Blood of Assassins

by RJ Baker

  “They are killers. All of them. You hate them too.”

  “I would wipe them from the Tired Lands, Girton, but consider that if you misstep you let a real killer walk free, and that may leave your friend in danger. Be thorough.” I wanted to say something that would show her how wrong she was but could think of nothing. “I am very tired, Girton,” she said. “I should sleep.”

  “Do that then.” I stood, and as I left she blew out the light.

  Annoyed with my master, and myself, I found the largest drinking tent in the camp, a place I could lose myself among Rufra’s troops and a place where I could sit alone and know no one would bother me – soldiers understand the need to be alone. The tent was loud, but I found a dark corner at the end of one of the long tables that ran the length of it and there I nursed a cup of watered perry and a bellyful of resentment. Unconsciously, I ran my hand under the edge of the table and found an old inscription in assassins’ scratch, some of the words missing through age.

  Captain Sarand steals from who can ill affo-d it. 5 bits is all can muster. is a worthy task/ CS steals no m

  Gostis

  Someone sat down beside me.

  “I wish for my own company tonight,” I said.

  “A pity,” said the man as he placed a pot of perry in front of me. “I wished to thank you for speaking up when Boros found us.” I glanced up. It was Thian, Aydor’s captain.

  “Aydor has entered camp then?”

  “Aye. Rufra thought it best we enter camp quietly after what has happened. He wanted no more upset.”

  “If you have come here to plead your king’s cause then you may as well talk to the stones of Maniyadoc.”

  “No,” said Thian. “Aydor told me some of what went on between you though …” He let the words die and, despite knowing he was playing me, I kept my gaze on him and waited for him to continue. “Well, in truth I do not recognise the man I serve in the stories he tells of himself as a child.”

  “He was not a child,” I said. Thian had no reply to that.

  “I also thought you may want to know that …” He did not finish. A silence fell in the tent as Aydor walked in. There was no mistaking him, his bulk filled the entrance to the tent. I was surprised to see he was alone and wondered whether Thian had been sent into the tent with a few of his men to make sure he would be safe. I noticed, as Aydor stood in the doorway surveying the room, that he wore twinned stabswords rather than a longsword and stabsword.

  “Why does he wear two stabswords?” I said to Thian, who looked at me as if I were a fool.

  “You really do not know?” Before I could answer, a soldier stood up at a table near the door. “You are not welcome here.”

  “But I am here,” said Aydor, full of the belligerence I remembered. “And I am here at the invite of your king.”

  Now we see the yellower’s real colours, I thought.

  “Well, Fat Bear,” said the soldier, “you can leave by the invite of his army, with my boot up your arse if needs be.”

  Aydor stared at the man, his tongue exploring the gaps between his teeth. The tension in the tent rose, people shifted, breath was held.

  “You have small boots,” he said, “and I have a large arse. You might get lost up there if you’re not careful.”

  A spattering of laughter across the room – which the soldier silenced with a glare.

  “You are not welcome here, Aydor ap Mennix,” he said quietly and slid his stabsword from his belt. “Do you understand me?”

  “Are you offering to duel me?” said Aydor.

  “I would, happily.” I believed the man, he had the air of one who had fought his whole life and had no fear of another’s blade. “But a living man cannot duel a king, eh?”

  “True, said Aydor. “But now we have Rufra’s new ways, eh? All are equal. So –” he pulled himself to his full height, which even I had to admit was impressive “– I accept your challenge.” The soldier looked surprised.

  I made to stand, but Thian pulled me back down. “Wait.”

  “Rufra’s camp is already on a knife edge over the murder of Arnst, Thian. If Aydor kills one of Rufra’s troops there will be carnage.”

  “Just give him a moment, Girton. As I said, he is not the man you knew.”

  “Then let us go outside, Aydor,” said the soldier.

  “Yes.” Aydor nodded slowly then held a finger to his forehead as if remembering something. “Forgive me, but what is your name?” He sounded as if he had not a care in the world. “If I am to duel a man I should at least know his name.”

  “I am Bonal,” said the soldier.

