by RJ Baker
“They look like doxy leaves.” I moved even further away from him.
“Yes, they are a related plant I imagine, and where doxy is good if you have a headache, this is a leaf we call yandil and it is a far more powerful healer. The poison in your master has its roots deep in Glynti ways and, though they would never admit it, what they do is a kind of sorcery.” He reached into his pouch and took out another leaf, seemingly identical. “Here, this is a doxy leaf. Smell it.” I did. It smelled of earth and had a bitter green background note, like unripe fruit. “Now smell the yandil.” He passed me a leaf from inside his robe and I lifted it to my nose. At first I thought it smelled the same, but then came another scent, very faint at first – honey, pepper and warm sunlight. The threadwork of scars on my body pulled against my skin as if attracted to the herb, and for a moment I was in a barn full of amber light while a woman I had loved put her hand on mine. I pulled my hand back from the yandil as if stung. “Do not be scared, Girton,” whispered Mastal, “and do not make a scene, but what you smell is magic.” He took back the yandil leaf. “Not the type that sours the land in the hands of sorcerers; what you smell is the scent of life, and the yandil hoards it. I have used the leaf to stave off the poison and to help your master build up her strength so she can fight off the Glynti sickness.”
“And it is working.”
“Yes, it is, but I do not have enough yandil to keep her well for long.”
I stared at the doxy leaf in my left hand, it felt somehow less substantial after holding the yandil, it was simply a dead thing. I folded it and put it in my pouch.
“You have looked in the markets?”
“Yes, both the night and day markets, but it is not the sort of thing anyone would choose to display with the Landsmen in camp, and I am too obviously a stranger here. They are suspicious of me. You, on the other hand …”
Could end up in a blood gibbet and he would not care. Or did he do this to remind me of the difference between myself and my master? Or to remind me of the similarity between him and her? That they shared some perfect mountain land and I was from sad and broken Maniyadoc, more torn and sundered by sorcerers than any other place in the Tired Lands.
“You want me to look for it?” I could not look at him.
“Yes.”
“How much of it do you need?”
“At the moment I give her a quarter of a leaf, ground into a paste, each day. As her body becomes accustomed to it, I will need to give her more to see the same effect. I have maybe a month’s supply, but she needs three months at least, maybe even six.”
“And if you can’t find it?”
“Yandil grows thick in the Sighing Mountains.”
“So you would have to go and get it then?” I tried not to sound too happy about him leaving.
“No, I must be with her to administer the herb.”
“So you want me to go?” I did not like the idea of leaving my master with him.
“No. My people are as suspicious of strangers as yours can be, more so in many ways.”
And then it struck me, what he was saying.
“You want to take her there?”
“Only to treat her, Girton, because—”
“No!” I stood, trying not to shout as it would attract attention. “I saw how you were with her, how you looked at her.”
“Girton –” he looked shocked, as if his veneer of calm should somehow have fooled me “– it is not what you think. Only the talk of two people sharing memories of a land they have loved, nothing more.”
“I am not a child, Mastal,” I hissed.
“I am not so sure of that,” he said quietly, standing and brushing imaginary dust from his robe. “Think on what I said, Girton. I have no interest in your master the way you imagine. Is it more important to have your master here with you? Or more important that she lives? You are young, Girton. The world is not all about you.”
“It has never been about me,” I said. “If it was about me, do you think I’d be standing here with a warhammer at my hip and a soldier’s armour on?” From somewhere tears were threatening, tears of frustration, and there was something else, a voice I recognised, one that I had not heard for a long time. It whispered to me from very far away.
“I can make this all better.”
Mastal walked away, stiff with irritation, as if he had been utterly reasonable and I was the problem. “I will find your leaf,” I shouted after him. “I will find you more than you need!” He ignored me and, when I turned, a woman and the children she shepherded were staring at me with wide frightened eyes. “He does not understand,” I said to her. “He is a foreigner.”
