by RJ Baker
“Was he expecting anyone on the night of his death?”
“No. He tells me when he must meet people. Some hate him and he needs protection.”
“I think he was meeting someone.”
“Why?”
“Two chairs.” I pointed at the chairs on the floor, the type that folded up to be put out of the way or easily transported. Then I noticed a sword lying beneath one of the chairs and went to pick it up. Again Danfoth stopped me touching it. “It may belong to who killed him, Danfoth.”
He shook his head. “Arnst’s possessions are not for you.”
I glanced back at the blade. It was a fine piece of work, a solid-looking blade that shone with quality. The hilt was inlaid and carved with scenes from the deaths of Adallada and Dallad, the queen of the gods and her consort. One edge was red with blood.
“You are sure? It is a strange thing for a man who preached the death of gods to own such a blade,” I said.
Danfoth nodded.
“Before he was Arnst, he held another name and was one of the high king’s guards. That is one of their swords.”
“What was his other name?”
“That name is no longer spoken; it is dead.”
“So is Arnst. It may be important.” I had been too flippant.
Danfoth turned from me.
“You should go,” he said. “There is nothing more here for you.”
I left but I had plenty to think about. The high king, Darsese, ruled from Ceadoc, though he was a paper king with little real power outside his own castle. Still, Ceadoc itself was rich, being the seat of the the Landsmen’s power and where their leader, the Trunk of the Landsmen, sat. It also it held the sepulchres of the dead gods, which attracted pilgrims from all over the Tired Lands. If Arnst had been one of the high king’s guard then he would know how to use a blade, so whoever had killed him must surely have been trained to use a blade also. And two chairs. Had Arnst sat peacably with his killer until there was some falling-out? If so it must have been someone he knew. He had sent away his bodyguard to meet whoever this person was, so maybe it was not someone he wished his loyal man to see him meeting. Who could that be?
I decided to look around outside, pushing my way gently through those still bringing remembrance rags. By Arnst’s tent were two others: to the left was a small round tent covered in old, worn leather, its entrance opening on to the clearing in front of Arnst’s tent from which an aisle of military tents stretched away. To the right was a drinking tent, though they were usually rowdy places it was quiet now, no noise coming from the closed flaps that acted as doors. I approached the drinking tent first, surprised to find the flaps tied so I had to brush the chimes to get attention.
“We are closed,” came the shout of a woman from inside.
“I am not here to drink, I am from the king,” I replied. A moment later a hand reached through the flaps and pulled on the ties, undoing them. I slipped through and into the tent, which was spacious, rows of benches set up around long tables, each just wide enough to hold a couple of pots and nothing else, the better to fit more people in.
“I am here about Arnst’s murder,” I said to the woman, who was compact and chubby-faced with small eyes. One of those lucky people with good skin that makes ageing them hard.
“Well I did not kill him, if that is what you think. His followers supply most of my business.”
“But not today?” I waved behind me.
“No. Berit – he is my man – said we should close out of respect for Arnst.” She looked like she had found something dead on the table she was cleaning.
“You do not think he deserved respect?”
“He was trouble,” she said, “as are plenty of his followers. More than once I’ve had to get my pig-sticker out.” She pointed at a huge boar spear leaning by the barrels at the back of the tent.
“You use that?” I said.
“Aye. Would Berit could wield a weapon as large.” She laughed to herself.
“Did you open the night he was killed?”
“I never shut, apart from today –” she stopped cleaning and mopped her brow “– and even then I get no rest as my useless man is off, leaving me with all the work.”
“Just you and he run the place?”
“Aye, us and our daughter did.” She shrugged. “But a battle camp is no place for a young girl and we found her a better place to be.”
“So you are left all the work?” I stepped over to her, took a cloth from her bucket and started to clean a table down. “If I am to ask questions then at least I can pay for them with a little help, eh?”
“Ha!” She grinned. “A useful man? Maybe King Rufra really is changing the world for the better. Ask away. What is your name, useful man?”
