by RJ Baker
“Chosen of Xus,” he said, and a hundred heads turned to me: shy smiles, hopeful eyes. “See, Xus’s chosen has come to us as Arnst said he would.” He spoke like he was in a dream. Dead gods know, I felt like I was.
“I am no one’s chosen, Danfoth, but I wish to speak to you.” He nodded and led me into Arnst’s tent. It was tidy now, the mess of Arnst’s death cleared, though I noticed that the bloodstained part of the carpet and a section of the tent itself had been cut away and carefully rolled up and tied with black material. Danfoth did not speak, only gazed at me silently from blue eyes sunk within black make-up.
“Arnst is gone, his murderer found,” I said. “Will you stay here?”
“Arnst said he would die, Xus’s chosen would come, and we would begin again at the place of his death.”
“And did he say he would return to life then?” I could hear myself sneering as I parroted the words of a thousand market hucksters. “That you should collect coin and wait for him to return? He will not but you may become rich.”
“No,” said Danfoth, “we are not about such foolish tricks. Arnst waits in Xus’s dark palace for us; our bliss will be found with him. When Xus reaches out his hand we will take it gladly.”
“You are a death cult?”
He leaned in close, his voice a low, angry rumble. “Ask yourself this: when only one of your gods lives why do none give him allegiance? Arnst told us to live well, but to welcome death when it comes.”
I saw something frightening in Danfoth’s eyes. This was not what Arnst had said, to my recollection, but I knew a little of the Meredari people’s beliefs. They were warriors, honouring those who had died in battle, exalting them for it.
“Arnst told you this?”
“It is in his writings.” I reached out for one of the scrolls but Danfoth held up a hand, stopping me. “I have not finished translating those yet.” I had thought him stupid and now realised how wrong I had been. Quiet was not the same as foolish. “Our priests will not wear masks,” he said. “We will only speak truth so will have no reason to hide our faces.”
I wondered whose truth they would speak, Arnst’s or Danfoth’s?
“Does the name Forven Aguirri mean anything to you, Danfoth?”
“No.” Danfoth turned away from me. “Why do you ask that?”
“It is just a name I heard.”
“It is of no interest to me,” he said. “Arnst’s killer has been found and ended. He either answers to Arnst now in Xus’s keep or starves where his hedging has chained him to the land.”
“What if he wasn’t Arnst’s killer?”
“Then you are not the chosen of Xus,” said Danfoth, and he turned to me with the face of a warrior not a man, “and you should leave.”
I nodded and slipped out of the tent. From there I headed next door to the carpenter’s tent but was stopped by a young woman.
“That is the prayer tent. Would you like to pray with me?”
“No,” I said, confused. “Where is the carpenter?”
“Who?”
“The man and the child who lived here.”
“Gone,” she said. “They gave their tent to the people of Arnst.”
“Where did they go?” She shrugged and I turned, looking across to the drinking tent, which I had not thought about until now. It seemed strangely quiet. “What about Ahild and Berrit in the drinking tent.”
“Berrit died – fell, broke his neck. Ahild sold us her tent as a meeting place.”
“And where did she go.”
“You should pray with us,” said the girl. “Xus will hear you.”
She was wrong, they were all wrong. I had felt the presence of Xus and it was a soft, shy thing that desired no glory. He would not be found here, and this place and these people made me uncomfortable. I walked away feeling uneasy and made my way to the day market, but instead of the usual bustle found it oddly subdued. The loss of the Landsmen was rippling through the camp. Everyone knew what an efficient fighting force they were – for as long as anyone could remember they had been one of the strongest armies in the Tired Lands – and for them to join Tomas was a huge blow to Rufra’s ambitions. Where there should have been theatres, performers and jesters there were only empty stages and people scurrying around to buy what they needed before returning to their tents. Guards were everywhere, watching, and the atmosphere in the camp was far more martial than it had been before. I wandered through the market until I saw a man selling small wooden figures.
I picked up a figure of a Rider on a mount. “How much?”
“Half a bit.”
“Very well.” I reached into my pouch. He was clearly surprised that I had not tried to haggle down his exorbitant price. As he reached out for the money I held it back. “Is this the work of Hossit, the woodcarver who lives over by Arnst’s tent?”
“Aye, good carver is Hossit. Sad he’s gone.”
“Where did he go?”
“To join his wife at the castle, driven out by those black and ragged yellowers.”
“I thought his wife left him.”
“Left? No, dead gods never seen a couple tighter than Hossit and Milder. No, he sent her up there.”
“Why?”
“Half a bit,” he said, opening his hand.
I gave him the coin. “Why did he send her to the castle?”
“She didn’t feel safe here.” I felt let down. No one here felt safe. But then again most stayed.
“Why didn’t she feel safe?”
“Well –” he looked around him “– this is a war camp. Maybe she was afraid of there being a war, eh? Hossit didn’t talk much about it.” A dead end, then I had another thought.
“Which of the traders here are Festival?” I leaned across. “I know they are not meant to be here to support Rufra, but I am sure there are some.”
