I woke late, the noise of the Low Tower had been slowly seeping up through my consciousness as dreams. I dreamt of battle and the roar of armies, the crash of shields and the call of Xus’s birds as they fed on corpses. But it was not battle I woke to. It was the rumble of barrels being moved across the wooden floors of the Low Tower. I heard the croak of Xus’s birds and opened an eye. One sat in my window, bright eyes considering me in the split second before it became one with the air in a rustle of feathers.
“Goodbye,” I said, but it was gone, become a flake of ash on the wind with its fellows, wheeling above the walls of Ceadoc.
I had to speak to Rufra. More was happening here than an election, darker undercurrents, and though I knew he would tell me that was normal for the Tired Lands he still needed to know. And I felt I needed an introduction to his uncle. I should have seen him earlier, there was bad blood between them and it made him an obvious suspect. The trader Leckan ap Syridd, I should see him as well. I had discounted his assassin because people saw her here when Berisa died, but that did not free her from the attempt on Voniss. And if she was good enough to have killed Berisa Marrel, then maybe she could be in two places at once.
Once I had put on my make-up and motley I found Rufra outside. He was watching Vinwulf fence with some of the other squires. Vinwulf would take his tests for Rider soon and he would pass, easily. He may be difficult and unpleasant, but he knew how to behave when he needed to, if polite and courteous was called for to advance him he could become that, would become it, for as long as he needed to. By Rufra stood Aydor, and behind him was Voniss, holding Aydon in her arms. Anareth hid behind her. She ignored her brother as he went through the motions of swordwork with the guards, instead she watched me when I came close she vanished beneath Voniss’s flaring trousers. I waited a moment and she peeped out. I gave her a small wave and she vanished again.
“Rufra,” I said. He held up a hand, leaning forward as Vinwulf parried an attack expertly then brought his sword round, catching his opposite behind the knee, knocking them to the floor. As his opponent went down a second fighter came at Vinwulf and he ducked under the blow, though how he saw it I do not know, and cut back with his wooden practice sword. Had it been a real sword he would have gutted the man.
“See, Girton,” said Rufra, though he had not turned to acknowledge me. “A few more years and there will be no warrior in the Tired Lands the equal of my son.”
“You may be right,” I said, though I exchanged a look with Aydor that said something completely different, more akin to, “That’s what worries us.” I gave Aydor a shrug of my shoulders. “I came with a request, King Rufra,” I said. “I fear politics at Ceadoc is far more complex than we imagined.”
“You fear that, maybe,” he said, “not I.” He did not take his eyes from his son as he limbered up for his next opponent. “I know it.”
“I think it may be a good idea for me to get to know some of the other players, what about—”
“Suvander,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Since the trouble with Marrel I have lost the support of a few blessed.” He still watched Vinwulf. Gusteffa now capered around the boy, expertly mimicking his sword thrusts. “And I have been thinking about my uncle too. He is a snake but we may be able to buy his support.”
“Buy it?”
“Aye, sometimes it is the best way. The same goes for Leckan ap Syridd.” For all we had drifted apart, our minds still often seemed to work in unison.
“I thought he supported Marrel.”
“So did I, but it appears not. And those blessed who have withdrawn support from me have not declared for Marrel either.”
“So someone else is in the running.”
“They have not declared so, not yet. And the vote is in four days. It worries me.”
“And now you will turn to bribes?”
“If I have to.” I felt more then saw his muscles tense at my tone and wished I could take it back. “Suvander will not see me, personally, but he may see you and Aydor.”
“How much am I to offer him?”
“Money? Nothing, and it would not interest him. Tell him I will renounce my claim to the ap Vthyr lands if he supports me. That should get his interest.”
“And Leckan?”
“You should go to him by yourself. You will have to sneak in, he will not see anyone I have sent. Offer him five thousand bits on my behalf.”
“Five thousand? Maniyadoc cannot afford—”
“We will find it,” he said. He did not sound angry, but neither was there any give in his voice. “You may go now if you wish, Girton,” he said. “Take Aydor away from here, he is like a bear with a sore head today. You would think he never slept.” I saw Aydor look to the sky and shake his head ever so slightly before walking over to join me.
