They had a celebration that night, for my return from captivity. But those who had played a key part in it, myself and Rufra, were in little mood for joy. I had found a place at the back of the room while Vinwulf sat by his father. You would not have known it to look upon him but he had spent the afternoon screaming at his father and being screamed at in turn—Rufra could barely look at him. It was not something I had wished to witness but I had been given little choice.
“Are you sulking, Girton?” I felt my master as she leant against me.
“I do not sulk, Master.” The words were worn and comfortable, like the wood of a favourite chair. “That boy troubles me.”
“What is new?”
“Have you seen the menageries?”
She spat on the floor.
“It is a foul place.”
“Vinwulf does not think so. He looked upon it like most look upon our dances.”
She placed her hand on my arm, a gentle and comfortable warmth.
“Your dances.”
“You taught them to me.”
“As another taught me.”
“Who were they, Master?”
She faltered, not physically, despite the weakness of her legs I had never seen her fall from her crutches. The faltering was in her voice, in the hand that slipped away from the material of my sleeve.
“She was as my mother, and to talk of her hurts.”
I nodded, staring at Vinwulf as he laughed with one of the guards by Rufra’s throne as Gusteffa capered before them.
“Families are complicated things, Master.” I stood straighter. “Does Rufra believe I did not kill Berisa?”
“He fought hard enough for your release.”
“That is not what I asked, Master.”
“In honesty, he is difficult to read. He needs you to be innocent of Berisa Marrel’s death, but whether he truly believes that?”
“He should.”
“He is only human.”
“He was my friend.”
“And still is, Girton. As much as a king can be.”
“Sometimes I think having a king as friend is worse than having an enemy.”
“You should stop thinking then.”
Aydor’s booming voice interrupted us. “Drink!” he pushed a cup of perry at me. “Ceadoc does good spirits. Even though it is a somewhat foul-spirited place.” He managed to look happy and confused at the same time—perhaps by his successful wordplay. A woman was almost propping him up—beautiful—they always were. Even though Aydor described himself as a toothless fat old man, he was magnetic. There was a joy in him that drew others.
“I cannot, Aydor,” I held it out for him, “it is not good for me.”
“Who cares?” A juggler passed, tumbling apples through the air and Aydor grabbed one, passing it to the woman at his side. “Have any Riders come from Maniyadoc yet?” He said it casually, though it was clearly not.
“Not yet, Aydor,” I said. “I am sorry.”
“Hessally is a grown woman, Aydor,” said my master, “you shouldn’t fuss over her so.”
“She is still my daughter,” he said, “and her mount is due to give birth. People have been killed assisting in mount births.”
“Aydor,” I said, “I have never seen another human with such a way around mounts as your Hessally. Even Xus loves her, I do not think you need to worry.”
“Well, aye.” He practically swelled with pride. “There are few have such a way with animals as her.” He nodded to himself, little gave him more pleasure than talk of his daughter. “She is probably safer among the mounts of Maniyadoc than here, no matter how wild they may get.” He leaned in close to me. “This whole thing, Girton, Ceadoc, high kings, voting. It’s all Yellower’s piss, you know that, right?”
“What do you mean?” By me my master grinned.
“I thought, maybe, it might work, this voting, getting everyone to agree, but it won’t. This is going to end in a fight, mark my words and keep your blades sharp.” He tried to wink but had clearly drunk so much he had forgotten how. I shook my head, momentarily amused by his play at foolishness. He stepped closer to me. “Gonan, Marrel’s Heartblade, wants to speak with you,” he said softly.
“By ‘speak,’ do you mean slide a blade between my ribs?”
“I think you can handle him; he’s so old he can barely hold his blade, never mind take you down.”
“I am not invincible. As you’d know if you had seen me in the menagerie.”
“A good warrior makes their own luck, you know that.”
“Maybe. Where is Gonan?”
“Outside the gate. In the town.” He gestured with his cup, spilling half the contents.
“A good place for an ambush.”
“What is life without risk?” Aydor shrugged and drank the rest of his perry in one gulp, liquid pouring down his beard. “Boring. That’s what it is.”
