“So, was he Boros or not?” whispered Aydor as we stood waiting for Rufra outside the Low Tower. Like the rest, Aydor was in a kilt, in blue and white stripes that he managed to wear well despite his bulk. He had told me he was—for the first time in his life—thankful for the kilt as he was sorely bruised from the kicking Barin’s guards had given him. A large part of the morning had been spent concocting excuses to tell Rufra when he saw Aydor’s black eye. As ever, I wore my Death’s Jester motley, make-up, and blades strapped to my thighs.
“That’s what I am saying, Aydor. I do not know, not for definite.”
“So Barin may actually be wandering about, and Boros may be about to burn?”
“No, I don’t think so. But I don’t know if I succeeded, not entirely.”
“But if you had to make a bet?” he said.
“Yes, I think I did it. I think it is Boros’s mind that walks in Barin’s body.”
“First burning I’ll ever enjoy then,” said Aydor. Then he grinned. “I walked past your sulking room last night, by the way. Didn’t sound like much sulking was going on.”
Somehow, I was sure Aydor knew I blushed, even though my face was covered in a thick skin of panstick.
“Aydor, I—”
He tapped my arm in warning, as Rufra’s priest, Benliu, approached.
“Enough chat. Benliu is here so the king must be coming,” he said. The priest stood by Aydor.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” said Aydor out of the corner of his mouth.
Even though he wore a mask and practised the emotionless voice of the priesthood, Benliu sounded deeply unhappy. “The king says I must come and speak for Boros to the dead gods while he burns.”
“I thought that was done in the buried chapels?”
“Aye,” said Benliu, “and Ceadoc is the Sepulchre of the Gods so every priest should be down there, but they are closed to all.”
“How can that still be? When Gamelon said they were closed I did not think it would be for long,” I said. “Surely access to the sepulchre is important?”
“Flooding,” said the priest. “With the plague killing so many there are no slaves to work the pumps, I imagine.”
“Pumps,” said Aydor, “what pumps?”
“I do not pretend to understand fully. I have never been here before,” said Benliu, “but the sepulchres are underground and pumps must be run or they flood. They are not being run, so the sepulchres are flooded. I had hoped to see the statues of Adallada and Dallad, but it is not to be. Instead I get to watch Boros burn.” He sounded so miserable I wanted to tell him it would not be Boros, but I could not. Just like I could not tell Rufra, and would have to stand here while he glowered at me, believing one of his men burned and I had done nothing to stop it.
“You would think the Landsmen would run the pumps, it is their job after all,” said Aydor.
“It is probably an insult to Rufra,” said Benliu, as more of Rufra’s troops left the tower and I heard the scratch-on-bark call of one of Xus’s birds. When I looked up at the battlements of the Low Tower, the walls around it were lined with black birds. “They sense death,” said Benliu, “they know when it is near.”
“That is just a myth,” said Aydor, staring up at them. “The black birds are everywhere in the Tired Lands,” he glanced about a little more before adding, “as is death.”
Rufra emerged from the Low Tower. He wore his king’s armour: the beautiful silvered enamel shirt and shining shoulder and elbow pieces that Nywulf, the man who had trained him, had given him. He rarely wore it any more, and when he did he wore it with a cloak, as down the back new lines of enamelling had been added to make it fit his wider body, although I was sure no one could tell Rufra felt they could and used the cloak to cover the repairs. By him was Neander.
Rufra shielded his eyes from the sun and in doing so his gaze alighted on me. He glared, as if what were to happen was my fault, and then he went back to talking to Neander. What they spoke of made the king no happier and he shook his head before walking my way. Then he stood by me, Neander on his other side. Behind them trailed Gusteffa.
“I asked for this not to happen,” he hissed out of the corner of his mouth at me, then he glanced across at Aydor. “What happened to you?”
“Got a beating,” he said, nonchalantly, “trying to get Girton in to Boros. Didn’t work.”
“Dead gods,” said Rufra. “I swear this place is as cursed as I am.”
“We should leave,” I said, as Vinwulf left the tower and came to join us. He was cutting slices off an apple with his knife and feeding them into his mouth.
“Father is angry because he has lost more Blessed,” said Vinwulf.
“And I am right to be angry about it.”
“How many?” said Aydor.
“Two,” said Neander.
“That is enough to put Marrel ahead,” I said.
“But that is what is curious,” said Neander, his voice sounding odd as the beak mask tumbled his voice around inside. “He is not. These blessed leave Rufra but they do not go to Marrel.”
“Where do they go then?”
“Nowhere,” said Rufra.
“When asked,” said Neander, “they give non-answers, say they have yet to make up their minds or that they are having second thoughts or that they are upset by the bad omens surrounding Rufra.” The king glared at him, but I was sure I caught a smile on Vinwulf’s face as he threw the remains of his apple to Gusteffa. She caught it and turned a pretty cartwheel.
“We should leave this place,” said Aydor.
“I would be glad to,” said Rufra. He sounded beaten, miserable.
“Can I stay if you do leave, Father?” said Vinwulf.
“What, so you can watch more burnings?”
“Boros did break the law, Father,” he said, “and you always talk of justice.”
I felt Rufra’s disappointment in his son before it showed on his face.
“If justice is to be enacted, it should be swift and not torturous,” he said. “This is not justice, it is—”
“The Landsmen,” I said, before the two could start arguing in full view of Rufra’s soldiers. “It has to be the Landsmen people are going to.”