The woman looked me up and down and said, “So are you,” then hurried her children away. Before I could say anything Neliu approached.
“Shouldn’t you be guarding my master?” I said.
“Crast is with her. Shouldn’t you be finding traitors?”
“It is not quite as easy as guard duty,” I snapped back before concentrating on my breathing and speaking more slowly. “I am sorry if I was sharp – my day has been long – but as you are here I should ask you if there is anyone on the council you do not trust.”
“I would have said Arnst, but if the traitor was him someone has done your job for you.” She pointed at the warhammer hanging from my belt. “Are you as good Nywulf says?” I shrugged. “I don’t think you are,” she said, “or you wouldn’t have that ugly thing or get jumped in a wood. You’d use a real weapon.” She tapped the blade on her hip.
“It does its job.”
“It is not a dancer’s weapon. Nywulf said you were a dancer.” Her eyes shone. “I had hoped to dance with you, see if you are worthy of the blade you carry.” She pointed at the Conwy stabsword on my belt. I had moved it there from my back when we joined Rufra, so he could see it. While I was distracted her hand shot out, making a grab for the hilt. Before she got anywhere near I had hold of her wrist. We locked gazes, and then, for the first time since I had met her, she smiled. “Gusteffa identified your attacker,” she said.
I did not let go of her wrist. “And?”
“A woman called Callin, a mercenary and, it turns out, a murderous thief. In her tent we found a sword from an officer we thought had fallen over and smashed his head, as well as a few other things.”
“So you are saying it was a robbery?” She was very near to me, her eyes gleaming.
“Looks that way.”
“She knew who I was.”
“She probably asked about you – ambassador’s assistant, likely a rich target.”
“Likely,” I said.
“Rufra wants you,” she said, then added, “I have a bet with Crast that you would let the king down.” She glanced down at where I held her, and I let go. She rubbed her wrist. “You’re quicker than I expected.”
“Maybe you have lost your money, eh?”
“Only if you’re quick enough when it counts,” she said. “Are you quick enough when it counts, Girton Club-Foot?”
Now it was my turn to shrug.
“I am still alive, Neliu, that is what matters. Lead me to the king.”
Rufra waited for me with Nywulf and Areth in a back room of his two-storey caravan. Neliu went to stand by Nywulf, the floor creaked as she crossed it and in the windowless wooden room the heat was stifling.
“Girton,” said Rufra, “we have a problem. Arnst has a following, a loyal following of at least a hundred, probably far more. They are already blaming the priesthood for his death. The followers of the dead gods are in their turn glad Arnst is dead, though they are not being too open and singing out their joy, not yet anyway.”
“Trouble will surely follow that song,” I said.
“Yes.” He moved nearer to me and spoke quietly: “I want you to forget about Nywulf’s talk of traitors. The Triangle Council are all loyal so do not waste your time on them.” Neliu was absent-mindedly nodding her head as he said this, as if she also thought I wasted my time. “I want yo
u to find out who killed Arnst.”
“Me?”
“You are the one who uncovered Kyril’s killer at Maniyadoc.”
“But my master—”
“Is awake now, so you can consult with her if you need to. I will give you a letter of authority to go anywhere and talk to anyone.”
“We would be obliged if you did this for us, Girton,” said Areth. I nodded, although I did not intend to stop hunting for the traitor. Events are often interlinked. If there was a traitor it was possible he was also mixed up in the death of Arnst: in fact it would be stranger if he wasn’t.
“Very well. I will need to see the corpse.”
Rufra took my arm by the wrist and squeezed. “Thank you. Come, he is in the butcher’s hole.”
We left the caravan to find the clearing outside had filled with people. There was a palpable sense of tension in the air. The crowd was clearly divided between Arnst’s followers in their black rags and the rest of the camp in bright colours. Two of the camp’s priests, Darvin and Tarris, stood at the head of a small group of acolytes, and the air fairly crackled with the ill will between them and Arnst’s followers. I was in no doubt the crowd could turn ugly at any moment.
