My master met me as I entered the Low Tower. I watched her lever herself up from the barrel she had been sitting on and wondered how long she had been there. She did not like to sit still for too long, it pained her damaged body.
“Girton, you look ghost-white.”
“I met with the Festival Lords.”
“Few are so honoured.”
“It did not feel like an honour.”
“What did they want?”
“To tell me to leave.”
Now it was my master’s turn to pale, and her dark skin made her look grey.
“And will you? I would follow you if you did.” Looking at her I realised I had thought the Festival Lords talked of Gusteffa, but my master was also a jester. Before I could speak she carried on. “It is good to remember, Girton, that the Festival Lords have their own agenda, just like every other blessed does.”
“There was magic there, Master.”
“And smoke burners to make the experience seem more real, I bet,” she said.
“But it felt real, and if what they said is true then …”
“You have seen me tell fortunes, Girton, and know it for a trick.” I nodded. “While those whose coin I take?”
“They believe it real. But this was different, Master. I know magic.”
“Aye,” she sat with a sigh, “and that makes it doubly likely what they said is not what it seems.” She leaned in close. “It is always the same with magic, Girton, it is full of low cunning. Think on this, you leave and Rufra falls, Festival will claim they cleared the way and take the credit, getting themselves in the good books of whoever takes power. Who sent you to them?”
“Voniss.”
“She is of them, do not forget that.”
“What if I do not leave?”
“If Rufra dies, they will claim they warned you.”
“And if he lives?”
“They claim they warned you and you acted on it, only you and they were there to say what passed.”
“Maybe,” I said, but she saw there was more to it as I tried to look away. She leant to the side so I could not avoid looking at her.
“You have told me everything?”
A man dressed in black who none saw but I. A god who held me close.
“No, Master.” I paused, the image of the priest of Xus in my mind, but my tongue was unwilling to speak of it. “There was the assassin, again. But they did not attack me.” I told her of the death of the pretender assassin. “The arrow killed Bilnan, the boy who follows Gonan, Heartblade to Marrel ap Marrel.”
“Dark Ungar’s breath,” she hissed.
“An assassin accompanies Leckan ap Syridd.”
“Yes,” she nodded, “but she would be a poor assassin to show herself so obviously.”
“Or a clever one,” I said, and my master laughed quietly.
“Aye, the games we play, eh? We will have to tell Marrel about the death of Bilnan. But make sure you tell Rufra first.”
“That will not be hard, Master. I do not even know where Marrel ap Marrel is quartered.”
“Oh, he is not in his quarters, Girton. He is upstairs with Rufra, and …” She left it hanging, then grabbed my arm pulling me close. “Barin is there also. Do not make Boros’s mistake, Rufra looks bad enough already.”
“I am not a fool, Master,” I said, though she must have felt every muscle in my body tense at the mention of Barin’s name.
“You look like one, Girton.” She smiled and touched my cheek, bringing her finger up in front of my face so I could see the make-up on it.
“How I look and how I am are two different things, Master.”
“I know.” She patted me on the arm. “Be careful up there, Girton. Rufra has had a long day and you know how he is. Do not rush to judgement.”
I nodded and left her, heading into the smoky gloom of the tower and up the stairs into a room full of merriment. Pigs roasted in the newly clear firepits and, like in Maniyadoc, some forgotten miracle of the building pulled the smoke up and out of the room. Had there not been smoky torches burning to give light it would have been almost possible to breathe without coughing. Benches and tables had been set out and these were full of men and women, few of whom I knew. Rufra sat on a throne at the front of the room, by him was Celot and behind him I saw Neander, the priest. Also sat on the dais with them was Marrel ap Marrel with his Heartblade and his wife. The two men chatted, sometimes laughing and pointing.
“Girton, have you brought your knives?”
I turned to find Dinay, who headed Rufra’s cavalry.
“Always.”
“You should put them to use.” She pointed with a hand holding a cup of perry at the front benches and my heart skipped a beat, because she pointed at Barin, the Boarlord. Out of the main hall he even flaunted what he was, the head of a boar was worked into his jerkin and it flashed with precious stones as he turned, laughing at something the man by him said. He caught my eye and lifted his cup in my direction in salute. I spat on the floor.
“Coil’s piss, what I would do for a quiet moment alone with him,” I said.
“You won’t get one,” said Dinay.
“He is not recognised by Rufra. I could challenge him to a duel and no wrong would be done.”
“By law,” she said.