“Come, Girton. It is quite the walk to the Sly Tower where Suvander sits.” He walked straight past me and on toward the entrance to Ceadoc, he was definitely out of sorts. Usually I would put it down to a hangover but Aydor loved to complain of his hangovers, and to exaggerate them, but he said nothing. As he told the two highguard waiting on the door where we wished to go, I watched him. He was worried, but I did not know why. I knew he would not thank me for asking, though I probably would ask if he did not speak soon. Usually I was happy to wander in silence, but with Aydor generally being so loud it seemed somehow unnatural.
“I went into Ceadoc town last night,” I said.
“That explains why you smell so bad.” I must have looked appalled as he quickly added, “A jest, Girton, you do not smell any worse than usual.” A smile, fleeting, barely there. “What did you find in Ceadoc?”
“Trouble.”
“How many died?”
“Three.”
“A quiet night for you then.” Another barely there smile and we headed down a dark tunnel. Aydor had to bend slightly to walk without banging his head. “Don’t suppose you fancy adding to that total, do you?”
“Are you serious?” I said. He shook his head.
“No, ignore me. Rufra has been talking of marriage again, that is all.” Aydor’s sullenness made sense now. He talked of Hessally, his daughter and the most important thing in his world.
“I know how it feels to be angry with the king,” I said. “Wanting him dead is going a bit far though.” He did not laugh.
“I would never wish Rufra dead, though sometimes I wish other members of his family would fall off a mount on to their heads.”
“Ah, Vinwulf. Rufra still wants her to marry Vinwulf?” Aydor nodded but did not look at me. “Hessally is not stupid, Aydor. She would not have her head turned by the prince.”
“You would hope,” he said, opening a door and leading me through into another tunnel. “But Vinwulf is clever as well as cruel and you know he can turn on the charm when he wants to. Before we left he had her half-convinced he had changed, and now Rufra starts again with his suggestions.”
“You can fend those off though. You have done so before.”
“Yes, but I am not sure he trusts me any more, Girton.” He seemed to shrink a little.
“Of course he does.”
“Really? Since he heard of those blessed deserting him for some mystery contender, well, he has not looked straight at me since.”
“He would never think that you …”
“If he would never think that, then why is he sending you with me to talk to Suvander? I am hardly in danger there with Ceadoc’s truce in place.”
“In my experience the truce seems meaningless. Maybe that is why he sends me with you?”
“Maybe,” he said. When we reached the next door he drove a huge hand into it, sending it crashing against the stone frame. It was so unexpected it made me jump and even the faces of the dead gods carved into the frame looked surprised. “I think it is this place, Girton, Ceadoc, that puts me on edge, pits us against each other. I cannot understand why Rufra wants it. Can you imagine having to live here? It is an invitation to madness.” He rubbed his hand where it had smacked against the door.
“I think he hopes to change it, from the inside. To cleanse the place.”
“It cannot be cleansed, Girton.” He shivered and it was strange to see him so serious. “Can’t you feel it? The castle is soaked in blood and nothing good can happen here. It will bring us only misery if we stay.”
“Rufra will—”
“He is only a man, Girton. This castle, it is ancient. It has stood against everything and it has only ever grown. It was a mistake coming here.” He opened another door and led us out to the courtyard of the Sly Tower.
The Sly Tower was one of the newer parts of Ceadoc, though it was still old enough that no one could remember who had built it, or how. It was named the Sly Tower because it leaned, alarmingly, to the left. Giant cracks ran up the four storeys of the building but they were plainly very old: there were no signs of rubble around the base and sparse and sickly looking trees grew from them. The Sly Tower was famous and there were many thoughts on what had caused the building to lean—siege machinery; poor building—but when I looked at it I found it hard to see anything but the image of one of the dead gods: maybe tired and wounded from battle, taking a moment to rest against the stonework and bending it under their weight.
Suvander’s guards stood around the entrance to the tower. They were dressed smartly enough, their shields painted with a white circle that Rufra’s uncle had adopted rather than keep the flying lizard and be associated with his nephew. But there was something in them that put me on edge. They had the faces of men and women starved of water, skin drawn too tight over their bones, which made them look mean and pinch-faced.