“You think everything is the Landsmen,” said Vinwulf with a sneer.
“They do not have the power and are not allowed it,” said Neander. “They do not even get a vote. Gamelon and the highguard keep them in check, and Gamelon does not get on with Fureth.”
“Maybe it is Gamelon then?”
“He’s hardly the likeable type, to draw the Blessed to him,” said Aydor. “And also, like the Landsmen, not allowed to rule.”
“True,” said Rufra, “but maybe I am no longer the only one making changes in the Tired Lands? I should have listened more closely to the story of Torelc’s Curse,” he added, barely audibly. “Change brings its own trouble.” He stood straighter. “But someone will slip up,” he said, “they will give us a clue. There are few among the other Blessed who have the military power to back up a bid for high king.”
“You always say being a king is not about military might, Father,” said Vinwulf.
“It is not, but a new high king will need some might to back up what he does at Ceadoc. The highguard do not leave it, the Landsmen are only interested in hunting sorcerers. He needs military support.”
“He would get that from other Blessed, surely?”
“Yes,” said Rufra with a sigh, as if he were bored of trying to explain politics to his son, “but if he does not have his own military then he will always be looking over his shoulder. Always afraid one who serves him may grow too strong.”
“But the highguard …”
“Are a guard, nothing more,” said Rufra. “There are no more than a few hundred of them.”
“Talking of who might make a play for power,” said Aydor. He pointed at the portcullis gate as it began to rise. Behind it were a black-clad mob.
“Danfoth and the Children,” said Rufra. “That is all we need.” The portcullis locked into place with a clang and the black birds of Xus took to the sky, momentarily stilling the day with the static whirr and creak of a thousand wings.
“Seems the god agrees with Rufra about the Children,” said Aydor cheerfully. He stared across the courtyard. “Want me to punch Danfoth for you?”
A smile crossed Rufra’s face.
“Sometimes I think it is a pity you were not king, Aydor,” he said. “Life would have been more amusing, if nothing else.”
“Nah,” said Aydor. “I’d be dead by now.” Danfoth walked across the courtyard to stand before us and I felt Rufra’s soldiers tensing. There was no love lost between him and the Children of Arnst. Many lives had been lost when Rufra drove them from Maniyadoc.
“King Rufra,” he said, then inclined his head toward me. “Chosen.”
“We were expecting a priest of Xus to lead us to the execution,” said Neander. “That is how all executions are done within Ceadoc.”
“And how it will be done, Neander,” said Danfoth innocently, “for my people are the priests of Xus now. Death needs no mask.”
“Could no priest of Xus be found?” said Aydor. “You’d think with all the deaths in the Tired Lands we wouldn’t be able to move for them.”
“They have all come to me,” said Danfoth, “and as you, Rufra, are the forerunner to be high king, I give you the honour of coming to guide you to the execution personally.”
“Is it really an honour?” said Neander. “It seems to me you gain more from this, as it looks like Rufra gives his support to you.”
“Does it?” said Danfoth. “It had not occurred to me.” He gave Neander a small bow of his head. “Are you ready to leave, King Rufra? Where is your wife and your young children?”
“They will remain here,” he said. “A burning is no place for Anareth, and Voniss has no wish to see it.”
“I pray Xus keeps them safe.” Danfoth bowed his head.
“Celot will keep them safe,” said Rufra, “and I trust him more than any god. Now, shall we go? I would have this over with as soon as possible.”
“No doubt,” said the Meredari, “your friend Boros feels the same.” Before we could reply he turned on his heels and nodded to the ragged crowd who accompanied him and they set up a wailing that made conversation almost impossible. A pot of burning herbs was handed to Danfoth and he hooked it on to a pole, lifting it high above us and leading us through the portcullis. The way had been lined by the unsmiling citizens of Ceadoc and at every five paces stood a Landsman. In some places there were almost crowds, but they were all the black-clad Children of Arnst, and they joined in the wailing of those leading our procession.
“You ever get the feeling,” shouted Aydor into my ear, “you’re being given a show of power?” A Landsman glared at us as we passed.
“Aye, but whose? Danfoth’s or the Landsmen?”
“Maybe if one does not have enough power, it is both?”
I glanced along our route, thought about the quickest way to the main gate, and estimated there were upwards of two hundred Landsmen along the processional route. As we neared Ceadoc’s gate they became twice as thick. Every Landsman in the Tired Lands must have been brought back to the capital. As our column wound through the town we were joined by others: snaking columns of men and women. Most roads looked to be guarded by highguard, but the one that brought Marrel ap Marrel to join us was also lined by Landsmen. All the columns were led by wailing groups of the Children of Arnst.
We passed through the main portcullis and came into the clearing before the main castle, it had been set up as if for a show with tiers of seating. Tables had been set out for feasts. In the centre was the pyre—the fool’s castle—a mound of dried mount dung under a skin of wood: the dung would be soaked with fragrant oils to make it burn better and sweeter. On top of it was a flat platform for the fool’s throne. Behind the fool’s castle was the crane, from which the condemned would be lowered on to the pyre. From where we entered I saw only the point where two pieces of wood were joined. A rope ran over it which dangled down to touch the platform. Some of Gamelon’s people, in rags of yellow, came forward to take us to our seats. We were given the front row, nearest the fool’s castle. From there I could see the throne, a human-shaped chair of metal bands that was at once a seat and a cage. It was a hideous thing. Where the sitter’s thighs would go were barbed spikes, in case the pain of burning was not enough, I imagined. Similar spikes were mounted where the sitter’s biceps would go.
