Blood of Assassins

by RJ Baker

  “I think I should leave,” said the Landsman.

  “You do that,” I said.

  “There is no need,” said Rufra, moving between me and Karrick.

  “It is no problem,” he said. “I told Gabran I would help him drill the infantry, and they are strangely sluggish this morning.”

  Rufra watched him walk away.

  “That was not well done, Girton,” he said.

  “I cannot believe you have let a Landsman onto your council. You say you want a fairer land, but they murder with impunity and—”

  “What they do is necessary, Girton.” Something in me tightened. “It is not murder to end a sorcerer – they are a greater danger than even Tomas. You have seen the sourings, more of them than most, I reckon. What the Landsmen do is unpleasant but necessary, and besides –” his voice dropped a little “– if I offend them they may ally with Tomas, and I cannot afford that.”

  “So you make a deal with the smaller hedging?”

  “In a way, but Karrick is a good man.”

  “I’m sure that is what men say of Dark Ungar until they find themselves shatter-spirits.”

  “Girton, you must try and learn some diplomacy.”

  “He killed Arnst.” The words escaped my lips.

  “No …”

  “He did. The wounds on Arnst’s body were made by a Landsman’s knife, and a boy saw a green man that night.”

  Rufra held my gaze, searching my face in case I played some trick.

  “Those knives can be bought in the night market, and did the boy say he saw Karrick?”

  “I have not yet confir—”

  He leaned in close so he could whisper. “I cannot accuse a Landsman of Arnst’s murder, Girton, not on so little. And I do not believe Karrick a murderer. He had little love for Arnst, but Karrick is a man who enjoys living by rules, not breaking them.”

  “You do not want it to be him,” I said, incredulous.

  “No,” he said simply and looked lost. “I do not. It would cause me endless problems. It would be best for me if it turned out Arnst was killed over money –” he left a gap just a little too long to seem innocent “– or a woman.”

  “Would you make that the truth even if the killer was Karrick? You would do that, Rufra?”

  “No,” he said quietly, “I would not. But I must be absolutely sure before I make a move. Absolutely.”

  We stood in silence, watching Nywulf and Crast warming up. “I am thinking of asking your master’s healer to stay on,” said Rufra. “All that stops me is I worry old Tarris may poison me if I do.” He tried a furtive smile.

  One, my master.

  Two, my master.

  “Given Tarris’s attitude to medicine, he may poison you whether he means to or not.”

  I was rewarded with a laugh. “Indeed. I may ask him to study Mastal’s ways simply to see the look on his face.”

  “Make sure I am there when you do that.” I gave Rufra a smile.

  “I was hoping you’d tell him for me.” Before I could reply Rufra pointed at the sparring ground. “Look, they start for real now.”

  Nywulf held a wooden longsword and stabsword and Crast held the same until Nywulf glanced over at me and told him, “Stabswords only.” After Crast had changed weapons he and Nywulf set to sparring, the older man circling the younger like a hunting animal. Nywulf darted in, flicking his long blade, and instead of dodging out of the way Crast spun inwards along the edge of the blade – twenty-first iteration: the Whirligig – and darted out his blade at Nywulf’s throat, forcing the older man to block with his stabsword, he did it with a lazy ease. Nywulf came back at Crast – short, efficient thrusts of his longsword to keep the younger man at bay – and Crast danced around him. I watched, and it was all I could do not to stand there like an idiot with my mouth open. Crast was an assassin. He fought just like an assassin. How could Nywulf have brought an assassin so near to Rufra?

  It was only after they’d sparred for five minutes that I started to notice the differences between my style and Crast’s. Of course he could fight like an assassin, just like I could fight like a soldier. Nywulf had trained him to be a Heartblade, so he would naturally have a fighting style designed to counter an assassin’s. As I watched, the differences became more apparent. Where the assassins’ style had its roots in the dancers and acrobats of travelling troupes, Crast’s style was more military, uglier. His movements did not flow and I found little art in them. He fought well, very well, but he would never make a dancer, and he made no attempt to tumble or leap; instead he kept his feet firmly placed. It was a utilitarian style based around defence, where the assassin’s style I followed, Xus’s black bird, was all about swift attack, but Crast was no less dangerous for all his artlessness.

