Mal pushed back his chair and rose. Liam held his ground. There was no point in reaching for his knife. If the magus intended to drain him dry of life the sharpest blade was of no use. The ship’s first mate had swung a ship’s hatchet in desperate defense but Mal had taken his living spirit from across the deck with only a flick of his fingers and a muttered word. The mate had been dead before he hit the boards—worse than dead: extinguished. There was nothing Liam could do to save himself if Mal meant to end him for speaking the truth.
But Mal padded around his desk and around Liam, robes whispering. He set one hand on Liam’s shoulder as he passed, squeezing lightly. Liam stood firm though his pulse raced and his body betrayed fear with a shiver. Releasing him, Mal continued across the room. He yanked open the chamber door.
Arthur tumbled across the threshold. Avani, standing behind the boy, managed to retain her dignity by looking down her nose at Mal.
“We knocked,” she said. “You didn’t hear.”
“Did you?” Mal looked down at Arthur. “Who’s this?”
Liam moved before he thought, putting himself between Arthur and the magus. Arthur squeaked indignant protest. Avani’s eyes narrowed. Mal didn’t say a word.
“I found him lurking outside in the hall,” Avani said, watching Liam. “One of your three, is he?”
She’d given him the space he needed since he’d stepped off the boat. He knew she was worried, that she didn’t understand why he’d fled Mal’s service. Eventually she would come to him and demand an explanation, but not before she’d given him time to come to her first. She knew how to be patient. Liam thought mayhap she’d been born that way, popped out of her mother’s womb serene as the lambs she’d once tended. But serenity didn’t mean passivity. He should have expected she’d be keeping tabs on his comings and goings.
“One of my three,” he confirmed, nudging Arthur back into the hall. “Who is supposed to be safely out of the heat, not tailing his betters through the palace.”
“I wanted to see if you were going to punch him again, and if you were good as me with the fisticuffs,” Arthur explained, unrepentant. “You left the yard looking like you’d swallowed shit instead of puddin’ and were like to puke it up if you didn’t hit someone. So I followed. In case you punched him again and were hauled off to the dungeons and needed help.”
Both Mal and Avani turned their censure on Liam’s bandaged knuckles.
“Who—” Mal began, but Avani cut him off with a groan.
“Ai, Baldebert. He was in a foul temper last we crossed paths. I assume he’s feeling the pain of a broken nose and the Masterhealer’s distaste, both.”
“Sir punched him right in the face,” Arthur agreed, gleeful. “I wish I’d seen it.”
“That’s why you braved my lair?” Mal blinked at Liam. “To confess to pugilism? Or do you need my help?”
“Nay, my lord. It’s finished,” Liam promised. Arthur wriggled, trying to peer into the vocent’s room. Liam restrained him with a firm hand and a warning squeeze. “But that pirate’s been sneaking about, disguising himself and walking the streets, sniffing where he doesn’t belong and risking his hide. I came to tell you just that.”
“Thank you.” Mal left the doorway and returned to his chair. “That’s exactly the sort of mischief that could turn perilous quickly. I’ll put a stop to it.” He drew parchment and a stylus across the desk, reached for the inkpot, then appeared to recall it was empty. “As soon as Sanders finds his way back. He’s never so quick as you were, Liam. I fear he’s dallying betwixt errands.”
“Russel will go into paroxysms when she learns Baldebert’s slipped his leash.” Avani winked at Liam then smiled at Arthur. “What are you called, page?”
“Arthur,” the boy replied. “I know who you are, my lady. You saved us from the Worm, best you could. I wished you’d done it in time to save my mum, but I suppose you needed to practice to get it just right. Some things are very hard.”
“Yes,” agreed Avani, “some things are. I’m sorry I wasn’t in time for your mum.”
“There’s Sanders with your ink, my lord,” Liam said, relieved to see the liveried page hurrying down the hall. “Arthur, it’s time to go. Say your farewells.”
Avani looked as if she wanted to protest. Mal sat stone-faced in his chair. Arthur bowed to each then moved aside, letting Sanders through the door. Liam’s replacement—a muscular, sandy-haired man—looked more suited to the practice yard than service. Puffing and pink-cheeked, he mumbled apologies as he scurried toward his master. He smelled strongly of peppermint and honey. Avani cocked a slim black brow at Liam in secret amusement.