“Girton,” said Rufra into my ear. “After this, they will ask you to dance.”
“Dance?”
“You are Death’s Jester and this is an execution. It will be expected.”
“You did not tell me about this!”
“No, because you would not have come.” Before I could rage at him he lifted his hand. “But, if there is something particularly insulting you have been saving up? Dance that one today.” He stared into my eyes. “Let them know what we think of them for this.”
I nodded slowly and thought about my repertoire. What could be insulting enough for this? As I thought I watched those around us. The final blessed were coming in, though not all had been invited to the burning. I saw Marrel ap Marrel, he would not look at us but he clearly shared Rufra’s lack of enthusiasm for the burning. Sat to his left was Leckan ap Syridd and his people. They were laughing and joking, some had already taken out large cloths and were setting up picnics, as if this were a simple day out. By the fool’s throne stood Torvir ap Genyyth, head of the highguard. He also looked like he would rather be somewhere else. Behind him stood twenty or so of the highguard in polished and burnished armour. To our left was Dons ap Tririg of Two Rivers. He was an ardent supporter of Rufra, but he looked excited by the idea of a burning: only when he glanced over and saw how stony Rufra’s face was did he stop smiling and quieten his people a little. Just past him, no doubt as a calculated insult, sat Suvander ap Vthyr, who chose to pretend his nephew did not exist.
To our right, separated from us by a wooden rail and a line of highguard along it—another insult, as if to say Rufra could not be trusted—was Barin ap Borlad, or Boros, but only Aydor and I knew that. He sat on one of the tiered benches, his whole body bent forward, perfect chin on perfect hand. His eyes were locked on the high doors to Ceadoc, carved with a relief of Adallada accepting the surrender of the warrior Dallad, who would then become her consort. The same doors through which his brother would be brought to burn. Behind Boros was Barin’s Heartblade, the man who made me feel queasy in the same way the Landsmen I had fought did. His life a fusion of gold and red that I could feel without trying, despite the souring beneath me. And then there were his soldiers, hard men. No doubt most had been Nonmen and I wondered how it was for Boros, to be surrounded by people he had spent his life despising. I could not tell from looking at him, all he did was stare at the gates. Occasionally, his gaze would stray to the fool’s castle and he would wet his lips with his tongue.
“It should be him that burns,” said Rufra quietly to me. “I’ve never burned a man but I swear, if I ever get the chance, Barin ap Borlad will be the first.” There was torment on Rufra’s face and it saddened me that I could not tell him the truth. But I had chosen to give Boros his vengeance on his brother using magic and I could never share that with Rufra. He would not understand. He would hand me over to the Landsmen even though he loathed them, and they, in turn, would use my existence to destroy Rufra and everything he had worked for. No, we would have to sit and he would have to watch what he believed was a man who had supported him and been his friend burn to death. As the fire heated our faces so it would stoke the blame he felt I deserved. There would be another wall raised between us, and this was one I knew could never be climbed, not without destroying everything he had worked for.
The castle’s huge double doors opened and Gamelon walked through, surrounded by his entourage of children and dwarves. Behind him came ten more highguard and behind them came Fureth and four Landsmen. The Landsmen held Barin. He could barely walk and was gobbling words that made no sense at them, although I could guess at what he was trying to say. The Landsmen steadfastly ignored him. They carried him forward and I was so fixated on him I almost missed what was truly extraordinary about the scene before me.
By Fureth walked one of the Landsmen elite.
“Girton,” said Rufra, “steel yourself to what must happen to Boros. You have gone ghost-white and look like Xus himself whispers in your ear.”
“It is not the thought of the burning, Rufra.”
“Then what is it ails you?”
And I nearly told him—nearly spilled the truth about Boros—because his words, though he talked of something else, gave me an excuse and I was desperate to end the lies.
But I did not.
Because what I saw was more important.
“It is not Boros that makes me stare, it is the man by Fureth.” I glanced over at Vinwulf, who also stared at him, a half-smile on his face.
“Why?” said Rufra.
“Because he should be dead. That is the man I fought in the menageries.”
“There are plenty of big men among the Landsmen,” he said, but now he stared at him. “Or maybe you did not wound him as badly as you thought?”
“No, it was the sort of wound that kills, though slowly. At best he should be drugged on nightsmilk so he dies without pain, but walking? No. That is not possible.”
“Maybe he is a brother to the one you fought?” he said, but there was something there, something in his words, his voice. Some secret he did not choose to share: something hateful that screwed up his eyes when he thought of it, no matter how blank he tried to remain. Those looking on may think his distaste was to do with the death of his friend but I had seen him at executions. I knew how he could keep his face blank no matter how distasteful he found something.
“Maybe,” I said, but neither of us believed it. Vinwulf had looked away from us. He stared at Fureth and the man by him.
Gamelon came forward, leaving his puddle of followers behind. He walked up to where Barin was held over the iron cage of the fool’s throne. He was staring at the contraption like a hungry man eyeing food.