Nywulf pushed past me and I heard him whisper to Rufra, “I will bring more soldiers.” Rufra nodded and then stood on the lower bars of the stair to the caravan so the crowd could see him.
“Listen!” he shouted. “Listen to me!” The crowd quietened. “Arnst was part of my council but I know there are those here who bore him no love.”
“Aye. Good riddance to him!” shouted a woman from somewhere to the left of Rufra, he ignored her and continued talking.
“And there are also those here who loved him greatly! But no matter which opinion you hold, you are united in one thing. As Arnst and I were also united!” The crowd was now silent. “We all want to see Tomas beaten, aye?”
“Aye,” came the reply, but it was a weak shout.
Rufra raised his voice further:
“You want Tomas beaten? Aye?” This time the reply from the crowd was much louder. “Good, because there is nothing that would please Tomas more than for us to turn on each other. Do you understand? We must stand together.”
“And so you would have us forget Arnst?” This came from the right.
“No!” shouted Rufra. “I would not have you forget any life taken before its time, but this is a matter for the king’s justice, do you understand?” There was murmuring in the crowd, a ripple of disquiet passing through them and I felt Rufra’s hand on my shoulder. “Do you see this man?” I knew what he was about to do and I wanted to tell him not to. Do not do this, Rufra. My place is not by your side in view of all. My place is the shadows, on the edges of your life, doing the things you do not wish to be seen to do. But it was too late. “This is Girton Club-Foot, and when we were young he solved a murder in Castle Maniyadoc, an impossible murder, a murder where there was no mark on the body, a murder no one believed could be solved. No one!” There was silence again though I was surprised no one could hear the sound of my cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Girton Club-Foot solved that murder! And Girton Club-Foot will find out who killed Arnst. He has the king’s trust in this and, I hope, he will have yours.” He paused to let the crowd think about what he had said before continuing: “I ask you to trust in me, as you have done before, and to trust in Girton, as I do, for he is a good man. Now go back to your tents and keep the peace.”
During Rufra’s speech soldiers had slipped into the clearing, and now they moved forward into the crowd, politely assisting those who may not have been quite as willing to leave to change their minds.
“That was well said, Rufra,” said Areth.
“It will not hold them for long.” He did not look at her as he spoke. “There will be more deaths over this.” He turned to me. “Work quickly, Girton, for all our sakes, or Tomas wins the fight without ever drawing sword.”
Rufra then took me to the butcher’s hole, a cave in a small hill used to keep meat cool so it did not spoil. It was not a hard place to find for anyone with a nose as the smell of offal and meat fat tarred the air around it. Arnst’s corpse was on a wooden table, covered by a dark cloth making the contours of his body a twilit landscape in the gloom.
“You are sure it was murder?” I asked, remembering the body of a boy named Kyril, which had lain on a similar stone slab, unmarred and perfect because he had been killed by magic wielded by my first love, Drusl.
“Quite sure,” said Rufra as he pulled away the cloth.
Underneath lay Arnst, though at first glance it was hard to tell. He had been stabbed multiple times, and his stomach had been slashed so fiercely that his entrails had escaped. An attempt had been made to push his guts back in and secure them with a filthy cloth. His killer had also put out Arnst’s eyes and, on closer inspection, I found his tongue had been cut out.
“When did this happen?” I asked.
“Yesterday. He was found in the evening in his tent. His man has guarded it ever since so it is not disturbed.”
I had not liked Arnst much from our brief meeting but I had not wished death on him. I inspected his hands and found marks where ropes had dug deep into the flesh, rubbing and burning the skin of his wrists as he had fought against them.
“He lived through at least part of this,” I said, gesturing at the carnage of his body. “Someone hated him.”
“That is the problem, Girton,” said Rufra sadly. “Arnst was not an easy man to like. A lot of people had cause to hate him, finding his killer will not be an easy task.”
I looked once more at the ruined body.