“What do you want?” The man who shouted as he came over must have been a captain. His armour was decorated with a white circle made of tiny white plates on his chest enamel and his wide helmet was crested with two metal horns, a metal sun suspended between them.
“We have come to see Suvander ap Vthyr,” said Aydor with a perfect bow. He was another who could turn on the courtly manners whenever he wished. “I am Aydor ap Mennix, son of King Doran ap Mennix and Queen Adran. My companion is Girton Club-Foot, Death’s Jester and Heartblade to Rufra ap Vthyr, king of Maniyadoc and the Long Tides and nephew to Suvander ap Vthyr.”
“And?” said the man.
“It is considered proper,” said Aydor politely, “to tell us your name and introduce us to your blessed.”
“He has no interest in anything the pretender can offer.”
Aydor stared up into the sky and let out something between a growl and a sigh.
“You have not checked,” he said, “and we have walked a long way in this miserable heat and through that miserable castle. I am thirsty and I am bad-tempered because of it, Captain,” he said. “Now though the truce of Ceadoc bans outright aggression, my friend Girton,” he motioned toward me, “has found it does not ban duels. So, unless you wish me to work out my bad temper on you then,” his voice began to rise and he attracted interest from some of the other troops, “you will introduce yourself and inform your blessed we attend on him.” By the time he finished he was shouting.
The captain walked up to him. He was not as tall as Aydor but he had the hard, scarred face of a fighting man.
“You don’t scare me, fat bear,” he said. Both Suvander’s troops and the highguard stationed on the walls around the tower were watching now.
“You’re not scared?” said Aydor, suddenly conversational.
“No,” said the captain.
“So, is that a formal challenge?”
“If you wa—” Before he could finish, Aydor rammed his fist into the man’s gut, bending him double with a great “huush” of expelled air. As the man came down, Aydor brought his knee up into his face with such force it lifted him off his knees and flung him backwards so he landed on his back with his hands outstretched, his face covered in blood and quite unconscious.
“Right,” shouted Aydor. “Who’s next in command?”
Laughter greeted that, an unpleasant cynical laugh that was accompanied by a slow hand clap as Suvander ap Vthyr walked out of the shelter of the Sly Tower.
“Well done, Aydor ap Mennix, well done. Captain Havol has always been a bit disrespectful toward his betters. Maybe he will think twice before acting in such a way before the blessed now.” Suvander turned. “You and you,” he said, pointing at two of his men, “go pour water over Havol, or whatever it is you do to bring a man round.” He turned back to us and his Heartblade, Colleon, appeared behind him. “Strange: I had always expected any violence from my nephew to be at his hand.” He pointed at me. “Not the king-without-a-land’s.”
“I hate to be predictable,” said Aydor, and he rubbed his fist. “I hate punching armour too. All the little plates pinch the skin.” As he spoke, I noticed Colleon studied us intently.
“I have healer priests, if you need them,” said Suvander.
“I’ll live,” said Aydor.
“Then let us go in,” said Suvander, “as you said you were thirsty and it would be rude of me not to provide a drink.” As I walked past Colleon, he stared at me. There was something there that I did not like, it was not hatred, or any negative emotion. More interest, as if I were some exotic jewel he had heard of and longed to see, and now he had he could not take his eyes from me. I found it disconcerting. I glanced at his weapons and noticed they were subtly different to the ones I was used to seeing. He wore no scabbard, for a start, and his long blade, rather than coming to a point, ended in a blunt square tip. His short blade was the complete opposite, it was round and pointed, more of a spike than a stabsword. I wondered if the man would challenge me, but that was something I could not control so I turned from him and put him out of my mind.
The inside of the Sly Tower was easily the most comfortable of the towers I had visited. It was decked out with tapestries, and long flowing woollen blankets in many colours had been suspended from a ceiling about twice the height of me. The wool was drawn back but I saw how it could be let down again and the large space easily cut up into smaller rooms for entertaining. In the centre of the room a jester worked. He was not dancing, only doing tricks and acrobatics. He was good, if not gifted. He pretended he had not seen me enter. Maybe it helped him concentrate to pretend Death’s Jester was not in the room. Suvander sat himself in a throne and Colleon stood behind him. One of many serving children brought us chairs and we sat. Before we could speak Suvander lifted a finger to stop us.