“Boros ap Loflaar,” he said. His hands were by his side and they twitched as if they passed an invisible ribbon through them. “You are found guilty of drawing a weapon before the throne of the high king. And of stealing the weapon of another, for which,” he raised his voice, “as all can hear! You have paid the price.” There was laughter as Barin continued to make his unintelligible, tongueless noises, fighting with what little strength he had against the two men holding him—but he may as well have been a child for all the trouble he caused them. “The sentence is to be crowned on the fool’s throne.” He raised his voice. “Do any gainsay it?”
“I do,” said Rufra. He stepped forward. “Boros was a good man, driven by a mania. His one mistake does not deserve this death.”
“Well spoken, Rufra ap Vthyr,” said Gamelon, solemnly into the silence. “Well spoken. And if you were high king you could commute this man’s sentence, but, sadly, you are not.” He looked at the floor, probably to hide his smile. Then he lifted his head, clapped twice and shouted, “Seat the criminal!” The two Landsmen transferred a hand each to the shoulders of Barin while keeping the other on his bicep and then, with a nod, they pushed him backwards and down. His scream echoed around the courtyard. Before he could get over the shock of the hooks going into his legs the cage was shut and the arm spikes made him scream again. Down from us, Boros’s face twitched with every one of his brother’s screams. A smile, or not? I could not be sure.
“Now!” shouted Gamelon. “The fool’s castle must be lit and the children of Xus will offer the condemned his last kindness.” Gamelon ushered his crowd of little followers forward with burning torches and as they set about getting the fire started he looked up. “For the rest of us, food will be served.” He clapped his hands again and servants and slaves streamed out of Ceadoc with trays of pork and bread, salads and barrels of alcohol. A wave of chatter ran up and down the benches and behind it all could hear Barin moaning in agony.
“He makes this into a party,” growled Rufra under his breath. He looked his people up and down. “And we must play the part. Be good, talk politely, for the dead gods’ sake.” Then he stared directly at me. “Don’t start anything, I don’t want any of you joining Boros on the pyre.”
I ate, but the food was ash in my mouth and any taste the fruit juice served along with the perry may have had was lost in the cloying fragrance of the oil used to soak the pyre. Every time I moved to a table I noticed Neander moved closer to me. Of all the people with Rufra I wanted to talk to he was the last of them. Rufra was deep in conversation—serious, almost angry conversation—with Marrel ap Marrel. Aydor stood with Dinay, glowering at the pyre, but they did not talk and he did not look like a man who wanted to be disturbed. To avoid Neander I tried to move closer to the Landsmen to get a better look at the man with Fureth. Usually I would avoid a Landsman like a plague victim, but the man with Fureth was like a magnet. As I came closer to Fureth I was stopped by a bank of green armour moving in to bar my way. Fureth stared at me then left his guards and came down the steps, brushing his men aside.
“Girton Club-Foot,” he said, “you look like you wish an audience with me.” His eyes travelled up from my clubbed foot, along my legs and torso, resting on my painted face, but he did not look me in the eyes. “As the Trunk of the Landsmen I do not usually allow just anyone to approach me.” Behind him the huge bodyguard loomed.
“Unless you want to watch them fight, eh?” I said.
Fureth gave me a small nod.
“Maybe.” His face hardened. “What is it you want? I wish to eat before the smell of a burning man puts me off pork for the day.”
I kept my eyes locked on Fureth’s face, but he still would not look me in the eye.
“How inconsiderate of Boros. I bet his screaming will put you off your perry as well.”
“Yes,” said Fureth. The man seemed impervious to sarcasm. “Though thankfully he has no tongue, so we won’t have to put up with the begging. I hate it most when they beg.” He reached out and took a slice of meat. Rather than being served in chunks it had all been thinly sliced in a way I had never seen before. “Are you hungry, Girton Club-Foot?”
“Not really. What about your man?” I nodded at the huge bodyguard. “Isn’t he eating?”
“No. He is to stay alert and guard me.”
“I thought he would need food. Usually the wounded need it to build their bodies back up, and he,” I nodded at him, “has a lot of body.”
“Ah,” said Fureth. A grin spread across his face but it went no further than his lips. “Now I understand why you have come over. You think this is the man you fought in the menageries.”
“He appears very similar.”
“They are relatives, from the same tribe somewhere up in the mountains. I do not know where exactly. I am afraid that my man does not like you much. His friend died slowly and in agony, as you knew he would.”
“Did he?” In my mind Fureth was gold, fizzing with life, but his bodyguard was not. He was that same strange gold and red mix as the man I had fought in the menagerie and the creatures of the menagerie itself. I wished that when I had fought him I had found some way to rip his clothing, to see the skin beneath and find out if it was laced with scars and tracks like mine was—if this man was something other, like me—because I had no doubt that, whatever he was, it was wrong.
I wondered how I looked to someone else like me and I glanced around for Tinia Speaks-Not, but could not find her among the throng of brightly dressed revellers.
“Is there anything else, Girton Club-Foot?” said Fureth, snapping me back to the now.
“No, Fureth, Trunk of the Landsmen,” I said, staring at the man behind him. Fureth turned away, whispering something to the huge man, who nodded and then, with surprising grace, vanished from the courtyard and back into the castle. I let out a laugh at the thought of stopping in our fight to rip clothes from him, when the reality of the situation was I had been close to losing my life as I had ever been. But it was the same man, I was sure of it.