“I will come with you,” said my master. “We should see what he wants.”
We left the party and had to bribe the highguard on the portcullis gate with half a bit of coin to open the portcullis enough for us to slip underneath and into Ceadoc town. Even so late a few people were about. Rubbish had piled up against the walls of the castle and children were sorting through it, eating what they could, saving what may be of some worth. The moment they saw us coming out of the castle gate they scattered, flowing in all directions like water when you stamp in a puddle.
I searched the shadows outside of the castle for sign of Gonan. I was outside the souring and could use magic—the False Lantern would help me see—but I was strangely unwilling. A voice inside told me it was the proximity of the Landsmen—they would have spies everywhere and one false move would have me hoisted into a blood gibbet for all to see. If that happened then Rufra would be disgraced along with me, his chance to be high king gone for ever. But it was not that, I had ever been reckless and if I thought I needed magic I would use it. The recklessness was simply part of the magic—the magic wants to be used—it was part of the unspoken deal I had made with it. It would not rise up and overwhelm me but I must no longer bind it within. I used it, often, but always in small ways. It was like the scales of Dallad, the consort of Adallada the queen of balance. It must be balanced and, like in the old tale, if I let too many of my dark thoughts loose my scales would snap—and what would be unleashed? It would be—
“Girton?”
Spinning, my blade out. The figure that had appeared from the shadows to address me knocked to the floor. My blade at their throat.
“Gonan,” I said, using my weight to keep the old man pinned, though he made no attempt to struggle, “is this a trap?”
“No.” He shook his head, scared. “Not a trap, but in the shadows over there …” he gestured with his head “… waits a boy. When you agreed to come with me I was to send him to Marrel so he knew to expect us.”
“So it is a trap?” My blade pushed a little harder on Gonan’s neck.
“No, Marrel acted in anger and haste when accusing you, he knows that. Now he wants answers about Berisa’s death and they are answers I cannot provide.” There was a sadness in his words, the sadness of a man who knows he has outlived his usefulness and who has failed in his appointed task. “I could not protect her, and now Marrel needs to know who did this thing and I cannot help him. You can.”
“Why should I believe you, Gonan?”
“If I was to lay a trap, I would not have told the boy to wait until I could tell you I was sending him. I would have told the boy to run and tell Marrel the moment you appeared.”
“And the boy would be dead,” said my master, leading a child out of the darkness. Her hand was around the boy’s arm in a grip I knew well, one that felt gentle but was as strong as any shackle. I took my blade from Gonan’s throat and stood, as did he, brushing filth and mud from his skirts.
“You will come?” he said.
“Master?”
She let the boy go.
“Run to Marrel ap Marrel, boy,” she said, “tell him we are coming.”
“Thank you,” said Gonan. “I cannot ease Marrel’s grief, but maybe we can give him answers.” He turned, leading us through the town toward another tower gate. Before, when I walked through Ceadoc, I had been overwhelmed—by the stink, by the people—but now, at such a late hour, the place was quiet and I felt it in a different way. It would have been a hard thing to describe to another, but Ceadoc had a strangeness to it like no other city. Maybe it was the closeness of so much life to a souring, I did not know, but Ceadoc was draining, tiring in a way I had never felt before. As if the life of the city, instead of filling me, was pulling at the edges of my motley, trying to drag me down into the filthy mud. I had to shake my head and take in great lungfuls of stinking air to dispel this feeling.
“Truthfully,” said Gonan, and his words were the wings to fan away the strange feelings Ceadoc town brought on me, “did you kill Bilnan, Girton Club-Foot?”
“Your apprentice? No, why would I?”
Gonan shrugged.
“He was fascinated by assassins, and ambitious. Good too.” Gonan’s eyes sparkled with tears and I felt something like a stab in my heart. Feorwic. “I could understand an accident, Girton. He may have followed you, the idiot may even have challenged you. The young do foolish things to try and impress their heroes.”
“Heroes?”
“Aye, have you not noticed the way half the Heartblades ape you? Your walk, your weapons. There are even some who wear the motley and paint their faces.”
“It is their job to stop assassins, not be them.”
Gonan glanced at me, a smile on his face.