“A moment,” he said, and I felt he enjoyed that small moment of power. “I will have food and drink brought. It would not do to appear impolite before Aydor ap Mennix.” He smiled; it was a predatory smile. “We have seen how that ends, eh?” That smile was the mirror of his brother, Neander: cold. His face was a mirror also, a mountain landscape, though he had some skin condition that caused redness and ridges of hard-looking dried skin that did not affect his brother.
“Rufra sends his apologies for not attending personally, but he did not feel you would welcome him,” said Aydor.
“He is right.” His eyes sparkled at that bit of mischief and his slaves brought us food and drink: hard bread and weak perry.
“But he has heard that you have removed your support from Marrel ap Marrel and wonders what it would take to win your support to his cause.”
“I wondered what my nephew would offer me when he heard.” He nibbled on a crust of bread.
“As high king he will be able to—”
“Such offers are meaningless, if he never becomes high king.” He glanced at us over the crust of his bread before returning to it. “What can he offer me now?”
“You are not a man to beat around the bush, it seems,” said Aydor.
“It is a stark land we live in. Everything here is precious, even time, Aydor ap Mennix.”
“Indeed.”
“So do not waste my time, or maybe Torelc will find you, eh?”
“Very well.” Aydor took a long slug of the watered-down perry and then poured himself another cup. “You should sack whoever supplied your drink,” he said. “That is only my opinion, Suvander ap Vthyr, it is not Rufra’s offer.”
“Which is?” Suvander leaned forward.
Aydor took another drink from the cup, poured more.
“I have a great thirst,” he said.
“What is the offer, ap Mennix?”
Aydor stared at him, leaning forward he gave Suvander his gap-toothed grin.
“King Rufra,” he said—Suvander’s teeth clenched at the title—“offers to renounce all claim to the ap Vthyr lands, making you the legal blessed of those lands.”
“But I already am,” he said, and leaned back.
Aydor produced a sheet of vellum and took a moment to study it.
“This is the sworn word of Cearis Vthyr, sister of yours and aunt to King Rufra ap Vthyr, and it swears Rufra ap Vthyr was the truly intended blessed of the ap Vthyr lands, as said by his grandfather and your father, Arnlath ap Vthyr.”
“A bit of writing will not get him my land,” said Suvander, though he reached for the vellum.
Aydor moved it away.
“I think not.”
“It is the only copy?” Suvander’s eyes sparkled again.
“The only copy I have,” said Aydor.
“I could have Colleon take it from you,” said Suvander. Behind him the dark-skinned man put his hand on the hilt of his blade. I stood. Aydor placed his hand on my leg.
“As you well know, Suvander, Festival backs Rufra,” said Aydor, despite the threat emanating from Colleon, his voice did not waver. “And if Girton and I do not return they will no longer visit your lands.” Suvander nodded, made some signal at Colleon, who removed his hand from his blade and relaxed.
“What you really propose,” said Suvander, “is that if I do not back my nephew he will use my sister’s words as an excuse to attack me.”
“Well,” said Aydor with a shrug, “I suppose that is one way of looking at it. It had not occurred to me.”
“You are a poor liar, ap Mennix.”
Aydor managed to look comically hurt.
“He called me a liar, Girton,” he said.
“But nonetheless I will think about my nephew’s offer. There is one thing, though. If I do not back him, then surely whoever becomes high king will reward my loyalty? He will not be able to move against me in that case. His famed soldiers may well be too busy.”
Aydor stood. “You should remember, Suvander, that Rufra ap Vthyr is yet to lose any battle he has chosen to fight.”
“Indeed,” said Suvander, “that is true, but then he usually has an army with him. I believe he only brought a few Riders to Ceadoc.” He stood. “Good day, Aydor ap Mennix.” Then he turned to me. “Good day, Girton Club-Foot. Look after your king.” He grinned, but there was only threat there. When we walked away from the Sly Tower, Suvander watched our every step.
“I think I handled that badly,” said Aydor. “I am no diplomat.” He looked crestfallen.