“Something is funny, Girton Club-Foot?” I turned to find Gamelon and his entourage.
“No,” I said, then glanced over his shoulder at the man moaning in agony on the fool’s throne. Though I bore no love for him I pitied him. “There is nothing funny here.” Gamelon shrugged and walked to a small table holding a bell, which he picked up and rang. Its gentle sound cut through the hubbub, calling his little crowd to pool around his legs and drawing attention to him.
“If I could have your eyes,” he said—his children giggled. “Before we have the main event, there is another matter of justice to be seen to.” The crowd became quiet and the heat made the still air above the flags quiver, as if feeling the tension of the crowd. For all any of us knew we could be the targets of Gamelon and there was an almost audible feeling of relief when three bloodied and beaten men were led out of the castle. “These men were once the most honoured. Once highguard.” With a sinking feeling I recognised the officer I had seen outside Festival, the one I had convinced to back off and let them build their wall. The other two I did not know. “But they betrayed the armour they wore and now they must pay the price.” The three did not look up, simply stared at the floor. “The Landsmen have been kind enough …” he began. Groups of living flooded in, dressed in rags, holding long poles and contraptions that I recognised with a sinking chill in my stomach, “… to lend me three blood gibbets.” The crowd watched as the gibbets were raised, posts set into pre-dug holes, and the cages strung ready. The men, silent, beaten and lost-looking, were then locked into the cages which were hoisted aloft. “Now,” said Gamelon, “let us carry on with our feast. Arketh tells me the fire will need another half-hour.” He walked to the nearest blood gibbet. “If you require amusement I have made some changes to these gibbets.” He reached out, laughing, and took hold of a hanging chain. “Watch!” He pulled the chain and it spun the blade wheels usually powered by the windmill and they cut into the flesh of the man inside. Blood started to flow and he hissed in pain. I felt the life like sun upon my skin.
“The older I get, the more I think your king is right.” I turned. Neander stood behind me, his beaked mask focused on the blood gibbet.
“You talk like you are a stranger to cruelty.”
“I am not, it is true.” He watched as Vinwulf walked over to the blood gibbet and pulled on the chain. The young man’s eyes bright as he followed the flow of blood he had caused.
“Gusteffa!” called Vinwulf. “Come over here, you are light enough to swing on this rope.”
“At least my cruelty was for a reason,” said Neander.
“Your own power.”
“Partly,” he said, “but that is what you have never understood. Power allows you to do useful things, and I believed what I would do would be for the good of the Tired Lands.”
“And you expect me to believe that?”
“No,” he said. “You are too eaten up by your hate of me.” I was about to snap at him, but he raised a bony hand. “And I do not dispute that I may deserve it. But this?” He waved a hand at the gibbets and the smouldering pyre. “This is cruelty for its own sake and what Adran and I did—”
“Created sorcerers,” I hissed.
“That was never the intent, and in the end you accomplished what we could not.”
“I?”
His bird-masked head tilted to the side.
“So many years and you have still not worked it out?”
“Worked what out? Why do you speak in riddles?”
He seemed to shrink in on himself.
“I had hoped you may be able to help Rufra here, Girton Club-Foot, but maybe I have overestimated you. You and your clever master both.”
A scream came from behind me, followed by laughter, and I turned. Vinwulf was laughing as Gusteffa, at his urging, swung from one of the chains on the blood gibbet, pulling her small body to and fro, causing the blades to spin like they were caught in a gale and the whole contraption to rock from side to side. Rufra was marching toward them, clearly furious, his stride stiff like a bull mount facing a challenge. I felt Neander come close to me, smelled the ink and parchment stink of him. “We never wanted sorcerers, Girton Club-Foot. Think about it. Adran wanted your master in her castle for a reason, what could that have been?”
“To save Aydor from murder,” I said.
“And more than that, always more with her. She was a clever one.”
And it clicked. A puzzle from years ago I had thought long solved. And all the time I had been wrong.
“You didn’t want sorcerers,” I said quietly. “You wanted assassins.”
“Now you understand,” he said. “And I would have controlled them. The Tired Lands would have been reborn, in blood maybe, but we would have ushered back the dead gods. We failed. And because you made them famous the assassins returned anyway, but not under my control. Not under anyone’s control, just more chaos added to a land that does not need it.” There was real venom in his voice. “And you never even knew.”
“No, never.”
“Well,” he said. “I am sorry for that, and sorry for Rufra.” I watched as Rufra pulled Gusteffa from the rope, almost throwing her across the courtyard. She landed on her hands and turned her fall into a pretty set of cartwheels and tumbles. Then Rufra grabbed Vinwulf by the back of his neck and marched him over to Aydor, talking animatedly with him. Aydor took hold of the prince, dragging him away from the burning despite his protestations.
“That boy is trouble,” I said, and it echoed strangely. Only when I finished speaking did I realise Neander had said exactly the same thing at the same time. He tilted his head to one side again.
“Look over there,” he said, pointing with a hand holding a drink at the body in the fool’s throne, or where it should be. I could not see Barin for the black-clad figures surrounding him, above them all towered Danfoth the Meredari. “There should be a priest of Xus here to do that, and he would slip the condemned nightsmilk so the end was not too terrible.”
“They did that?”