“At least he cannot vote. Rufra and Marrel will refuse to recognise him.”
As if we were heard, Rufra stood.
“Barin, who calls himself ap Borlad.” The room went quiet. “Stand and say how you dare show your face in my court.” He did, looking around the room as silence fell. He must have been aware he had few, if any, friends here. “You were brave to come here, Barin ap Loflaar,” said Rufra, using the Boarlord’s original name. “Few have any love for you.”
“And I cannot blame them.” He hung his head as if in shame. Curtains of blond hair hid his handsome face. “None is more ashamed of my actions with the Nonmen than I, King Rufra.” He raised his head. “All know the madness of war, and that madness infected me.” He stared around the room. “Through the guidance of priests,” he said, and the crow nose of Neander’s mask targeted him like a spear about to be thrown, “I have banished the madness, the lust for blood. I have seen the error of my ways. I have felt the pain of all those I wronged.” He pulled up the sleeves of his jerkin to show scars running across his arms and I noticed, with interest, how closely they resembled the scars of the Landsman’s Leash which wheeled and danced around my flesh. He looked around. Surely he was able to feel the waves of resentment that gathered in the room and flowed over him.
“What of Boros?” asked Rufra.
“I have been to see my brother, sat with him, but he cannot forgive.” He sounded genuinely remorseful and when he looked around there was a tear in his eye. “He will undergo the most terrible death, rather than forgive.”
Neander stood.
“There is a lesson here,” he said to the crowd. “A lesson we all must learn.” He used the dead voice of the priesthood and all quietened to hear him. “Who among us has not wronged another with violence?” His bird face moved across the crowd. “None, for you are warriors.” I saw the merchant Leckan ap Syridd, his assassin Heartblade at his shoulder, turn to the man at his left but before he could speak Neander focused on him. “Or who among us has not cheated another in business? Eh? All have some guilt. And all know of the war of the gods, where one death led to another. And all saw Death’s Jester.” He pointed at me and all followed his finger—all except Rufra. “We have seen the jester dance the story of Gwyfher and should heed that lesson, death begets death. And Rufra,” he put a hand on the king’s shoulder, “has changed the way of things, which many priests did not understand. But there is a lesson here too, and it is forgiveness.” The king was bunching his hands into fists so tight his knuckles became white stars in the dark room. “Do you come before us asking forgiveness, Barin ap Borlad?” said Neander.
“I do, Neander,” he said. “And I ask Rufra to recognise me in that spirit.”
“Dark Ungar’s breath,” I said quietly as the king stood. Rufra had been neatly put in a position where he must forgive and recognise Barin or all his talk of new ways and putting aside the past would look like just that, talk. Never mind nuance, never mind right or wrong. Neander had tied together the idea of Rufra’s new ways and the forgiveness of Barin into one package.
“Then,” said Neander, “for the sake of peace you must be forgiven, Barin ap Borlad, forgiven of the depravities you wrought under the name Chirol, the Boarlord.”
My fists were bunched up so tight my nails dug into my palms. I considered the many and painful poisons I could dose Neander with.
“And the priest legitimises a monster,” said Dinay.
“And that gives Barin a vote, which he will use against Rufra.”
“Only if Rufra says the words,” my master, materialising from the gloom by me, “but if he does he sets loose Xus the unseen in Ceadoc, sure as if he declares war.”
“He will say them,” I said.
“I recognise you, Barin ap Borlad, and forgive you.” Rufra said it through gritted teeth. To be outmanoeuvred in his own throne room must infuriate him but, curiously, Marrel ap Marrel, sitting by him and likely to benefit, also seemed equally angry.
“You are great man, Rufra ap Vthyr,” said Barin with a bow.
“Then I can count on your vote?” said the king. Barin bowed his head.
“I regret that you cannot.” A gasp ran around the room. “A priest won my forgiveness, and I cannot turn my back on such a deed.”
“But the priesthood and I support Rufra,” said Neander, and then I saw it, the crack in Barin’s facade, the lie that he was changed at all. His eyes darted to the side.
“It was a priest of a living god that helped me,” he said. And in the darkness at the edge of the hall I saw Danfoth the Meredari, leader of the Children of Arnst, smiling.
“Coil’s piss,” said Dinay, “the Children are playing politics. We’re knee-deep in mount shit now.”