“No, you handled it well. A man like Suvander only understands force. What worries me, is he should have snapped your hand off at that offer.”
“Then why didn’t he?” said Aydor.
“Because, for some reason he must think the offer he already has is a better one.” We walked through the twisting tunnels of Ceadoc in silence while we both thought on that. Eventually, we came to a place where we must part ways.
“Aydor, which way is Leckan ap Syridd’s tower?”
“The Tower of the Broken Blade? Straight on from here, then the first tunnel to the left and the second to the right. That will lead you straight to it. Are you ill?”
“Ill?”
“You don’t usually need to ask for directions.”
“It is this place,” I clasped my arms around myself as if cold, “it is wrong.”
“You’ll get no argument from me. You know I think we should just walk away.” I nodded.
“Aye,” I said, “but while I have you alone there is something I must ask you.”
“Yes?”
“I need to get in to Boros, tonight.”
“So you can ease him gently on to the path of Xus? It is right, I suppose.”
“That is not my plan,” I said, “though I do need to be in his cell.”
“What is it you …” His voice tailed off as he thought about what I had said. It was easy for me to forget that Aydor was one of the few people who knew that magic ran through me. Maybe we had spent so much time together he had gradually realised, or maybe he had known ever since his mother brought us to Maniyadoc all those years ago. After all, she had known what was within my master. We never discussed it, and he did not seem to care. “I’d probably rather not know what you’re up to, right?”
“It is probably best.”
“How long do you need to be in his cell?”
“Not long, if Saleh will give me the key.”
“He won’t. Well, he can’t,” he said. “Barin has moved some of his own guard in there now. They practically threw me out this morning. This is Boros’s last night and they know if any move is to be made to save him it has to happen today.”
“How many guards?”
“Three men, and there will be Barin there at some point too.”
“I am counting on that. But I had hoped not to kill anyone.”
Aydor stared at the bottom of the wall before us, as if gazing through the stone at the dungeon far below.
“Meet me as it becomes dark,” he said. “Maybe you will not have to kill anyone, but you will have to pick the lock on the cell.”
“Dead gods,” I said. “I have not picked a lock in years.”
“Bring Merela then,” he said. “We may as well make it into a party.”
“If I will struggle to get in unseen, two of us will hardly have an easier time.”
“Leave that to me,” he said. Then his face seemed to fold in on itself in confusion. “How will you get out?”
“That won’t be a problem, hopefully,” I said.
“You know if they catch you in there they’ll burn you too, right?”
I nodded.
“That is why I do not intend to be caught.”
“Good, because then I’d have to break you out and I’m not good at all that stuff, locks and sneaking about.”
“I know.” I grinned at him as he turned away. “And Aydor,” I said, he turned back to me. “Thank you.” He waved a hand as if it were nothing, but it was not. Over the years his friendship had become one of the most valuable things in my life. It is a curious thing, the weave of our existence. The pattern is never plain until we can look back upon it.
I left Aydor and followed his instructions, slipping through uncomfortable corridors and past highguard who barely paid any attention to me. The Tower of the Broken Blade was the oldest tower I had seen outside of the ruins of Ceadoc, not as slender as the Speartower or as squat as the Low Tower or the Sly Tower. It reached up five storeys, though the top two were open to the elements. At some time in the past it had taken a hit from some sort of siege engine, giving it the appearance of a sword that had snapped, leaving one edge jutting up.
I watched ap Syridd’s guards. Unlike those of the other blessed, his troops did not have the look of family—though they moved like killers. Many of them wore the black rags of the Children of Arnst, but these were not the usual ragged and half-starved fanatics that I associated with Danfoth and his cult. These were Meredari warriors, they mostly wore helmets but the bone-white hair of those who did not was unmistakeable. I wondered if they would cover their hair if I showed myself, though, given that I was sneaking in as the man was refusing to see Rufa’s envoys. I hoped I would not find out.
Around the Tower of the Broken Blade highguard patrolled the walls far above, and I was thankful for it, ap Syridd’s guards would be used to their constant movement in their vision and that made them less likely to pay attention to me. I slid through the shadows and around the hay bales and barrels that collected wherever men and women camped. I heard the hissing of war mounts off to my left and then a sound that froze my blood in my veins, the baying of war dogs. I stopped. Stood still.