“When they could. Xus is a gentle god,” said Neander, and it surprised me that he should know. “Is he not?” I nodded. “Danfoth has too much power here, Girton. It would not shock me to find out he is behind our troubles.”
“He is your rival. You would say that.”
Neander was quiet then, just nodding as he watched the Meredari haranguing the anguished body in the fool’s throne. Letting the scene sink in before he spoke again.
“How do you go with the death of Berisa? Leckan ap Syridd has an assassin with him and—”
“It was not her.”
“Then who?”
“I do not know.” I watched the Meredari. Occasionally he would glance around, seeing who watched him. I think he revelled in the attention as his voice got louder and louder, the more he thought watched.
“That will not help Rufra. You must find out.” The careful monotone intonation of his voice fell away, replaced with a sudden desperation. “Blessed bleed away from us, we need to regain the alliance with Marrel and …”
Suddenly I was sick of it. Sick of Danfoth revelling in pain. Sick of Boros doing the same. Sick of Rufra keeping secrets and hiding behind the crown to forsake the morals I had loved him for. And sick of Neander, who now spoke like we were friends.
Then I was in his face, batting aside the beak of the mask to reveal the craggy thin face below. His eyes widened and for a moment I thought he would stagger back in terror but—to his credit, I suppose—he did not.
“I will find whoever killed Berisa, Neander. Not because of some alliance or your politicking. I will find them because whoever did that was also behind the death of my apprentice, Feorwic, and she was dear to me.” He stared at me, his brown eyes flickering over my face. Then he stooped to pick up his mask, pushing his hood back so he could retie the cords around the back of his head.
“As long as the assassin is caught, that is what matters.” He was maddeningly calm as he put his hood back up with a practised flick. “And if it matters at all to you, I knew Berisa and she was dear to me once.”
“That does not matter to me,” I said, though as soon as I had loosed the words I knew it made me sound small. Neander shrugged and pointed behind me.
“It seems it is almost time for the burning,” he said. “We should probably find somewhere upwind of the pyre.” He lifted his mask slightly, pushing a rag up underneath to wipe away sweat then letting the mask fall back into place. “I have found it is more bearable if you cannot smell them charring.”
Gamelon started ringing his little bell again and we returned to our seating. The fire was hot—hotter than the still air, adding another layer of sweat to skin already damp. We sat no more than ten paces from it—upwind, as Neander had suggested, though there was no breeze to take the smoke away and it hung around the castle courtyard like hedge spirits awaiting the weakness of the hungry.
“Now!” said Gamelon. The pyre cracked and popped as the dung burned—steady and furious. “Now is a serious time, and one that requires reflection from all.” He raised his voice. “Now is a time of justice.” Landsmen moved behind him, attaching ropes to the fool’s throne and running them from the iron chair up over the apex of the crane.
Gamelon continued to talk, but I was distracted by Rufra whispering in my ear.
“Highguard should be doing that.”
“What?”
“The fool’s throne. This is the high king’s justice Gamelon pretends he is enacting.” The throne was pulled up into the air, Landsmen heaving on the rope while the man inside screamed unintelligibly. Further down from us, Boros had not moved. He sat and stared intently at his brother as he went to his death. “Power has shifted here, Girton,” Rufra said, “and it is not good for anyone, I think.”
“Not good for your ambitions.” I don’t know where the words came from. They tasted as bitter in my mouth as they must have sounded to Rufra’s ears and I expected him to blast me for it, to roar or to simply turn away and dismiss me. But he did not. He spoke quietly, looking at the wooden floor of the tiered seating.
“It must seem that way sometimes,” he said. “Am I cursed, Girton? Do the dead gods curse me?” His eyes were locked on to the fool’s throne swaying in the air.
“No, of course not.”
“I think I am. My wife dies, my children die, my aunt dies. So many have died and now another friend will die a horrible death because he served me.” He was as near to tears as I had ever seen him and my resentment melted away like ice in the heat.
“What happens here is not your fault, Rufra, and as for your aunt? Cearis fell from a mount, an accident, not a curse.” He remained staring at the fool’s throne.
“Tell me, Girton, did you ever meet a better Rider than Cearis?”
“Well, no …”
“And yet you believe she simply fell from her mount? When this is over …” He was distracted, his eyes pulled away from me by the terrible thing happening before us. The air filled with screaming of a new, higher intensity. The fool’s throne had reached the highest point on the crane and the ropes had been tied in place. Now the A-frame which held it was slowly being lowered by means of a locking winch. Above the pyre a column of hot air wavered and the nearer the fool’s throne got to it the louder the screaming became. Like everyone, I was hypnotised by it, helpless, unable to look away from how terrible it was: the slow lowering of a human into the flame.
At some point in the prolonged torture that was Barin’s execution, his voice broke—not cracked, not shattered, it broke. His mouth opened, his body shuddered and blackened as it broiled in the heat, but he could make no more noise. At times, I managed to pull my gaze away—Rufra also—but the horror always dragged your eye back. Some people left, quietly, and others noted them leaving. I heard people retching as the courtyard filled with the stink of roasting flesh. Some had come prepared, bringing posies and snuffnoses to hide the smell, though I cannot imagine it worked. I did not think anyone could bear to watch all of it.
But one person did.