“Girton,” I said, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain. “On the night Arnst died, did you notice anything unusual?”
“We was busy that night,” she said. “Always a little busier when the king is away. Plenty of Arnst’s followers were in, as is usual, and we had some trouble.”
“Oh?”
“Priests,” she said. “I was out with the cart getting more perry. Berit could tell you more if he was here but, aye, we had a priest in.”
“Is that usual?”
“They do come by, try and get those in here to see the error of their ways, but they don’t generally stay long.”
“It gets heated?”
“You could say. People been saying Fitchgrass has been stealing women, and the Priests said he was here to calm them. Wrong crowd for a priest to talk about hedgings to. They were practically accusing him of causing it when I left, and Berit had chucked him out by the time I returned.”
“Which priest was it?”
“He wore his mask, and I wasn’t paying much attention.” She stopped scrubbing. “No, wait. Grey robe he was, so one from the healer’s. We weren’t happy having him here, bringing bad luck. Berit is the one to speak to though.”
“When will Berit be back?”
“Who knows? When this work is finished, I imagine, lazy yellower that he is.”
I stayed another half-hour helping the woman, Ahild, and left after declining the quarter-bit she offered to pay me for my work. Then I went to the smaller tent, and though the tent flap was untied I brushed my hand against the chimes. A man’s face appeared.
“Yes?” He was small, and the hand holding the tent flap back was covered in tiny cuts. I wondered if they had been given by a sword.
“My name is Girton. I am here to look into the death of Arnst for King Rufra.” The man seemed to shrink a little.
“You should come in then.” He moved back, holding the tent flap open. “My name is Hossit, Blessed,” he said with a small bow before catching himself. “Sorry, the new ways are still very new to me.” He gave me a nervous smile. I glanced around his tent and smiled back. The reason for the cuts on his hands was obvious now: he was a woodworker, though I noticed a spear stood by his door.
“Are you expecting trouble?” I said, pointing at the weapon.
“Oh no,” he said. “Tis a hunting spear and just where I left it. Arnst’s followers are no trouble.” I nodded, but sometimes a denial may reveal more than is intended, and this man appeared oddly sad or maybe frightened. I picked up a model of a mount, intricately carved, though one of its legs had broken off.
“Your work?”
He nodded. “Yes, made for my son.” He pointed to the back of his tent where a young boy, five, six maybe, was playing quietly with some wooden figures in front of a small shrine to the dead god Lessiah.
“It is good workmanship,” I said, turning the mount in my hands. “There are just the two of you here?”
“My wife has … gone to spend some time with her sister at the castle,” he said. “The boy stays with me as he is learning my trade.” The boy turned and smiled shyly at me and I wondered if his wife had left him, and that was why he appeared sad. I would intrude upon the man as little as possible
. He did not strike me as a killer.
“Did you hear anything on the night Arnst died?”
“Not really,” he said, looking at the wooden floor. “The sound of the drinking tent drowns out everything else, and Arnst and his people are generally quiet.”
“You are not aware of any visitors he had that night?”
“We keep to ourselves,” he said, gesturing at the shrine. “We are not of them.”
“So you saw nothing and heard nothing?”
“No.” He was turning away when his son spoke:
“There was the hedging, Father. It comes at night.”
“Quiet, Dwilan. Girton is the king’s man and has no time for your fancies.”
“A hedging?”
“A fancy of the child’s,” said Hossit quickly. “It is a current fascination, nothing else.“
“When did you see it, Dwilan?” I said.
“At night. Sometimes I look out of the tent and see him. He steals women – he took mother.”
“The boy hears women’s rumours and then sees them in dreams,” said Hossit, moving in front of his son. “Please do not chastise the boy. His mother has gone and he misses her is all.”