  “Well, I have not actually duelled before, Bonal, but as I understand duelling, it is the one who suffered the insult who gets to choose the weapon?”

  The silence in the tent was utter.

  “Aye,” said Bonal. Someone moved and the creak of their leather armour filled the room.

  “Well,” said Aydor, “it was you called me a fat bear.”

  “I did. What of it, Fat Bear?”

  “So I get to choose the weapon?” Bonal crumpled his brow, searching for some sort of trick, and then nodded. Aydor scanned the room, meeting the hostile gazes of the men and women around him. “You are not the only one who hates me here, Bonal,” he said and looked straight at me, finding my shadow in the edges of the tent. “There are many deaths between myself and Rufra’s men, and I would have all hostility end here –” he raised his voice “– so I will duel you all. Every single man and woman in here. One at a time or all at once, I do not care.” There was a massed intake of breath, and I thought again, here it is, the arrogance I expect of Aydor ap Mennix. He reached out to the table in front of him, closed his meaty fist around a drinking pot and held it up. “This is my weapon,” he shouted, holding it in the air, “and we will fight to the last one standing!”

  “We fight with pots?” said Bonal, who was clearly puzzled and possibly not the greatest intellect in Rufra’s army.

  “No, we shall fight with drink,” said Aydor. “Potwoman,” he shouted, “I will pay for every drink poured tonight, and mind you keep the pots filled. The last one standing wins the duel.” He stood on a table, which creaked under his weight, and raised his voice further – he was already half drunk. “We have all lost friends in this war. I have taken yours and you have taken mine. We will remember those lost, we will put aside old hatreds and come together for King Rufra!” He thrust his stolen pot into the air, spilling perry all over himself, and to my shock his speech was met with a massed shout of “Aye!”

  Aydor carried on: “We will drink! Drink to the fallen! And we will make new friendships, forge new bonds! And may-be when tonight ends you will no longer hate me, but …” He left the word hanging, and the friendly atmosphere he had been building started to peter out as Aydor squinted around the room. “In the morning,” he said quietly, a grin spreading across his face, “you will call me Aydor Headsourer –” he raised his voice again “– and all will hate me anew!” With that he fell backwards off the table and onto the floor in a crash of armour and the place exploded into laughter. Some of Aydor’s men started to enter the tent and Rufra’s soldiers greeted them as if they were old friends.

  “See,” said Thian. “He is not the man you remember.”

  No, I thought as I got up to leave, he is far more dangerous than the Aydor I knew ever was.

  I slipped out of the tent. Outside, more of Aydor’s men were milling about, still unsure of the welcome they would receive within. Something caught my eye, or rather someone. A man was hurrying away and trying to do so without me seeing him – he would have done better to stay still and I may have simply walked past. But he did not, so I wandered back through the camp, wondering what Gabran the Smith, who had tried to avoid any mention of Aydor in the patrol camp, had been doing with his troops outside the drinking tent.

  Back in our tent I lay in my cot thinking the day through. Mastal had moved his cot nearer to my master, and from where I la
y it looked like the two were abed together. I took the doxy leaf from my pouch, then took out a yandil leaf and compared them, then glanced over at my master and Mastal, then back at the leaves. Both looked similar, but one was special, unique, while the other, what had Areth said about doxy? “It’s little better than useless … and will take over given half a chance.”

  I can make everything better.

  I hatched a plan.

  Chapter 17

  What my master had said about me not being thorough enough haunted me in the darkness, chasing all sleep away. That or thoughts of Mastal, leading her away under false pretences to claim a reward. I was sure Karrick was my murderer, but now I had seen Gabran acting suspiciously it would be wrong not to check on him, just in case. So if I could not sleep then I would put the night to good use. I would break into Gabran’s tent, and he and I would have words about betrayal.