Breathe.
Out and in.
Breathe.
All my life I had feared dogs.
First thing, make sure the dogs were kennelled. If they were loose I would have to find some way to hide my scent. I drifted through the shadow until I was behind a stack of barrels and cursed myself for coming in my motley. I should have chosen something that didn’t stand out. The motley was mostly black, there was that, but in the heat and brightness of the day that was not much help. I crouched, watching, aware of the familiar pain in my club foot and the newer pains that ageing had brought to me, pains in my knees and ankles, a subtle stiffness in my hands.
There!
A guard patrolling with a war dog on a lead.
Curse all the dead gods. That was the last thing I needed. I would have to come back at night doused in something that the dogs did not like, mount piss, maybe.
Something cold touched my neck.
The kiss of a blade.
I froze.
Whoever held me at blade point whistled. Meredari came running, some slipping on helmets and pushing loose hair beneath them—clearly, they did not wish their presence to be known. I lifted my hands, my purpose here was not to kill but to talk to Leckan ap Syridd, and besides, I was reasonably confident that, if it came to it, I could cause enough havoc to escape. The Broken Blade was outside the souring beneath Ceadoc.
We could leave them all dead.
I ignored the slippery voice of the magic and let whoever held me at blade point take my weapons. I wondered who they were, I had not heard a whisper as they approached. More Meredari appeared and the blade was removed from my neck.
I turned.
Of course.
Leckan’s Heartblade, the other assassin. It should not have been a shock really. She shrugged and gave me a small smile, the sort one professional gives another. I had expected her to be in the tower with Leckan or I would have been more careful. More signs of age, I was getting careless.
“You should always be more careful.” My master’s voice echoing in my head.
“I’ll finish him,” said one of the Meredari. He stepped forward, sword coming out of its scabbard. Before it was even halfway out my captor moved. Flashed forward, something metal wrapped around her fist, and she struck the man on the side of his head, sending him reeling. Then she stepped back and pointed at me, shaking her head, wagging her finger in admonition and glancing around the other Meredari. They were like war dogs, only just held in check. I could feel their anger and it was not aimed at me but at her. She pointed at the tower then at me, smiling at the men around us, all of whom dwarfed her—dwarfed both of us—but they parted for her like butter before a hot knife.
Her hand flickered in the assassin’s sign language, telling me I was safe as long as I did her bidding. She helped me up and motioned me toward the tower door. She was pretty, small-featured, delicate-looking and we were of a similar age—most strangely, there was something familiar about her. She bowed to me, a small bow, and then led me down a corridor of glowering Meredari and into the tower to meet the man she protected.
Leckan ap Syridd sat on a throne, thin as stick and with a face that was as amiable as it was vacant. He was a man rich by inheritance, not design, and from the smell of the room most of his money went on narcotics for himself and the brightly coloured entourage that surrounded him. All were young, and they feasted, eating dried fruits and gnawing on hard bread. A pig roasted in one corner, adding to the heat of the room, and the stink of sweat almost overpowered the smell of the drugs and the meat. Wealthbread was everywhere: worn as crowns, twisted around arms and necks, used to sculpt hair, discarded carelessly on the floor and hung from the backs of chairs. Outside people starved, but in here I saw bowls of fruit that had been left to rot. I wondered just how good Leckan’s Heartblade was, as my immediate opinion of the man was that I would like to visit him late one night with a blade in my hand.
“Girton, of the clubbed foot,” he said as his assassin went to stand behind him. “I see you have already been bested by my Heartblade, Tinia Speaks-Not.” He leaned forward in his throne. “She is a mute, you see, not clever enough to speak but she fights well enough.” Behind him Tinia rolled her eyes. Those of his entourage that were paying attention nodded slowly at Leckan’s words and it struck me that there were plenty here that were not clever but Tinia Speaks-Not was not one of them. “My father sent her with me. He is too old to come himself so I am to handle our negotiations. I am surprised that Rufra has decided to try and kill me rather than speak with me. Saddened actually.”
“I did not come here to kill you, Leckan ap Syridd,” I said.