  Eventually Nywulf signalled a halt and, puffing slightly, took out a rag, wiped his face and came over to Rufra, who picked up a bucket of water with a ladle in for him to drink from.

  “Well, the lad’s coming along, eh?” Nywulf said to Rufra.

  “Indeed he is. I feel safer already.” The king passed the ladle to Crast. “Well done.”

  “And you, Girton, what did you think?” said Nywulf.

  “He fights well,” I said.

  “But?” said Rufra. “Anyone with ears can hear a ‘but’ in your voice.”

  “Nothing. It is just, it is not …”

  “Not what?” said Nywulf, an unpleasant grin on his face.

  “It is not beautiful,” I said and immediately felt like an idiot.

  “You can keep your beauty,” said Nywulf. “I’ll settle for keeping a blade out of the king’s ribs.”

  “Would you test me, Girton?” said Crast shyly. “I have heard how well you fight from the king.”

  “Well, I had hoped to spar with Nywulf,” I said.

  “I am too old and too tired for you,” said Nywulf. “Spar with Crast. Do him good to fight the real thing.”

  We walked to the centre of the sparring ground and I picked up a pair of wooden stabswords. Even the weighted practice blades felt light in hands so used to the warhammer.

  “Ready?” said Crast. I moved into the position of readiness and nodded.

  First we circled each other. Crast was short, even compared to me, so I had the advantage of reach, but he had two good feet which made us even. He tested me, coming forward – the Precise Steps – and his blade snaked out. I beat it away with a flick of my wrist.

  It felt good.

  He came in again, harder this time, using something like the Quicksteps. I let him push me backwards. As he lunged I countered – the Boatgirl’s dip – but a blade blocked my move, and I had to dance out of the way as he attacked with his left hand. He pushed forward, and I countered, but every time I attacked he was there, a blade high, a blade low, a blade waiting for me to impale myself on. I was slow – I felt it – slow and out of practice. Whenever I tried to string together the dance I was either stopped by Crast or, worse, by my own lack of practice.

  Irritation hampered me further, annoyance an extra weight on my hand and my mind. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Instead of backing away and studying Crast, I was pushing in, attacking and getting angrier and angrier with each block. Everything I had, he answered. Then he slipped just a little, and it let me in – a perfect string of moves: first iteration: the Precise Steps, pushing him back; fifth iteration: the Boatgirl’s Dip, up and around Crast as he tried to regain his balance, and straight into the thirteenth iteration: the Fool’s Embrace, grasping Crast from behind with my blade coming round to open his throat. I could have held him there, but I let him wriggle out and come back at me with three short thrusts. He was wary now – he knew I was better than him. Who I am was coming back, slowly, but it was coming. At that moment, as I congratulated myself, Crast cracked me on the knuckles; I dropped my blade and found his at my throat.

  Gentle applause from Rufra and Nywulf. I glanced over at them. Rufra was smiling, like he was proud of his me but I did not know why. N
ywulf did not smile at all, but then he rarely did.

  “You let me win,” whispered Crast in my ear.

  I had not, not really. Rufra must think the same.

  “Well, it does not do to disappoint Nywulf, right?”

  “You should not have let me win,” he said, “if it had been real. I would not have let you win.” He lowered his training blade. “But thank you. Nywulf will have no excuse to make me clean latrines now. I owe you and I do not forget my debts.”

  It was hard not to laugh at such an earnest oath from someone so young, but I kept my face straight.

  “Good,” I said, and wondered whether he really did think I had let him win or if he knew I had been distracted. If nothing else, sparring with Crast had woken in me a hunger to practise with stabswords and shake off some of my rustiness.