“I will not chastise him.” I crossed to the boy and knelt, taking a quarter bit from my pouch and putting it in his hand. “Tell me of this hedging.” I smiled at him. “I have heard of hedgings but have never seen one, so tell me, was it Dark Ungar you saw?” The boy smiled and shook his head. “Who then? Coil the Yellower? Or maybe Blue Watta dripping down the path?” I pulled a face and Dwilan laughed.
“No, none of those. Just a field hedging, but not tall and thin like everyone says they are. It was big and strong.”
“And how did you know it was a hedging? Was he made of prickles, or road dust and spit?”
More laughter.
“No, it looked just like a man wearing a cloak.”
“Then how did you know he was a hedging?”
“Because I saw him on the night Gildera vanished. She used to live in the tent opposite. The wind lifted his cloak, and underneath his skin was green just like a field hedging’s is in a story.”
“Green skin?” He nodded. “Thank you, Dwilan. I must leave now, but if you remember anything else then please find me.” I turned to the boy’s father. “Thank you for your time, Hossit.” He showed me out, and there was little doubt he was glad to see me go.
Danfoth watched as I walked away up the aisle of military tents, inspecting the back of each in case it had been slit to allow someone through. I found nothing more than the usual small patches and fixes any tent has. From the length of the grasses around the tents they had all been there for weeks, and in truth I did not expect to find anything. This was not a killer who sneaked in and out; this murderer was brazen.
The boy had spoken of a hedging with green skin, and his father did not believe him, but I did, in a way. A murderous hedge spirit made no sense, but in the night and to a small boy a man wearing a cloak over green armour might easily be mistaken for a monster. The Landsmen wore green and had cause to hate a man like Arnst, who preached the death of the gods they served. And they were formidable warriors, trained as well, if not better, than the men who guarded the high king at Ceadoc.
And if I was honest, nothing would give me more pleasure than to see a Landsman join the desolate to bleed out for murder.
Dusk was falling as I made my way back to our tent. I noticed in the distance a fuzzy glow in the sky. At first I thought it was fire and a chill passed through me – fire in a camp like this would be deadly – but there were no shouts on the wind so I made my way towards the light. I heard laughter and the buzz of conversation; nearer I heard the shrieks of children, and a huge plume of flame shot into the darkening purple of the sky. It was a night market. Night markets were a common feature of the Tired Lands. During the day many were too busy trying to scratch a living to look at stalls, so markets always set up at night at least once before moving on. In a military camp a night market made even more sense, as during the day most of the troops would be training or on duty; at night they liked to carouse and spend their wages.
I entered the night market and recognised that, just as the Landsmen had a small enclave in the camp, so did Festival. Figures wrapped in triangular cloaks stood behind stalls laden with wares, though I noticed the food stalls were sadly depleted. Traders shouted out what they offered in sing-song, overlapping voices.
“Pots, pots, buy my fine pots.”
“Plays and stories, ancient voices.”
“Rags, rags, many-coloured rags.”
“Toys and treats, good to meet.”
“Plays and stories, ancient voices.”
“Toys and treats, good to meet.”
“Pots, pots, buy my fine pots.”
I reached into my pouch and took out the doxy leaf, rubbing it between my fingers. If the yandil my master needed was to be found anywhere it would be found here. I still felt angry with Mastal but I was not sure why. My master was not celibate and took lovers, but they were casual, and she rarely seemed to take much joy in their company. Something about the way she had laughed with Mastal though, it felt different. Was that the root of my anger? Was I really just a jealous child?
Maybe.
But it felt wrong. Something about him felt wrong, though I could not put my finger on it. Had Aydor sent him to distract me? Was that Mastal’s purpose? To give me something else to think about while he cause turmoil in Rufra’s camp? On to land me in a Landsman’s gibbet, buying his hedge-cursed leaves?
I approached a pot seller, the stall decked out with straw hobby dolls, and glanced over the teetering piles of bowls made from pale clay. At the back of the stall were signing bowls, made so thin you could almost see through them.
“A bowl, boy, or a pot to piss in?”