“Indeed.” And then the smile faded away. “I had thought the true assassins long gone, but it is not so.”
“They are not true assassins, Gonan,” said my master, “Girton tells me they are mostly ill-trained children.” Hurt crossed Gonan’s face at that.
“If that is true, then the real assassins must have been gods.”
“What do you mean?” said my master.
“You will see when we meet Marrel.” He led us through a portcullis into another part of the castle. Marrel ap Marrel waited for us, his finery dulled with soot.
“Girton Club-Foot,” he said, but there was no joy in his greeting. Beneath my motley and armour sweat was flooding from me in the yearslife heat. I looked from Marrel to the four warriors he had brought with him. Was it a trap after all? He walked up to me. I sweated but it was nothing to the moisture running down Marrel’s face. He wiped at his brow with a rag. “Gonan assures me you did not kill Berisa, but I know of no other who can kill without leaving trace. Gonan says this cannot be the case, he says we are old and must be missing what is obvious.”
“No one can kill without leaving any trace,” I said. I felt my master move in more closely to me, the heat emanating from her small body fiercer than the still air.
“Well, we shall see,” said Marrel, and we followed him. “We walked this way. I would have stayed at the feast longer but Berisa was heartbroken when I told her of Bilnan’s death and she wanted to leave.” I thought of the still body of Feorwic, lying on a table.
“I can understand that.”
“How did you meet her?” said my master. He stopped. A tear of clear moisture leaked from his eyes and ran through droplets of sweat yellowed by the torchlight.
“I am not sure it is any business of yours, cripple.” My hands bunched at the way he spoke to my master then Marrel sighed. “She worked in my longhouse. Her family are blessed but their manor was destroyed in a border fight.”
“Who with?” she said.
“What right have you to question the blessed?” he said.
“She assists me,” I said.
“You allow your servant too much latitude. Is there some brotherhood of cripples you belong to?” I let the words pass over me, he was angry and hurt.
“She is my teacher, Marrel,” I said, “and she is wise. It may help us if you answer her questions.” He shrugged, turned away and carried on walking.
“Rufra’s family, the ap Vthyr. They destroyed her life.”
“That does not sound like Rufra.”
“His uncle, not your king, and it was a long time ago. But Berisa did not hold grudges, not even for that. She had no enemies. She …” His words failed. He stopped, took a breath. Wiped sweat from his forehead. “She was loved. She was gentle and she was loved. I can think of none that would want her dead.”
“But,” I said, “her death has put you at odds with Rufra.”
“Who but him has an assassin with enough skill to kill Berisa and remain unseen?” He spun on the spot and marched up to me, stopping only a handspan from my face. “Who? I have seen these new assassins. I have watched Gonan and Bilnan deal with them. Bilnan studied the assassins’ skills and he laughed at these new ones, said they were fools. But I have seen you and know of no other who could do what has been done to my Berisa.”
“Leckan ap Syridd has an assassin with him also, a true one.”
“Huh,” said Marrel, “it seems you come out of the woodwork like worms in a flood, but all saw her in the Low Tower when my wife was killed.”
“I did not kill your wife,” I said.
“So Gonan says.” He shuffled forward a little more and I heard the chime of armour as his men moved. For a moment I thought he would lunge at me, but Gonan put a hand on his master’s arm.
“When you came to Rufra’s tower,” I said, “you told me you saw me kill her. But now you say the killer was never seen.”
He stared into my eyes, anger rolling off him.
“No. He was not seen. I was angry and was sure it could be no one else but you, and I am still mostly sure of that. But Gonan says otherwise,” his voice quietened, “and I trust him.”
“King Marrel ap Marrel,” I said. My words were slow, weighted. “Rufra’s greatest wish is always peace. An alliance with you is the best way to achieve that.” Marrel opened his mouth to speak. I continued to talk. “Rufra does not send out assassins.” Marrel laughed, a small, derisive snort of a laugh. “But if he did, it would be you I killed, not your wife.”
“I should kill you now,” said Marrel.