“Then why were you sneaking around outside? I have been watching you, you see.” He grinned. “When Tinia saw you, she pointed you out to me and I sent her out. To kill you actually. But it does not seem she understood. Stupid, as I said. Still, if you are not here to kill me then I suppose that is a good thing. You are both servants of Xus the unseen, the living god. He must be smiling on me.”
“The only reason I had to sneak into the tower was because you have refused to see anyone that Rufra has sent to you.”
“I have?” He looked at me, but I felt he did not see me. “I do not remember turning anyone away. Let me ask Luca.” He looked around the room. “Luca? Where are you, Luca?” Behind Leckan a wooden door shuddered as someone tried to open it. It shuddered again, then a third time before it opened and an old man limped through it, bent by age. He had the air of someone who was habitually forgetful and the careful movements of one whose bones had thinned and now cracked easily. Like all of Leckan’s people, he wore expensive fabrics in bright colours. Circles of wealthbread twisted around the arms of his jerkin as a sign of importance. “Luca was my teacher when I was a young man and now he assists me. He is my adviser,” said Leckan ap Syridd. Luca nodded vaguely, tugging on a long sparse beard that looked as thought it may come loose if he pulled too hard on it.
“How may I help, Blessed Leckan?” said the old man. His voice was hoarse and I wondered if his air of forgetfulness came from bad eyes. The way he squinted and twitched had me sure that his world was one of blurred colours and vague faces. It did not necessarily mean that the mind behind those eyes was vague.
“This is Girton Club-Foot, Luca. He is Rufra ap Vthyr’s man.”
“The pretender king?” said Luca. “I have heard of him, yes, yes, I have.” He squinted at me, and from his expensively ragged robe he produced a large piece of glass that he used to look me up and down. “He is the assassin. Yes? Are all assassins so short? Is that what assassins are? Short people?”
Leckan made one of the most alarming sounds I had ever heard a human make, it sounded like a dray mount braying in terror. At first I thought Leckan was choking. Then those around him joined in until the whole room, except for Tinia, Luca and I, was making that awful sound and I realised they were laughing—though I wondered how many of them knew at what. Once Leckan had regained his composure he filled his cup with perry, without offering any to me as propriety dictated, and turned back to Luca.
“Girton says that his king has sent people to us, but I have not met anyone, have I, Luca? Have I met anyone from King Rufra?” Luca pulled at his straggly beard, then scratched the bald patch on his head surrounded by a frizzy crown of white hair.
“Rufra? I know the name.” He scratched at his head again and a woman behind him snorted. For a moment I wondered if the old man had the forgetting plague, but decided not. A man like Leckan ap Syridd would be unlikely to let someone infected with disease anywhere near him.
“He knows the name!” More of the braying laughter, though Luca did not seem to realise it was aimed at him, the same way he did not remember he had talked of Rufra only moments ago.
“Have we met him, Luca?” said Leckan slowly. There was a cruel smile on his face. “Have we met any of Rufra’s people?”
“I …” He turned to me, as if to ask for help, and I saw a man bewildered and lost in the way the old sometimes become. “I am … I … Who is he?” he asked, pointing at me. “Who is he? Is he a jester? Will he dance for us, Leckan?” More of the hideous braying laughter and I wondered whether Leckan ap Syridd was doing this to humiliate me or the old man, or if this sort of cruelty was simply what was normal among his people.
“Oh dear,” said Leckan, and he leaned over a brazier of burning coals, throwing some herbs on and inhaling deeply, a grin playing around his face. “I am afraid, Luca,” he said, “you may have insulted King Rufra’s closest friend.” The old man’s face became stricken, sagging, age passing across it, withering him.
“I did not know,” he said, quietly. “I did not know.”
“I think,” said Leckan, and there was some secret joy within him as he spoke, “you should go back to your room.”
“No,” said the old man, “please, Leckan. It is dark and cold in there. I do not—”
“In your room!” shouted the merchant and the cry went around the room, being picked up by all present. They pointed at the old man, chanting the words, “In your room! In your room!” in a sing-song voice as the old man backed away, slipping behind the wooden door, tears coursing down his face. Once he was gone the room filled with more laughter and I stood, unsure what to do. The only person I shared anything with in that room was Tinia, who joined me in staring at the man she was meant to be protecting with obvious contempt.