I tried to lose myself that night. I did not drink too much, I had learnt alcohol was a poor way for me to drown my sorrows and one that only ever ended in misery. Whether that misery was something as simple a hangover, or as complex as a death, it was seldom a risk worth taking. I moved through the crowd, drinking sparingly and talking with many. Largely, they were Rufra’s supporters but I was looking to get close to Leckan ap Syridd and his assassin Heartblade. She was small and pretty, older than me, but not by much. I thought she had seen maybe forty yearsbirths at most. She played some game of her own with me, a smile on her face. Every time I approached she managed to steer herself and her charge away from me. There was nothing sinister in it, and the occasional smiles she shot across the room at me were playful. At one point I found myself standing near Rufra and Marrel ap Marrel as they spoke in hushed voices and I could not help listening in. He was a hard man to dislike, Marrel, loud and full of good cheer. When I came upon him he was arguing with Rufra.
“You will bring war,” he said.
“Not with support. If I win will you support me in all I do?”
“Let us decide what I support if you win. It is all well and good bringing change to one corner of the Tired Lands, Rufra, but to push it across them all will cause turmoil and death. It is not the blessed you must worry about, but those who consider themselves above them.”
“I have Festival’s support, Marrel.”
“You really think that? And even if you do, what of the Landsmen? They will never stand with you.”
“They are not all like Fureth.”
“And the Children of Arnst?”
“They owe me.”
“And care nothing for it.”
“Can we have one night without politics?” Marrel’s wife, Berisa, put herself between the two men. She was his second wife—young and beautiful. She was blind in one eye and hid its milky-whiteness behind her hair. She lit Marrel up when she was near him. “Come, I was told there would be cymbal bands and you said you would dance with me, husband.” Marrel smiled at his wife and then she said, in a lower tone, “And you promised not to get too drunk so you could not go about the business of making heirs.” She gave him a playful wink and Marrel’s smile increased.
“Very well, one last thing I must say to Rufra and then we shall dance and later go make heirs, wife.”
“It had best just be one,” she grinned. “Do not keep him, Rufra ap Vthyr, you need your rest and Marrel will talk and drink all night if you let him. I do not want to spend the night alone and corpse-cold while he is passed out at your table.”
“Go, woman,” said Marrel, he watched her walk away before leaning in close to Rufra. “Barin—that mess—that was not my doing. I did not ask for his vote or know what he would do. It was wrong, what he did, with the priest. I do not envy you your allies.”
“Neander says he only wished to give me the opportunity to show people the new ways,” said Rufra. He looked miserable.
“Well, maybe we keep the old ways for a reason, eh? But now I must dance.”
Rufra watched him walk away and then glanced at Voniss, who sat with her babe and Anareth.
“I must speak to you,” I said to him, “in private.”
“And I you,” he said. “In private also.”
Behind us a roar went up as music started. Anareth was staring out from Voniss’s trews with wide eyes. I gave her a small wave and she retreated behind the material. A moment later she peeped out and waved back before vanishing. I turned to find Gusteffa by the king, she was juggling apples, taking a bite out of each as it passed her mouth. She let the apples fall as we walked past her and trailed along behind us. Rufra led me from the noisy hall and through a doorway hung with a heavy curtain, into what was his private space. He walked with his hand on his side, in obvious pain, and made straight for a chair by his bed that had been comfortably padded with cushions.
“I did not expect you to be feasting after what happened to Boros,” I said.
“Neither did I.” He moved in his chair, grimacing, and Gusteffa offered him another cushion which he waved away. “It was Marrel’s idea. Thankfully he brought some of the food or we would have struggled. I get the feeling we are not as welcome here as I would like.”
“I need to talk to you about Marrel,” I said.
“Well, it seems we are in agreement there.”
“His apprentice Heartblade is dead.” Rufra stared at me, then put his head in his hands.
“What have you done, Girton?”
“Me?” It hurt, that he leapt to such a conclusion. “I have done nothing. My presence was requested by the Festival Lords. Bilnan either saw me in Ceadoc town or followed me. We spoke outside the walls and an archer killed him.” He raised his head, eyes shining.
“The same person who attacked Voniss?”
“I think so. On the arrow was a message to me, a challenge.”
“Dead gods!” He snatched the cushion offered by Gusteffa and threw it across the room. “Bring Marrel through, Gusteffa,” he said. “You will have to tell him, Girton. Answer whatever questions he has.” He looked away from me, tapping his lip with his finger until Marrel appeared, flanked by the old Heartblade, Gonan.