“You could not.” I did not make my words a threat, or speak in anger. Only said the words as simply and unthreateningly as one would when asking to buy a pot or a piece of pork from a trader. Marrel glanced down but I did not look as I knew what I would see—had known since he drew the knife that he held against my stomach.
“You do not have the strength to push it through the armour beneath my motley,” I said quietly. “The blade is too near. And I have not taken the weapon from you out of respect for you and the knowledge that grief makes men act irrationally. Do not force me to make a fool of you in front of your troops.”
“My king,” said Gonan, and he pulled on Marrel’s arm. “My king, come, let us show him where it happened. Do not make an enemy of Girton Club-Foot. It is not wise.” Marrel continued to stare into my eyes and then he seemed to fill with such powerful emotions that language could not express them, and he threw his dagger to one side with a noise stranded somewhere between a sob and a profanity.
“Come then!” he said, and he stalked away, shadowed by his men. Gonan stayed with us a moment longer.
“It may help,” I said, “if we could see her body.”
“She has gone to Xus,” said Gonan. “While you were in the dungeon.”
“Did you see her wounds?”
“She was killed by a single stab wound to the heart. I saw her fall, saw the blood on her dress, but Marrel would not let anyone near her body. He was wild with grief. You saw how he was when he came to the Low Tower.”
I nodded.
“Lead on then, Gonan.”
We caught up with Marrel as he led us through a warren of small houses used by the smiths and artisans who served Ceadoc Castle. The houses here were old, moss crowning the thatch of their roofs and growing down to the ground making them look as if they melted—grass rose to meet the moss until the houses had become things of nature, green and sprouting.
“We walked through here from Rufra’s feast. It is the only way to the Speartower.” Marrel’s tower rose above us, tall and thin, beautiful and ancient. It seemed impossible that something so narrow could stand for so long and, like our tower, it was overlooked by the walls of Ceadoc. It seemed none were trusted. A huge pair of wooden gates blocked the entrance into the Speartower and at Marrel’s shout they were opened. They led into a small courtyard and to the Speartower’s base, which was a round, low building two storeys high. “It happened in there,” said Marrel, pointing at the base of the building and then walking forward as another, smaller, gate opened to let us in.
“It seems our assassin is a show-off,” said my master.
“Aye, all manner of places between the Low Tower and here to arrange an ambush and yet they choose inside. Maybe when we see where it happened it will make more sense.”
“Maybe,” said my master, and we headed into the darkness.
“We came down here,” said Marrel, “with twelve troops, six in front and six at the rear. They were arrayed in pairs and as you can see,” he pointed at the troops before us, “a pair of troops blocks the passage entirely.” I glanced up. The ceiling was so low the flames of the torches puddled there, dancing around the stone as if repelled by it, forever unable to stay in one place.
“The torches were lit?” I asked.
“Aye.” He led us further on. The passage widened slightly and I brushed one hand against the wall to my side, looking for signs of hidden entrances. To my right my master did the same but the walls were as solid as Marrel himself. “Beyond here is what we call the circle room,” said Marrel. “It was there she was struck, and if I was not sure the Landsmen would use it as an excuse to blood gibbet everyone who stands with me I would call sorcerer on it.”
Marrel took out a set of keys and passed it to the woman who headed his guard. She sorted through them and used a shiny key to open a hefty wooden door set into the stone.
“Who else has keys?”
“Only me, and whoever captains my guard. They are all loyal.”
“Marrel is loved by his people,” said Gonan. It was well known: Marrel was a good man and I was suddenly angry. Angry that someone should use him and his wife as pawns in the games of power that were played. I felt my master’s light touch on my arm and forced myself to relax, unbunching my muscles.
“Here,” said Marrel. He stood to one side and motioned us in, looking ghost-white in the torchlight.
The circle room was well, if not imaginatively, named. It was a large circular room with torches placed at regular intervals around the walls, effectively banishing any shadows. The only other exit was directly opposite us.
“You put a lock on that door also?” I said.
“Aye, you can never be secure enough,” said Marrel, “and the key is kept with the other.”
About five large steps in from the walls a second circle had been cut into the floor at a depth that was just too deep to be a comfortable step down, and then, a pace in, a second and third circle at the same depth.