  “Well done, Girton,” said Rufra. Nywulf was silent. “My court is in session today,” he said. “I wanted you to see—” Before we could talk further a Rider arrived on a sweating mount. “A messenger has arrived for the king,” he said. “He waits in your pavilion.”

  Rufra looked crestfallen. “It will have to wait,” he said as the Rider slid from his mount and offered the reins to him. Rufra climbed up and rode away. Nywulf and Crast jogged after him, the trainee Heartblade giving me a happy wave as he left.

  They vanished into the camp and I made my way to the rear of the sparring field. I had spotted a thick patch of doxy leaves and stopped by them. An idea had been growing in my mind, a thought that had seemed ludicrous at first, but with time had gathered weight. I picked enough doxy to fill my pouch, telling myself that it was in case I had a headache and at the same time knowing it was a lie. Then, with the sun approaching its zenith when my master and Mastal would go for their walk, I headed back to our tent, feeling a tightness inside at what I was thinking of doing.

  I detoured, going to the day market, where I bought food, though I could have found it in many other places nearer our tent. As I ate the filling and tasteless porridge I wandered until I found the stall selling pots, from which I bought a mortar and pestle. Then a jug of perry from the stall next door before I returned to our tent. Still I told myself this was all just a passing idea, but with every step an insistent voice in my head became louder and louder.

  Why should you trust Mastal?

  Why should I? He was Aydor’s man and a foreigner who intended to take my master away. Aydor knew how good she was, how quick and clever. If he had some plan he would want her out of the way, and what better way to do that than to dangle family and home in front of her? I wondered how long Mastal had searched for her and how he had found her.

  In the tent I began angrily grinding my doxy leaves into a green paste that resembled the one in the small glass bottles Mastal had lined up by my master’s bed.

  A voice inside told me that what I planned was dangerous and foolish, but it was a quiet voice almost entirely drowned out by another which told me Mastal must not be allowed to take my master away. If he did I was sure I would never see her again, and who knew how far Aydor’s plan went? Or even if there was really any family waiting for my master in the Slight Hills. Besides, what I intended was not madness, not really. Touching the yandil leaf had woken something within me. Just the thought of it sent a fizzing along the lines of scars on my body, it fountained an incandescence in my mind. The dark sea within me was shifting again, but it was not so dark now; it was cut with lines of oh-so-bright surf that washed gently against my consciousness, and when they withdrew they left tidemarks of understanding. I knew this leaf. I could feel the bundle of yandil leaves in my pouch throbbing metronomically against my thigh, they were connected to me in a way Mastal could never understand. Magic ran through both me and the leaf, he was only a healer.

  I can make this better.

  This would work, and I was as sure of it as I was of Karrick’s guilt. I would solve two problems in one fell swoop. If Mastal saw his cure was not working he would have no reason to stay. My master dead was no use to him, and then, when he was gone, I could use the yandil I had to cure her myself.

  Once I had the mixture of doxy leaves and perry at the same consistency as Mastal’s paste, I took my eating knife and removed a small amount of it from each bottle. The yandil glowed gold in my mind and seemed light in my hand, as if it would float away if I let it go. I did not need to measure the doxy paste. I felt it as a dark weight and judged my doctored doses by the tarnish in the golden gleam of the yandil. Once I had diluted all of the bottles, I moved the remaining yandil leaves to my pack, then thought better of it. It would not do for Mastal to find them and I could not trust him: it would not surprise me if he searched through my possessions when I was not here. I pulled up the flooring in the corner of the tent and buried my pouch of yandil leaves in the earth. That done I took the mortar and pestle outside, rinsed them in the filthy stream that ran through that part of the camp, then went into the centre of the small copse of trees behind our tent and hid them in a thorny bush.

  When I returned to the tent Mastal was dosing my master with yandil. Although I was not ashamed of what I had done, I found I could not watch him and turned to cleaning my armour and weapons. Mastal and my master chatted happily while she spooned down the mixture, which tasted foul – I knew as I had tried some myself.

