bidding no matter what. Just as I did. You could live a happy life.” I stared at the hammer, leaning slightly to one side where it had landed in the mud.