Boros stayed still through the whole thing. Sweat dripped from his nose and he did not even wipe it away. He only stared as his brother was lowered into the flame. As the throne came to rest on the platform. As the platform gave way and dropped the silently screaming body into the embers. As his brother finally, and thankfully, died.
There was a relaxing in the courtyard then, and even those who had come thinking it may be an enjoyable diversion looked strained. Faces pulled out of shape by the horror of it, the image of the blackened body, still moving, burned into the backs of their eyes. The crowd, which had been so thick, had significantly thinned and we were far outnumbered by Landsmen and the Children of Arnst.
Even Gamelon looked a little hedge-feared. I think he was aware he had overstepped some mark, misread something in the crowd he had played to. Behind him Fureth smiled.
“I don’t think he will want me to dance, Rufra,” I said, aware hostile eyes were turning toward us. “I think we should be gone from here.” He nodded.
“Aye, there are few of our friends left.” Rufra stood, as did those around him. The air was dense with the smell of burning flesh and vomit cooking on the hot flags of the courtyard. We walked out through a corridor of Landsmen and behind them were the Children of Arnst. As we passed, the jeering started from the rag-clothed Children, and as we left the courtyard and entered the town more and more of them appeared. I moved closer to Rufra, to protect him, but as the shouting became clearer I realised it was not Rufra they jeered at, it was me. I started to make out words. First I heard Xus’s name among the clamour. I glanced behind us. Gamelon, Fureth and Danfoth stood together in the shadow of the castle gatehouse, watching us leave.
Then I heard the other word the Children shouted: “abhorred,” and I knew that Danfoth had finally tired with my refusal to come to him. The crowd roared my name, but I was no longer the Chosen. They had a new title for me.
“Girton Club-Foot, Abhorred of Xus,” they shouted.
The first rock sailed overhead. The Landsmen pretended not to notice and it struck the ground by me, then another. Without shields we would be stoned to death and the Landsmen offered us no protection.
“Rufra,” I said. He turned. From somewhere he had found a blade, as had the rest of his entourage. Now we were no longer, technically, in front of Gamelon they could show them without fear.
“We need to get away,” he said.
“No, it is me this is aimed at,” I said. “I shall distract them. You get back to the Low Tower and I will meet you there.”
“No, Girton …” But I did not hear what he intended to say. I was already moving.
I slipped to the right, hands touching the shoulder of one of the Landsmen who held back the Children. His mouth opened in an “O” of surprise as I vaulted over him and into the furious crowd.
My feet make contact with the chests of two figures in black, faces full of fury twisting into pain as they are knocked backwards, making a space for me to land in. My sudden violence stuns the crowd, pushing them back and clearing more space around me.
A moment of quiet while we regard each other.
The pressure of sound and people rushing back in.
Shouting.
Screaming.
The space around me shrinking.
A stone. Down. It hurtles past me and hits a man in the face and he falls beneath the feet of those clamouring to get at me.
“Abhorred! Abhorred!”
I am quick.
I am violent.
A grasping hand: break the fingers. A knee: slide aside, kick to the groin. Nails claw at my face: punching out. People push against me: my elbows create space in gasps of agony. Feet kick at me: I kick back, shattering a knee joint.
The crowd is a shuddering, vicious animal trying to roll over me in its fury. I punch out at faces, throats, knees, groins, anything vulnerable. See a gap, digging feet into knees and hips and shoulders to push me up and then the sheer press of the crowd creates a path over itself. I use heads like stepping stones. Grabbing hands are like the waving of weeds in water. I am the current that pulls them toward me.
“Abhorred! Abhorred!”
The crush of people lessening until it is not enough to keep me up high and I fall. Feet hitting mud and I am running, running. Into the alleys of Ceadoc pursued by the Children of Arnst.
Stones and rocks hurtle past me, digging into the wattle and daub of huts, clanging against thin metal, felling bystanders. I run round a corner into an alley. More Children coming the other way. Pulling myself up a rickety building. On to the roof. Running over material so thin it seems impossible it can hold my weight.
Crossbow bolts whistling through the air, forcing me back to the ground.
The Children should not have crossbows. Rocks, yes, but crossbows?
I run hard, round corners, again and again being headed off by the Children of Arnst. And more and more often I notice they are headed by men with swords and spears. The cult seems to infest Ceadoc. I change direction, always trying to get out, to head toward the main gates that lead out into the grasslands. There I can outrun my pursuers simply through persistence and stamina.
But no.
What I thought was a rabble is nothing of the sort.
It is a plan.
It is forethought.
I am turned and turned again. And at the last, when I finally think I have found my way out, I am caught. I see the gate, more of Ceadoc’s shanty buildings beyond but there is no wall around them. I just have to get through the gate. As I run into the clearing, black-clad masses pouring out the alleys behind me, men appear from the gatehouse. Soldiers. They form a shield wall across the exit and I slide to a halt. Behind me the crowd of screaming worshippers lets out a roar of triumph.
I can help you.
I picture pulling the life from the land, smashing the Children of Arnst against the ground and leaving a dead place to match the hidden souring beneath the castle. I can feel the possibility. My hands itch with thoughts of power.
But I do nothing.
To reveal myself will ruin Rufra’s chances of becoming high king, of doing something about this place I have come to hate. I cannot do that. I made a promise once and I will keep it.
The shield wall opened and Danfoth stepped out from it, striding across the sand toward me. In one hand he held a longsword that ended in a vicious hook; in the other a shield.