“Nothing is ever easy.”
Chapter 16
The huge Meredari, Danfoth, stood before Arnst’s tent as a steady stream of people pinned small scraps of rag to it, as the living often did when mourning those they loved. Danfoth did not pay attention to any of those who approached, and if they talked to him he ignored them, only staring forward with his hand on the hilt of his blade.
“Danfoth,” I said, the black face paint around his eyes was scored by the tracks of tears. The Meredari believed a man or woman would be judged by the weight of tears cried for them. “I need to enter Arnst’s tent.”
He turned his head to me, blond curls shifting in the wind.
“None may enter,” he said.
“I have been sent by—”
“None may enter,” he said again more forcefully. “The last place of Arnst must not be disturbed. One day many will wish to see where he had his revelations. He was a great man.”
“A great murdered man.” He stared at me as if I spoke a foreign language.
“He foretold his death, but his words will live on.” Danfoth turned his gaze away from me and I decided to try a different tack.
“Danfoth, I understand your respect for Arnst, but Rufra has sent me to investigate his death.” I produced the letter but it held no interest for Danfoth.
“It does not matter who did this. Arnst’s words will live on and so will he.” The Meredari still did not look at me, and I put the letter away.
“Will they live on under Tomas and Neander?” Now Danfoth turned his head back to me. “Because Rufra will allow Arnst’s words to live on, but I think we both know Neander will not.” His brow creased, and I wondered if he was drugged. There was something in his movements that spoke of the fugue of those whose minds sailed other seas.
“Rufra will triumph over Tomas. Arnst saw this. He said Xus had a plan and Rufra was part of it.”
“But if the people do not know who killed Arnst, the camp will tear itself apart, Danfoth, and if that happens Tomas has won.” I realised I was talking slowly, as if to someone whose mind was mage-bent.
“Tomas will not win,” he said and turned his head from me again.
“What if unmasking his murderer was part of Arnst’s plan?” Danfoth turned back to me again. Behind us a quiet stream of people hesitantly pinned more rags to the tent. Som
e of the Meredari’s curls had stuck to the make-up caked onto his face and created greasy whorls between the black and white.
“Touch nothing,” he said and stood aside so I could enter, then followed me in.
Danfoth had kept the lamps burning, and once my eyes became accustomed to the gloom I scanned the contents of the tent. It was clear nothing had been disturbed since Arnst’s body was removed. Under the chaos and dried blood of a violent death I recognised an ordered mind. Piles of books had been knocked to the floor, falling so they exposed their labelled spines, while on one table stood glasses and bottles – ordered by size and miraculously untouched. Arnst’s bed was neatly made, and in the centre of the tent a table and two chairs had stood – now overturned. The carpet sheet was thick with blood, now black, and I knew it would be tacky to the touch. The tent smelled like the butcher’s hole.
“Did you hear anything?” I asked Danfoth. It seemed unlikely such violence could have been done without him hearing.
“No.” His voice was thick with sorrow. “Arnst had sent me to tour the drinking tents and get the feel of the camp, see how his words were sitting on those who must fight.” Odd, I thought, that it was those who must fight that Arnst had been interested in, or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it had only been an excuse to get rid of his guard.
“Did he send you away a lot, Danfoth?”
“I was his right hand. He had many tasks for me.” I reached out for a book that lay on the undisturbed table atop another. “No!” Danfoth was in front of me, his hand on his sword. “Those are the words of Arnst and they are not for you.” I took my hand away.
“Who are they for, Danfoth?” I asked.
His eyes were very far away, and he was almost lost again. “For those who follow. They are for those who follow him to Xus’s dark palace.”
“And of those who follow, would any of them hold a grudge against him?”
“Never. He was loved by his followers.” His words spoke of surety, but there was something else there, some oblique untruth which I would not pick at now. Danfoth wasn’t the most talkative man, I did not think calling him a liar would make him any more forthcoming. I could always return when I had more information to press him with.