“I can afford neither.” Behind his mask of corn stalks I could not tell if the trader was disappointed or amused by me. Those of Festival often saw the world differently to the rest of us. “Is there a herb dealer in this night market?”
“Aye.” He may have nodded but his stiff robes made it impossible to tell. “Up past the weapons seller and right at the courtesans.” I thanked him and moved further into the market. A troupe was performing Elit, Who Scorned the Gods and became Dark Ungar, and a crowd had gathered around them, jeering and whooping at the dancer playing Elit. He was no great talent and a part of me itched to push him aside and show the crowd how such a dance should be done.
“Bread, bread, soft as your head.”
I paused at the weapons seller, inspecting her wares, stabswords and longswords, knives and axes. I picked up a hand axe, hefting it and getting a feel for the way it swung.
“That is a good blade,” said the stallholder, a woman bigger and more muscular than I was. “Good size for you, boy – better than that thing at your side.” She pointed at the warhammer.
“I’m not so sure.” I tipped the axe so I could see where the head was attached to the wooden handle and spotted a telltale pattern of tiny pits. “I suspect this may break the first time I try and cut butter with it.”
“Ha!” She laughed, an explosive, certain sound. “This boy knows his blades then. Ha!” She leaned forward to whisper, “Ignore what is on show in front, boy, look at what is behind.” I glanced up, enjoying conversation with one who recognised my worth. Along the back of her stall she had a few blades that were much better, as well as a selection of knives, including the strangely curved knives the Landsmen used to cut their symbols into those who practised magic. They sent a shudder through me and my desire for conversation suddenly died.
“Thank you, madame stallholder,” I said, “but I cannot afford such wares.” She waved me off with a friendly gesture.
“Juices, juices, sweet and good.”
I passed the courtesans. A man and woman stood, stock still, oiled and almost naked on either side of a large tent. A tall thin man who wore antlers made of twig and spiralled band
s of hard bread around his arms served as howler, shouting out his delights.
“You boy –” he pointed at me “– carrier of a mighty weapon, I see, come do battle in the tent. Enjoy the cut –” he leered at me “– or thrust of our beautiful courtesans …” I walked past, ignoring him, as I had learned that to talk to howlers only invited embarrassment. Around the corner I ran into Rufra’s healer.
“Tarris,” I said, “have you been to the herb seller?”
“I would not touch her wares,” the priest said, and I sensed venom, even through his mask and modulated voice. “Festival is rife with ills, a bed for hedgings and hungers.” The courtesan’s howler approached but went in search of easier prey when he saw Tarris. “Is your master dead yet?”
“No,” I said, “in fact she is awake now. I go to see her when I am finished here. Would you like to come and wish her well?” I said guilelessly, unable to resist the jibe.
“Why would I do that?” He seemed genuinely puzzled, though it was always hard to tell with a priest.
“Did you hear about Arnst?”
“Aye, murder is a terrible thing.” He did not sound like he thought it was that terrible. “But I must wonder if Xus the god of death acted to protect himself from desecration. Arnst was nothing but a danger to all.”
“Did you know anything of him?”
“As little as I could manage,” he hissed. “Now I must go.” He pushed past me, and I watched him go before carrying on to the herb seller. A priest in a grey robe had been in the drinking tent. Tarris or one of his acolytes?
“Flesh, offal, bone and caul, all that lives to Xus must fall.”
The herb seller was situated next to a butcher whose wares were so rank that the stink would scare away a yellower. Nonetheless, a steady stream of ragged and starved-looking people took away cloth wrapped parcels of dripping meat. I turned my back on his stall and tried my best not to breathe in through my nose.
The herb woman was old, old in a way not often seen in the Tired Lands. Her long white hair looked like untreated sheep’s wool and her face was deeply lined, washed-out cataract-pale eyes stared out from parchment paper-thin skin. I held out the doxy leaf to her, and the hand she used to take it was more like a bundle of twigs, its joints huge and swollen with age’s kiss.