“The jester dwarf said you wished to talk to me again, Rufra,” said Marrel.
“Aye. I am afraid Girton has some poor news for you. I wish it could be delivered at some other time but it is best you know now. I would not have it appear that I kept anything from you. Not after our talk.”
Marrel’s bushy eyebrows almost touched and his dark eyes darted from Rufra to me.
“Does this concern my children?”
“No,” I said.
He nodded. “Then I will bear the news, whatever it may be.”
“It is about your Heartblade, Bilnan. He is dead.” Shock, both on Marrel’s face and Gonan’s.
“How?” said the old Heartblade. “He didn’t challenge you, surely? The boy worshipped you.”
“No, he came to speak with me. An archer killed him.”
“Why kill Bilnan?” said Marrel, creases of concern lined his face. “He was a good lad, and on his way to becoming a good Heartblade.”
“The arrow was meant for me,” I said.
“He sacrificed himself to save you,” said Gonan, and as he said it I realised both these men had held the boy in great affection. Behind them I saw Rufra give me a nod.
“Yes,” I said, “he did.”
“Then he can be proud in death, eh, Gonan?” said Marrel, “there is that at least.” He turned from me to Rufra. “Forgive me, King Rufra. I must tell Berisa. She will be heartbroken. She doted on the boy as she has no children of her own.”
“I understand,” said Rufra. “I need to speak with Girton and then I will come out and stand with you.” Marrel gave him a nod and left the room. Gusteffa watched him walk away, then shrugged, screwing up her face and miming tears. “He took that well,” said Rufra. “He is a good man.”
“And your opponent. Barin will give him his vote, you know, by recognising him you may have evened the field.”
Rufra moved in his chair, letting out a little grunt.
“Aye, someone was clever there, but it was not Marrel’s doing and he would need more than one vote. Besides, he and I have been cleverer than whoever is behind Barin.”
“You have?”
“Aye, Marrel is not a reformer, not like I am, but he is worried by the growth in power of the Landsmen and the Children of Arnst. He also distrusts Gamelon and his lackeys.” Rufra looked like he tasted something bad. “The purpose of this feast was for him to talk to me. He has proposed a dual high kingship. Both of us ruling no matter who wins. Together with the blessed who support us we should be able to curtail the power of the white tree. Fureth continues to overstep the mark and it has not made him popular.”
“And what of the Children of Arnst?”
He sat back in his chair and sighed.
“Never have there been odder bedfellows than the Landsmen and the Children of Arnst. But yes, we will curtail them too. I cannot help wondering if all my troubles started there, you know, Girton. If by allowing a man as vile as Arnst to create a religion I insulted the dead gods and brought misfortune on myself.”
“I did not think you believed in the dead gods, Rufra.” He stared at the floor.
“Three children, a wife and so many friends dead. What other explanation can there be but a curse?”
Two jesters.
“Ill luck.”
“It is more than ill luck, it is as if some force works against me.”
“The Tired Lands are hard, Rufra, that is the simple truth of it.”
He looked up at me, his eyes brimming with something long held inside and the room seemed to warm, not in the oppressive, dry way that this yearslife was bringing us, but in a familiar way as Rufra let down his guard. Our old friendship felt within reach for the first time in years.
“Aye,” he said quietly, “the Tired Lands are hard.” Rufra tapped his hand on the arm of his chair, thinking.
“Do you suspect anyone in Bilnan’s death?” said Rufra.
“I watched everyone come in, Rufra, and the merchant …”
“Leckan ap Syridd,” he said.
“Aye, his Heartblade is a real assassin. Unlike any of the others.”
“You must speak to her then.”
I nodded.
“I have been trying to.”
“Do you think she killed Bilnan, attacked Voniss? Leckan has no love for me.”
“Truthfully, it seems unlikely to me he would parade his assassin so obviously if he intended to use her. But you are right, I must speak to her.”
“They are still here,” croaked Gusteffa, “feasting on the king’s meat.”
Rufra nodded, staring at the floor.
“Did you believe any of that show out there, Rufra, that Barin has changed?”
He shook his head.
“I once held in my own hands the skin of a Rider I knew well—liked—skin that Barin cut from him while he lived. Such men do not change, Girton, we both know that. They may become cleverer, and better at hiding what they are, but they do not change.” I nodded. “Which brings me to Boros.”
“I can get him out of the dungeon.”
Rufra let out a short laugh and tugged on his beard, grinning at me, but it was not a full smile. Some element was missing, some worry hid within him and it would not allow him to be truly amused.