I drew my blades.
“Girton Club-Foot,” he said. “You killed three of mine.” I glanced over my shoulder at the watching crowd.
“I’ll be glad to make it four.”
He grinned at me.
“I have to prove I am the Chosen of Xus to my people,” he said.
“You’re not the first to say that. So far they have all been disappointed.” He gave me a small nod of his head and then raised his arms, holding the sword and shield aloft.
“Children!” he shouted. “Today I prove to you that Xus chooses me!” While he grandstanded, talking of their religion and the greatness of death, I took the time to get my breath back from my run through Ceadoc. Danfoth was a fool. He should have attacked while I was tired. When he finally finished shouting he stood back and took up a defensive position. I did the same. I did not expect an easy fight. I had no doubt Danfoth was a skilled warrior.
Though, even tired, I expected to win.
He came forward quickly, swinging his sword from left to right, careless, as if he really believed that Xus protected him and he could not be hurt. I did not try to block his swings; he was too strong. Instead I circled round him as he roared and slashed at me. There was something of the animal to him, and I wondered if he was drugged. I dodged to the left. His sword cut past me and I moved in, slashing downward, my blade scoring Danfoth’s face and opening a terrible wound.
He screamed—no, he roared—like an animal. The wound on his face fountained blood and he was lucky not to have lost an eye—yet seemed happy about it. His people started to chant, “Xus! Xus! Xus!” and Danfoth stepped away from me, holding his blade and shield aloft so the crowd could see the wound. He made himself an easy target. I could have used a throwing knife to end him there but I did not, suspecting some trick.
He came at me again with careless, wide slashes of his sword. I circled warily around him. What was he doing? I had reckoned him a man of skill and yet he showed none of it.
Did he want to die?
Why would he want to die?
And who was I to deny him his wish?
His slashing sword cut back and forth through the air with a hiss. It looked showy to anyone who knew nothing about bladework, but left him open to attack and he may as well not have bothered with his shield. We continued like this for long minutes—the only reason I did not lunge in and end him was that I expected some trick on his part, some clever device.
But if there was one I could not see it.
As we circled, I saw men and women appearing on the roofs around the clearing, bows half strung and aimed down into the clearing.
Sometimes the only way to find a trap is to spring it.
He swung again, his sword going from right to left, leaving his side open, and I lunged for him: never quite fully committing, always ready to spring out of the way if he pulled some clever move. He did not. My sword found flesh, cut through the wires holding enamelled plates and into Danfoth’s liver. A killing blow.
He roared again. Stepped away from me as I withdrew the blade and jumped out of reach of his sword.
He did not attack.
He dropped the shield.
Dropped his weapon.
Smiled at me, white teeth slick with blood.
“Xus!” he shouted. “I am reborn in you!”
And he fell face forward, the life leaving his body.
I felt betrayed. I had thought him better than he was. It was strange to be so let down by an easy win. I wondered what trouble could have been avoided had I killed him years ago.
Another Meredari left the shield wall. He did not come close and he wore no weapons.
“I am Vondire, priest of the Children,” he said. “May we take Danfoth’s body?”
I shielded my eyes from the late sun. Among the men on the roofs I saw Boros, watching. I nodded to Vondire, confused by what Boros being here meant. A crowd of black-clad worshippers came forward and they hoisted Danfoth’s bleeding corpse up on to their shoulders. They still chanted, but quietly now, no more than a whisper. The atmosphere was all wrong. There was something celebratory about it. Vondire watched as Danfoth’s body was removed. In the corner of my vision Boros stared down, almost as if he could not see me.
“Thank you, Girton Club-Foot,” said Vondire. “You did not have to do that.” He turned around and walked back into the shieldwall. As it closed around him I heard him speak. “Kill him,” he said softly. “He is abhorred.”
The chanting rose in volume. Spears stuck out from the shieldwall, glinting in the light. Sweat coated me, making me cold despite the heat. I stared up at Boros and the men with him, but he only watched. Had I been wrong? Was it actually Barin that stood there, laughing at the fiction I had believed? I would never know. I readied myself to meet Xus the unseen. There was no escape here, the Children covered all exits and Boros’s archers had a commanding position. At least Feorwic will no longer be alone in the dark palace, I thought, though I will be sad to die with her unavenged.
I closed my eyes.
She will forgive me.
I was ready.
A voice, loud enough that it carried over the noise of the crowd, shouted out.
“Get down, Girton!” It had the cadence of an order and, by instinct, I did what it said, throwing myself to the floor. Then the voice again. “Send them to their god.” I opened my eyes. From the wall above the shieldwall and on the roofs of the houses Boros’s archers started firing into the men and women below. Arrows cutting into the crowd. Volley after volley. I pushed myself into the ground as they ripped through the air above me.
And then quiet.
I felt someone stand above me, looked up.
Boros.
I felt a shudder. He was pale, paler than any man I had ever seen. It would not surprise me if he opened his mouth and let out a howl, like a hedging spirit pronouncing a curse. In his eyes was something I had never seen before in him: fear. A wild and darting fear. In his hand he held a sword.
“Girton,” he said.
“I did not think you were going to help me.”
“I did not know if I was either.” He looked at the hand that held his sword. It was trembling. “What have you done to me, Girton? What have you done?”