“Did you go around the edge of the circle or across the middle, up and down the steps?” said my master.
“Can that really matter, cripple?” said Marrel. He looked around the room, plainly uncomfortable to be in the place his wife died.
“It may,” I said.
“We went up and down the steps. My guards went before us, as they always did. Two up and down the steps, two around the top level to the left and two around the right.”
I studied the ceiling, low enough to make a fight hard. My master sat on the edge of the first step and lowered herself down, then again until she stood on the lowest level. I followed her.
“Do you think this was a meeting place once, Master?” I said, looking at the tiered steps. Each was set at a height that made them comfortable to sit on.
“What does that matter?” snapped Marrel. “It is obvious, is it not? The place is an oratory and that was how we used it. They probably used it to watch dances for your kind.” He made a dismissive gesture at me.
“Anything may matter, Marrel, no matter how small it seems,” I said, “especially when the impossible seems to have been achieved. So tell me what happened next.”
“Sorcery,” he said quietly, “though that must not leave this room.” He looked to his own men and women. “We went down the steps, Berisa always delighted in it.” He coughed; cleared his throat. “But she was lost in misery over the death of Bilnan and we went down simply because it had become habit. The assassin struck as we reached the bottom of the oratory steps. Berisa stumbled, and then …” His voice trailed off and he looked away, hiding his face from us as the tears came.
Gonan stepped forward.
“Berisa stumbled, and Marrel steadied her. Then there was a hiss, as if a serpent were loose, and the torches on the walls guttered and went out. Berisa screamed and the scream was silenced. Marrel shouted her name and troops came running from both ends of the tunnels. That was when we discovered Queen Berisa had been murdered.”
“The assassin, could they have come in past your troops when the torches went out?”
“No, the forward door,” he pointed at the door leading into the Speartower, “was not yet open. I had to open it for them, and the troops at the rear door were stationed facing back into the castle, blocking the entrance.”
“So the assassin must have been in the room already,” I said.
“But he was not,” said Gonan. “The troops walked through it in full torchlight, as did I, and as you can see, nothing is hidden. There is nowhere to hide.”
“I will need to inspect the room,” I said. Gonan nodded. “And the guards that were with you that night, where are they?”
“In rooms in the Speartower,” he said. “As we can see no way this was achieved, we must wonder if they were somehow involved.”
“I would speak to them also.” Gonan nodded again.
“Can you see how this was done, Girton Club-Foot?” said Marrel ap Marrel, and there was something in his voice, the same note I have heard in men or women signing the gods’ books in hope of some miracle. But I could not give him one.
“No, not yet,” I said, “but I can promise you one thing.”
“What is that?” he said, suspicious.
“It was not sorcery,” I said, and I knew that without doubt as the Speartower was well within the souring. I could feel it gnawing at my spirit. “Which means the hand of a man or woman was involved, and I will find that hand for you, Marrel ap Marrel, even if I have to cut it off and bring it to you.”
He nodded, seemingly satisfied at that—though I knew what I had said was rash. For the life of me, I could not work out how Berisa Marrel had been killed in this room without the assassin being seen.
Marrel looked around the room once more and then left us, and with him he took Gonan, leaving four guards and instructions to ask them when we wanted to interview those who had accompanied Berisa on the night of her murder.
“Look, Girton,” said my master. She pointed at the floor to show me a small round hole. I knelt by it, smelled it. It had the rank odour of water that had stood undisturbed for far too long.
“A drain,” I said. “This was not an oratory, it was a bathhouse.” I remembered the massive bathhouse Gamelon had shown me, the builders of Ceadoc had clearly liked to keep clean. “I am not sure how it helps us,” I said.
“All information is helpful, is it not?” said my master, and she started to climb the steps. I followed, and though we spent an hour going around the walls searching for secret passages, we found nothing.
Next we were taken up the Speartower, which was an eccentric building constructed around a spiral staircase with rooms going off to each side. No room shared a floor with any other—each was slightly higher or lower than the last—and when we went into the room we were to use to question the guards it was an odd shape, ceilings and floors sloping strangely.