“I do not doubt for a second you could get him out, Girton. But you must not.”
“They will burn him,” I said.
“If you get him out, what do you think he will do? Leave? Run from here never to be seen again?” He stared at me and I avoided his gaze. “Of course he will not. He will go after his brother and no force in the world short of Xus the unseen can stop that.”
“Maybe that would be for the best, he has had his tongue ripped out, Rufra. Imagine what that does to him? He already mourns the loss of his looks, all he had left was his wit. Barin has stolen everything from him. We could assist, clear the way and then get Boros out of Ceadoc once the deed is done. I could make it look plausible.”
“No,” he said. “No matter how plausible it looked people would still know what really happened. Marrel is a stickler for the rule of law, if he even suspected I was involved in such a thing any hope of an alliance would be gone.”
“So what hope is there then?”
“None, Girton.” He looked up and I saw a hollow man—one cored by the experience of being king—but it was gone almost before I recognised it. He raised the facade of a ruler again, as strong as any keep curtain wall. I felt our friendship slipping away into dark waters.
“There is no hope for Boros. You are his friend, Girton. Go to him. Speak to him. Tell him to forgive his brother because the most he can hope for here is an easy passing.”
Of course, I was the last person Boros would listen to. He considered me almost as much of a monster as Barin.
“He will never forgive Barin. Never. And you know it.”
Rufra sat back in his throne. “Then maybe you have something that can …” He let the words trail off.
“Can what?” He did not speak, only looked at the floor. I raised my voice. “Can what?”
“Ease his passing.” The words rushed out of his mouth as he leant forward on his throne.
“You would have me murder him?” I said.
“It is not as if murder is difficult for you,” he spat, standing. And I had no words, no answer to the scorn in his voice. Rufra looked shocked at what he had said. He slowly lowered himself back into his throne. “Girton, I—”
“Have said enough,” I replied, turning away from him and walking out. As I left I heard him shouting.
“You have not seen this place, Girton, not as I have. Compared to what Castle Ceadoc holds, even a fool’s throne is preferable—”
And then Rufra’s voice was lost in the hubbub of the feasters as I let the curtain fall behind me. Aydor tried to talk to me and I brushed past, ignoring him. I could hear Berisa Marrel crying and someone called my name, but I had no interest in what they had to say.
The Festival Lords were right, I should not be here. Rufra was not a man worth serving any more, let him have his high kingship—with Marrel or whoever else may be convenient in the search for power. Let events take their course without me. I ran from the Low Tower and out into the night, down to the stable block and I found Xus. The great mount whickered at me, letting out a low growl and then, when I threw my arms around his neck, he pushed his heavy body against me. I did not speak, had no words. The weight of disappointment was too great and I took what comfort I could from his warm fur and the homely smell of him. If it had not meant leaving my master I would have saddled him there and then and ridden away.
She found me, later, much later, though men and women still feasted and drank their laughter sounded alien and wrong. I sat with Xus as he slept in his stall, resting his huge antlers against the front of it. He had become quite lazy as he aged, though he was no less fierce.
“Girton,” said my master, stepping carefully around his back legs lest he kick out in a dream. “The guests are leaving now.”
“We should leave here, Master.”
“And where will we go?” She lowered herself down, hissing in pain.
“Anywhere. I am done with Rufra.” She shrugged. “He called me a murderer.”
“Most would.”
“He wants me to kill Boros, to take him poison.”
“Sometimes the embrace of Xus is the kindest one, Girton.” She sounded sad, probably because she knew she was right and here in the dark I sounded, even to myself, like a petulant child.
“I could free him.”
“And there would be repercussions if you did.”
“He is my friend.”
“Was your friend …”
“I owe him.”
“And what, his one life is worth the hundreds who will die if Rufra cannot make some sort of alliance here?”
“But Boros …”
“I thought you had promised revenge on whoever killed Feorwic?”
I had no answer. No good reply, no way out of the maze of responsibility and politics. She wrapped an arm around my head and held me to her. “You are too hard on yourself, my boy. And on others. Sometimes there is no easy way, sometimes there are only hard choices and none of them are good.”
I was about to reply but we were interrupted by the tramp of boots and the shouting of soldiers. I heard a voice, a man’s voice, screaming Rufra’s name in fury.
“That sounds like Marrel ap Marrel, Girton.”
“It sounds like nothing good,” I said.