The trader looked around at the guards but they were paying no attention. “We are all Festival, but Irille, the herb seller, was a little more Festival, if you get my drift. You could try the butcher who was by her, though last I heard he was packing up.”
I ran, slipping and sliding in the mud, to where the herb seller had been. The butcher was indeed packing up, folding away his bloodstained tables. As I approached he put a table down and picked up his cleaver.
“I need to speak to you,” I said.
“Irille is dead because of you,” he said. “Leave.”
“I tried to protect her.”
He shrugged. “I once tried to get water from a stone but I was still left thirsty.”
“Please, I was told you may help me, that you are more Festival than any other here. What I ask may be the difference between Rufra’s success and his death.”
He blinked at me and wiped his bald head, leaving a smear of animal blood across it.
“One question, then, that is all.”
“You travel, you meet people. Does the name Forven Aguirri mean anything to you?” As I said it I realised how foolish and desperate I sounded. Even if the butcher was Festival, there were thousands of people in the Tired Lands, to expect one name to jump out was bordering on madness. But why would Karrick have given me a name if he did not think it was a trail that could be followed?
The butcher stared at me, then he spoke.
“There was a man in the high king’s guard called that, once.”
“Really?”
“Aye. I only remember because there was a fuss about him when Festival stopped at Ceadoc that year. He was kicked out, had his armour and blade taken. I dare say anyone who was there that year would remember it. Rare someone is forced to leave the high king’s guard.”
“What did he do?”
“Women,” said the butcher and picked up his table, “which would not bother the high king usually, even though this Forven was using his position to force himself on them, but he went too far – chose some married relative of the high king and got caught.”
“They didn’t simply kill him?”
�
�No. From what I hear they were going to, but he talked himself out of it.” He placed the table on his cart. “Remarkable really. Court is brutal. Reputations are ruined on a word, and he had ruined many women, to their foolish way of thinking. A glance can ruin someone at Ceadoc, and Forven had done much more than glance. When he could not convince, he took, brutally, is what was said. The high king delights in cruelty and any excuse for it, which is probably how Forven survived until he picked someone too powerful. He should have ended there, become one of High King Darsese’s entertainments, gone to the menageries –” a shudder ran through him “– but it is said his words enchanted the court, held them in some sort of spell.” He picked up a case, the muscles in his arms tensing like ships’ ropes holding against a tide.
“So what happened?”
“They exiled him. That help you?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Did you see this happen?”
“Some of us have a living to earn,” he said and turned away, placing the case on his cart.
“Do you know what he looked like?” The butcher shook his head. “Or where he went?”
“What do exiles usually do?” He gave the case a shove, pushing it along the bed of the cart. “He took up religion, up at the old place in the bonefields.”
“The one that was destroyed?”
“Aye.” He picked up another case, and the smell of spoiling meat wafted across from him.
“Do you know anything more?”
“The temple was destroyed at the beginning of the war by the Nonmen, though they weren’t called that then. All the priests were killed, but a man like that, with his appetites and ability to sway people? I half expected him to end up leading them.” He slammed the case onto the cart and then spat. “Rapists. They should make them eat their own cocks.”
“But you never saw his face?”
“That’s what I said.” He turned away.
I thanked him but he did not acknowledge me. As I walked away bits of puzzle started to slide into each other. The people around Arnst – not his followers, those on the edges of his movement – had something in common, but until now I had not noticed it because I had not been looking for it. The first woman I met had clearly despised Arnst, and I had put it down to her dislike of incomers, but what if it was more than that? I had thought the woodcarver’s wife had left him, but that was not the case; she had gone away to be safe. And Ahild, who had depended on Arnst and his followers’ custom for her drinking tent, she had also sent her daughter away. Women had not been safe around Arnst and I had not seen it. Had Karrick known this and recognised Arnst as Forven Aguirri? But why hadn’t he said anything? If he knew Arnst had been ejected from the high king’s guard as a rapist why keep quiet? If. Such a small word and yet it contained so much possibility.
I should have listened to my master. She had told me to delve deeper and I had ignored her because I had wanted Karrick to be guilty. My hate for Landsmen had overridden everything. What a fool I was. If I had only scratched at the surface of the problem I would have seen I was following no scent but my own.
I needed to speak to Rufra. If Karrick had known, surely he had told Rufra?
But Rufra, my only friend in the whole world, had not told me.
I stormed my way through the camp at a fast limp. I was so angry with myself for being a fool that no one barred my way until I met Crast, guarding Rufra’s door, he blithely ignored my anger.
“Girton,” he said, “if you want to see the king you’ll have to wait. And given what’s happened you might want to steer clear of him for a while.”
“Let me in, Crast.”
“Can’t, can I?” he said, mock serious. “I’m a trainee Heartblade, and you’re an assassin in an obvious temper who’s trying to get at my king.” Suddenly he brightened. “Am I going to have to fight you? After your training I might even win. Neliu will be so annoyed.”
“Shut up, Crast.” I pushed past him and he let me, walking along by my side. It was difficult to remain quite as angry in the face of his unrelenting good cheer. “I won’t enjoy killing you of course. I feel like we’re becoming friends despite the bruises you’ve given me.”