“I should go,” I said, and as I did my hands flicked out signs at his Heartblade. “We should talk.” She nodded.
“No.” Leckan raised his hand. “I have not heard your offer yet. You must make me your offer.” He picked up a handful of meat and stuffed it into his mouth. “Come,” he said, his mouth full. “What is your offer? Tell me of it!”
“Is there a point?”
“Always,” said Leckan. Behind him there were curtains and I noticed they moved, but not in a way I could attribute to the wind. Someone hid back there. “Come, Girton Club-Foot,” he said, “tell me your offer.”
“Very well.” I had no doubt he would turn me down, he simply wanted to do it in front of his friends. “King Rufra ap Vthyr of Maniyadoc and the Long Tides would request your support for him in his bid for high king. As you are a man of trade he offers you trade, the sum of five thousand bits.”
The room was silent, apart from someone noisily vomiting in a corner.
“Five thousand bits,” said Leckan. “That is a lot of money.” He turned on his throne to the woman at his left. “It is a lot of money, is it not, Sereya?” She nodded. “A lot for a man like Rufra, anyway.” He laughed, the volume growing as people realised he would continue his braying laugh until they joined in. Then he stopped, sitting back in his throne, and the laughter in the room died away also. “I will consider it. Tell him that.”
“Very well. I—”
He sat forward, a grin on his face.
“I have considered it.” The smile got even wider. “And my answer is no. Now, you may go.”
“What about my weapons?”
“Well,” he said, “I am afraid some price must be paid for trying to sneak in.” Anger bubbled up within me but behind him Tinia’s hands moved: “Ignore him.” He turned his head from me, the braying laugh starting up again, and the curtain behind him moved once more, revealing a flash of black robe and white hair.
I left, walking toward the portcullis gate to go back through the city, even the stench of Ceadoc town would feel clean after Leckan ap Syridd and his people. I felt a touch on my arm and turned. Tinia Speaks-Not stood in the shadows. She beckoned me and when I approached she pointed at a bag by the bottom of the wall. Then she knelt and took out my blades, holding them out to me.
“Thank you, Tinia Speaks-Not.”
She shrugged. Her hands flickered.
“He is an idiot.”
“I gathered that.”
“His father is not. He would support your king.”
“But Leckan will not.”
“The Children of Arnst control him, but he is too foolish to see that.”
“Thank you, Tinia.”
She smiled at me.
“I remember you,” she flickered out.
“Remember?”
“Your master fought mine, at Maniyadoc.”
“Ah, your sorrowing was with Sayda Half-hand?” She nodded. “I must ask you something, assassin to assassin.” She stared at me, nodded. “Do you only act as Heartblade?” She nodded again.
“It was not I who tried to kill Voniss, or killed Berisa Marrel.” She held out her hand to me and I took it.
The shock immediate.
My master aside—who kept a wall around her mind—I had only twice before touched other magic users, and what I felt had been an immediate attraction. It was the same with Tinia—but different. Like me, she knew what she was, and although she did not share my power she controlled what ran through her the same way I did. She chose to open herself to me, and I to her. It was a whirlwind, a joining and a knowing. She did not kill Berisa Marrel. She did not attack Voniss. She hated her charge and would gladly end him. Her favoured way was poisons or the bow. Her master had died of a sickness in a land far away. Tinia Speaks-Not had travelled as far as I had. She had known sorrow and known joy. She hated what she had become, nursemaid to a cruel man, but had no choice: the poisons she had worked with all her life were slowly eating her and she was slowing, dying. She felt shamed that she had taken easy work but was unable to trust her body not to betray her if she pushed it too hard. And as I saw her she saw me, all of me. I knew it and did not care, did not mind. It was like a cool wind blowing through me. No lies, no pretence and no need to offer any excuses. She would not judge, would only accept.
She stepped away, broke the contact and gave me a small smile.
I nodded, and I was glad we had shared this moment. I did not want to fight her. But if she had been involved with the attack on Voniss then that would mean she had been involved in Feorwic’s death and I had sworn to Xus that whoever was involved in her death would feel my blade.
Now I could cross off another suspect.