  “I must be getting used to this, Mastal,” she said. “It has started tasting sweeter.”

  “It is your regained strength and the knowledge you walk the road to wellness that gives it a sweeter taste,” said Mastal as he rinsed the empty bottle in a dish of perry. I wondered why he did not use water. “Girton, Merela has decided to make the journey to the Sighing Mountains as soon as she can. I know this is not what you want, but—”

  “Rufra cannot spare a cart just yet,” I said, the lie coming easily to my mouth, “but he says in a day he will have something for you to use.”

  Mastal nodded slowly then turned to me, looking me carefully up and down.

  “I am glad you have accepted what must be, Girton,” he said, his deep voice filled with a pretence of understanding. “I know it is hard for you, but it is what must be for Merela to get well.”

  “Yes,” I said, and I did not know what other words I could use to fill the sudden silence, not without becoming angry that he used my master’s name so casually.

  Mastal’s expression changed, his eyebrows rising in an unspoken question.

  Without warning I was filled with fear. What had I done? I was no healer. The gentle surf inside my body had gone, and instead I was nauseous with the upswell of darkness within. I was drowning. I felt sure Mastal could see something was wrong, and if he did not my master would. And she did: her brown eyes were bright as my breathing became shallower, faster, out and in and out and in and out and in.

  “Breathe slowly, Girton,” she said softly. “Remember, this is the same fight as the one carried on with blades. Only the battleground is different.”

  Mastal looked between us, his head turning slowly from me to her, aware of some current of understanding in the tent that flowed around him but did not touch him. His eyes narrowed, then he nodded and I wondered whether she had told him about the magic within me.

  “It is a curse, a temper,” he said, “and it takes strength to control it.” He turned back to me and put his hand on my shoulder. I wanted to brush him away but stopped myself. “I believe you have that strength, Girton. You will not let your anger control you as I once was controlled. Now I am a grey man without a home.” He stared into my eyes. “Be stronger than me, be stronger than I am for her.” He gestured towards my master with his head, and the sea within me rose and smashed against my ribs, robbing me of breath. Nausea – almost overwhelming – I could banish it by admitting what I had done. It was not too late. I could tell Mastal, give him the yandil and get him the cart for my master. What if I had killed her? What if doxy leaf and yandil combined was a poison? What if—

  “Girton.”

  I turned, bru
shed off Mastal’s touch. Nywulf stood in the entrance of our tent.

  “Yes?”

  “We have received notice that Tomas intends to raid the village of Gwyre using the Nonmen.”

  “Why?” said Mastal.

  “They have supplied us food in the past. They have sold food to Tomas too, but now he wishes to make an example of them so the other outlying villages will stop supplying us.”

  “It makes sense,” said my master, “though it is just as likely to be a trap.” Nywulf stared at Mastal and the healer stood, leaving the tent. Nywulf waited until he was sure the man was out of earshot before speaking again.

  “Our source in Tomas’s camp is well placed,” he said, “and Tomas does not know we hear his military plans.”

  “It is foolish to think that—” began my master.

  “He has never led us wrong before, and Rufra is no fool,” said Nywulf. “The attack is due in a week. We will send a small advance party of Riders to Gwyre to evacuate the village if it is still peopled, or to return and warn Rufra if it is full of Nonmen waiting for us. Behind them will come carts for the villagers with enough troops to escort them back here safely and garrison the village. When Tomas attacks we’ll be waiting. If we’re lucky, Tomas will be leading the force himself and the war will be over. Attacking a defenceless village is about his level.”

  “And if you’re not lucky?”

  “We’ll give Tomas a bloody nose and weaken his army further.”

  “You want me to come,” I said.

  “Rufra has asked for you to ride with the advance party.” I wondered if he wanted me out of the camp, away from Karrick and the difficulties I would cause when I proved he had murdered Arnst. “He thought you may find purpose in protecting the innocent.”

  “It is a worthy thing to do,” said my master. “You should go, Girton.”