  The camp in the deep of night was a different place. I could still hear the echoes of the night market, though from the height of the moon it should be near to closing. That aside the only noises were the “Huts” and “Ayts” of the perimeter guards and the unnerving cooing and trilling of night lizards. It was cold too. Until the Birthstorm broke, the weather would not settle and nights were often freezing. Cold air danced along the scars on my skin, lifting the hairs on my arms and sending uncontrollable shivers down my body. I had to wait, crouching still and letting myself become accustomed to the temperature of the night to regain control. That done, I set out

  Gabran’s tent was far over on the other side of the camp in the smiths’ enclosure. Even in the middle of the night the smiths still worked and the sound of hammers on anvils rang out. Gabran’s tent was easy to find: his flags hung outside and he did not bother with a guard. I slid into his tent, which was basic, the tent of a man who was always ready to move on. It contained nothing expensive or personal and the furniture was the same general camp stock as would be found in any trooper’s tent. All in all it fitted Gabran’s personality. This was what he had known all his life, and this was what he was comfortable with. He slept curled up on his side under a thin blanket on a camp bed. I approached quietly, sliding my Conwy blade from its sheath. When I was close to him I leaned over and placed the blade against his throat.

  He woke immediately.

  “Gabran,” I whispered, “let’s talk about lying yellowers.” He opened his mouth and I shook my head. “No shouting, no calling for help or I leave a corpse in your bed, you understand?” He nodded. “Good. Now, Gabran, you were quick to tell me your thoughts on traitors and how you were not one, so you can imagine my surprise when I saw you sneaking away from Aydor’s troops.”

  “I was simply passing,” he said and swallowed. His neck pressed against the blade of my knife and a thin red line of blood welled up.

  I leaned in close.

  “Lie to me again, Gabran, and I will prove to you what a yellower I can be. Understand?”

  He smiled then, which was unexpected.

  “You’re a clever one. Rufra is right to trust you.”

  “But is he right to trust you? What are you up to? What is Aydor up to?”

  “I don’t know what—” I pushed the blade a little harder against his neck and he raised an arm, not in threat, simply to tell me he was not finished. “Truth! Absolute truth!” I slackened the pressure on the blade. “I have no idea why Aydor has come here, and I counselled Rufra against allowing it.”

  “So you know he cannot be trusted,” I said. I saw the start of a lie in him then. I saw the idea he could feed me what I wanted to hear move over his face. Then I saw it leave, saw him decide to tell me the truth.

  “No, I don’t know that, not at all. My reasons for not wanting Aydor here were selfish, that is all. That is why I was there. I went to see him.”

  “Explain.”

  “One night,” he said, “Aydor was allowed to take out a patrol and—”

  “He got lost, ran into Rufra.”

  “You know about this?” I nodded. “Right. Well I was with him, acting as his second in command. I’d never met Aydor before that night. I was only a lowly troop leader, only ever seen him pass on his mount, but even though the yellower couldn’t read a map to save his life he was all right – a drunk, but all right. I thought I could serve him until I saw Rufra. Then I knew I was wrong. Knew who I wanted to fight for after that. So after we made it back, I ran. I didn’t care about rank, I just wanted to serve Rufra in some way.”

  “But you knew Aydor would recognise you.”

  “Aye. And me having been close to Aydor, one of his troop leaders, well, it would make me look bad, wouldn’t it? Especially with talk of a spy about. So I went to beg for his silence.”

  I waited, staring into his face, looking for any hint of deception, finding nothing.

  “And what did he want for his silence?” I removed the blade from his neck. What he had said made sense and he wasn’t a good liar, or a comfortable one. Telling the truth seemed like it had taken a weight from his shoulders.

  “That’s the weird thing – he didn’t want anything. Made like he didn’t know who I was.”

  “Aydor did? Could he have forgotten you?”

  “He was drunk but not that drunk. I thought we were going to die when Rufra appeared on that ridge and I can remember the face of everyone with us, like they were my own brothers and sisters.”

  “Aydor set you free.”

  He nodded. “He’s still a yellower though.”

  “You should tell Rufra,” I said. “And if you don’t, I will. So when Aydor eventually does want some favour from you, and he will, he will have nothing to use against you.”