“You wouldn’t be able to kill me.”
“Are you sure?” He was suddenly serious. I glanced down. His stabsword was at my belly. I met his eyes and was glad to see a mischievous sparkle there. “See? I’ve been paying attention.”
“I have no wish to kill Rufra.”
“You might have once he’s seen you.” The blade was gone again. “I’m not sure you’re his favourite person after killing Karrick. Nice fight, by the way. Messy, but you got the job done.”
“Messy?” I stopped. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re Girton Club-Foot, the great artist with a blade, and you ended up beating him by rolling about in the mud.”
I stared at him for a moment, unsure whether he was joking or not.
“You’ve never killed anyone, have you?” I said.
“Of course I have,” he replied but he looked ashamed, like someone caught in a lie.
“Let me give you a little advice, Crast,” I said. “In the end it is not about being an artist, it is about being the one who walks away.”
“You sound like Nywulf.”
“I heard it from him, that’s why. And he is usually right.”
“He said you shouldn’t have fought Karrick.”
“And now we’re back to me needing to speak to Rufra,” I said.
Crast shrugged, though we were already at the inner door in Rufra’s tent. “I’ll have to ask if he’ll see you,” he said.
“I’ll wait.” Crast ducked inside and returned a moment later.
“He’ll see you, Girton. I’m just glad it’s you and not me going in there.”
Before I could reply Aydor walked out, looking distraught, disappointed and angry all at the same time. He glanced at me.
“Girton,” he said sharply. There was none of his false bonhomie now. I wondered whether Rufra was starting to see through him.
“Your turn,” said Crast. He held aside the tent flap and I readied myself for the rage of kings.
Rufra sat in a corner of his tent, the light from outside almost totally blocked by the closed curtains. He was hunched over the table with the mock-up of the battle at Goldenson Copse set up on it. He did not pay me any attention when I entered; he was lost in the pieces before him, or pretending to be, and I watched him move cavalry and infantry about, shake his head, put them back and start again. Each time he only made a few moves. Maybe he had tried them all before and realised their futility as soon as he started.
“It cannot be changed, the past,” I said softly. He put down the figure of a man he was holding, placing it in the centre of the board. It was a jester, mid bow, taking the acclaim of the crowd.
“Aydor wanted to join my Triangle Council,” he said. “I told him no.”
“It was the right thing to do.”
“He offered to publicly renounce any claim to the throne.” That stunned me, but I had trained to perform all my life and did not let it show.
“He will say anything for power.” Rufra sighed at my words, shook his head and went back to moving his little figures. It seemed an age passed before he spoke again, and when he did there was rage in his voice, tightly suppressed.
“I told you that if Karrick were to be dealt with, I would do it.”
“The way you dealt with Arnst, or was he really called Forven?” His mouth opened and closed, and in that instant I knew I was right.
He closed his eyes and sighed. “I should have known you would discover the truth of Arnst eventually.” He put down the piece he was holding, a mounted Rider. “By the time I knew about him it was too late.”
“You could not remove him?”
“He had many followers – brought some with him and added a lot later. Many of them are my soldiers.”
“So you set a rapist free in the camp and covered for him
to keep yourself in power. I thought you said you were going to be different?”
He stood, knocking the table and the pieces to the floor, and everything about him – the hands balled into fists, ugly expression, muscles on his neck like hard shadows – said anger.
“What do you know?” he said, struggling to keep his voice low. “What do you know? You left!” He walked over to me, small quick steps, raising a hand and pushing it against his forehead, chewed fingernails catching in his long hair. “You left! You left for five years, and for so long I expected you to return and you did not. You left me with a handful of men and a castle. And now you come back with your black-and-white morality and see nothing past what is in front of your face. Do you have any idea, Girton? Any idea at all what it has been like?”
“You were not alone.” I stood, my own muscles tensing. “You had Nywulf, Cearis and Boros and your council …”
“They are not my friends!” It was almost a shriek, almost a shout, and yet he did not raise his voice. He took a deep breath and spoke softly: “They are not my friends. They are my teachers, and the council often seem as much my enemy as my helpers.” He looked at the floor. “I have been alone, Girton, and so many have died because of my mistakes, and now –” another breath “– just when I seem to be getting some semblance of control, you come back and it is like Dark Ungar has cursed my camp.”
“We beat the Nonmen,” I said, but there was no force in my voice.
“And you have replaced them with the Landsmen. I’d rather fight the Nonmen a hundred times than the Landsmen once!” He was shouting now. “The Landsmen give Tomas a legitimacy he has lacked until now, do you understand? And all because you could not obey a simple command!”
“I thought you said you wanted a friend, not a servant.” Now I was shouting.
“I want a friend I can talk to, that I can trust!” He threw the goblet he was holding into the corner of the tent. “Someone who will think before they act!” I had cutting words ready in my mouth but I did not unsheathe them. I had moaned and whined about my own pain but Rufra had been thrust into kingship, forced to cope, and then he had lost a child – where had I been then?