“You know, Girton,” said my master, “if I wanted to put someone on edge I cannot think of a better way to do it than to place them in this tower.”
“Aye, it is twisted like Dark Ungar built it. Gamelon’s doing, no doubt, but why?”
“I think he delights in others’ discomfort. I have seen his type before.”
“Do you think he also tries to influence the succession?”
“Undoubtedly,” she said.
“For whom?”
“Maybe he acts in a way that will allow him to say he helps whoever wins.”
“Killing Berisa Marrel is hardly that, Master.”
“Aye, but he delights in the menageries. Who really knows how such a mind works?”
“This place gets worse by the minute, Master.”
Once we were settled, my master asked for paper and charcoal and sketched out a picture of the circle room. As we talked to each guard, we marked where they had been standing to get a clear picture of the night. What they said was of little help. The only curious things were the guards who were on the top level mentioned feeling light-headed before the torch went out; my master looked over at me the first time this was mentioned, as if it were the key to something. But I did not see the lock it fitted.
The only time I thought we were coming close to something was with the second-to-last guard, a small woman called Missel, with a scar down her face. She was so nervous she may as well have danced around telling us she knew something. After speaking to her for ten minutes my master leaned over to me.
“Scare her,” she whispered. I leant forward.
“Have you heard of Arketh, Missel?” She nodded. “And have you seen the menageries?”
She shook her head.
“Heard of ’em though. ’Tis a place of horrors for honest folk.”
“Marrel is desperate to find who killed his wife, and I have promised him I will find them. You know what I am, right?”
“Assassin,” she said.
“And you know assassins are not like other men or women?” She nodded. “Well, I can hear the words of Xus the unseen.” I leaned forward so my skull-painted face filled her vision and my quiet voice would carry to her. “He whispers in my ear and he tells me that you lie.” She leant back, her eyes widening. She started to shake her head, opened her mouth to voice a denial. “Since Darsese died, Missel,” I said, “no creature has survived the journey to the menagerie, though I understand Arketh tries her hardest to make the route to Xus an unpleasant path to tread. Your master will have no mercy if I tell him you lie, Missel. He will give you to Arketh and if you are lucky you will end your days as a monster for others’ amusement.”
“No,” she said, “please. Queen Berisa said it would be all right.” I sat back in my chair, using Arketh and the monstrosities of the menagerie to get information made me feel like I needed to wash. But it had worked.
“Told you what would be all right?”
“There were another key,” she said. “I had it made for her.”
“And who had it?”
“Berisa.”
“Why?”
“Said she wanted a baby, said there were a wise woman in the town and she wanted to visit her. Didn’t want Marrel to know, said his seed were weak and—”
“Did Berisa keep the key with her?”
Missel nodded.
“But it weren’t on her body.” She stared at the ground. “It is my fault she died. She were good, were Berisa, I deserve Arketh’s touch for what I did.”
My master leant forward.
“You tried to help her, that is all. Do not blame yourself. Tell no one of the key,” she said, “and if we can we will not mention it either.” The woman nodded.
“One other thing, Missel,” I said. She turned back to me, but she would plainly rather have spoken to my master. “The name of the wise woman.”
“Dokar. She lived near where the goatherds chose to drink.”
“Thank you,” said my master. And she sent the woman away. “Well, Girton, I think we know how the trick with the torches was done.”
“We do?”
“Of course, come on, it’s not hard. Access to water, a hiss, light-headed guards and the flames go out?”
“A chokebomb,” I said. She nodded.
“Aye, the assassin uses the key. Knowing Marrel and Berisa always go down and up the steps. She balances the bomb on the edge of the drain, it need only be small as no one would be looking for something like that, they would probably not even recognise it.”
“It must have been what Berisa tripped over, she kicked the bomb into the drain. The hiss was it dissolving in the water below and releasing the choke gas. The choke gas rises, kills off the flames and makes the guards light-headed.” My master nodded. “But why not just knock them all out?”
“A bigger bomb would be needed and that may be noticed.”
“Well, that is good to know, Master, but I still cannot work out how the killer got past the guards at the door without being seen, and then got out again.”
From the look on my master’s face, neither could she.