  “I’ll tell him,” said Gabran. “You know, you’re a right yellower, you are. You might be the worst of ’em all –” he spat “– but I’m glad you’re our yellower.”

  I left Gabran’s tent more confused than ever. What was Aydor playing at?

  Chapter 18

  In the morning I woke early, washed and left the tent before either my master or Mastal could speak to me.

  “Crast? Neliu?” I called. Somewhere a lizard trilled a fluting plea for the sun to rise.

  “Girton.” Neliu appeared by my side, and I shivered in the cold of the yearsbirth morning.

  “Where is Nywulf? I want to get some practice in with my blades.”

  “And Nywulf chooses this day to put me on as guard for the invalid.” She smiled, twisting a lock of fire-red hair around her finger. I was glad she was thawing towards me a little. “Crast will be training with Nywulf now. If you hurry you may catch them. I train in the evening, if you fancy a real challenge.”

  “I may,” I said. “And my master improves, so maybe soon you will not be stuck outside a tent all day.”

  Neliu nodded.“They plan to take a walk today, when the sun is at its zenith. The foreigner says the sun’s heat will give her strength.” She shrugged. “He seems to know what he’s talking about.”

  “Maybe he does.” I did not want to talk about Mastal. “I will talk to Nywulf about letting you away when I am here. We do not need a guard then.”

  “I’m sure you don’t,” she said, but it didn’t sound like she believed me.

  I jogged over to the training ground, my feet guided by the thud of wooden training swords coming together and the voices of officers drilling troops. A number of fields had been set aside, and the soldiers’ feet had turned the ground to mud through hours and days and weeks of training. I found Nywulf and Crast easily enough. Rufra’s flying lizard flag fluttered above them, and the king watched as the two sparred gently, warming up. By the king stood the Landsman, Karrick.

  “… he is barely a man,” said the Landsman as I approached. I felt my temper rising until I realised he spoke of Crast, not me.

  “But you have seen how he fights.”

  “Aye,” said Karrick. “What Nywulf has done with those two astounds me.”

  “They are almost as terrifying as Girton was,” said
Rufra.

  “Is,” I said. Rufra turned, momentarily abashed at being overheard before grinning at me.

  “Rufra has said you are a great bladesman,” said Karrick, and as he spoke his gaze strayed to my clubbed foot. I felt his disdain even if it did not show on his face.

  “Do not be deceived by Girton’s small stature,” said Rufra. “I have never seen the like of him with a blade, though I’ve not seen him fight recently and would never have thought a warhammer his weapon.”

  “It is now,” I said.

  “I imagine a warhammer slows you some,” said Karrick.

  “I’m fast enough to stay alive.” My words were sharp and Karrick looked wounded by them.

  “I see age has not made you any happier in the mornings, Girton,” Rufra clapped me on the back. “Don’t let him rile you, Karrick. Girton has always been a little spiky.”

  “If he is a little spiky, maybe a mace would be a better weapon.”

  Karrick and Rufra laughed. I did not join in, and their laughter soon died away.

  “Are you here to spar, Girton?” asked Karrick, and I nod-ded, letting my hand fall to the hilt of the warhammer.

  “I have neglected my work with blades, and my master would have me practise. But if you wish to test my skill with the hammer, feel free, Karrick. You would not be the first Landsman to question my skill.” I smiled at him but it was not a friendly smile.

  “Sadly,” said Karrick, “I have injured myself.” He touched his arm.

  I remembered the bloodied sword on Arnst’s floor.

  “Someone caught you with a blade, Landsman? But you did not see action with Rufra.” I held his gaze.

  “A sparring injury, nothing more.” I was sure he lied. “But if you really feel you must—”

  “How is your master?” interrupted Rufra.

  “Better.” I kept my eyes locked on Karrick’s. He was a Landsman, a killer, and he had a wound he could not account for. He had looked oddly hurt by my tone, and I realised how strange my hostility must appear to Rufra when he did not know I believed the man a murderer. I wanted to tell Rufra what I knew but could not, not yet. I had the cast of a Landsman’s blade, but I wanted more and did not want to say anything in front of Karrick.