“I hear the beekeeper’s trade is thriving,” she said. “I suspect her success has more to do with bosoms and dimples than sweets, at least amongst the yeoman. What say you, Sanders?”
Sanders bobbled his pot. Only Mal’s quick grab kept the fresh ink from spilling over his papers. The magus snarled in pained irritation. Sanders flinched, mumbling apologies.
Avani ignored them both. “You’ll visit me tomorrow,” she told Liam, “if those knuckles continue to swell. Armswoman Lane’s skill does not necessarily extend to poulticing.”
“Aye.” Liam relented. He bent for her embrace. She clinched him tight before stepping away. “Good lad.” She smiled again at Arthur. “And you, too. If ever you’re in need of a friend, you’ll come and find me.”
Arthur ducked his head in solemn agreement then dogged Liam’s hasty retreat away down the hall. Liam scowled at the torches flickering wanly against gray stone walls until he had schooled away the threat of angry tears. Arthur wisely held his tongue all the way through the palace and outside into the heat. The bailey was loud with livestock and the ring of the farrier’s hammer and the remote rise and fall of unintelligible exhortations.
“He’s still going,” Arthur said, grudgingly impressed. “Dawn to dusk, even in this weather.”
“Have you changed your mind?” A steady trickle of men and women eddied through the bailey, following the echo of the priest’s cries, braving the pounding sun for the sake of curiosity. Liam, noting the buzz of quiet excitement bouncing in whispers and nods around the bailey, was reluctantly intrigued.
But Arthur shook his head. “I’ve no use for preaching,” he said, “and him saying we deserved the plague after all, for His Majesty’s choice in bedfellows. Plenty of them priests died eaten by the Worm, didn’t they, and if it was god’s will the plague came down tell me why’s that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bad luck, is all,” Arthur said. Then he continued, “Can we stop for a sweet on the way home?”
“The people feed him,” Parsnip reported. She sat cross-legged in the shade against the barrack’s wall, a book balanced on her knee, a battered buckler abandoned by her feet. She’d finished her drills with acumen, turning the duck and dodge into a fluid dance, and once even landing a painful blow across Lane’s knees, using the curved edge of the training shield to bruise instead of block.
“And bring him jugs of water to wet his throat, and a pot to piss in,” the lass continued. “He stands up on a barrel with a stick. He’s got yellow desert eyes, but his flesh is pale as yours, Liam.”
“He calls himself Brother Tillion,” Morgan added. He, too, sat in the shade, wooded sword across his knees, stealing a brief respite while Liam and the armswoman faced each other across flagstone. Soon the servants would come through with their torches, kindling the great caged bonfire that burned in the yard until the sun woke once more.
“They say he was a farmer before he gave himself over to the temple as acolyte.” Morgan wrinkled his nose. “But he speaks as prettily as a courtier, and when I passed him a coin his hands were soft as any gentleman’s. Whatever he did before he put on the robes, it wasn’t working in the field.”
“H’up,” Lane said. She swung the two-handed sword she’d chosen from the practice rack, stirring the warm air near Liam’s chin. “Pay attention, squire. Brain wanders in battle and you’re a dead man.”
She’d place a similar long sword in Liam’s hands only minutes earlier. It felt awkward in his grip. The weapon was much heavier than the dirk he was used to, or the slim blade he’d carried to war in Roue. His arms and shoulders ached though he’d barely lifted the blade. He forebear to mention he’d killed four desert rogues with naught but cunning and a small sword, partly because he could tell Lane was still smarting from Parsnip’s triumph and wouldn’t appreciate his interference in her lesson, but mostly because he knew he would indeed have to learn the long sword if he intended to be successful in the king’s service.
Still, he grimaced with the strangeness of the motion as he brought his blade up high overhead to block Lane’s next blow. The blades kissed and crossed. Lane grinned as she pressed her substantial weight forward through her arms and down good steel. Liam pushed stubbornly back. Above their heads the blades scraped but held firm. Briefly Liam felt the armswoman falter beneath the leverage of his greater height.
Then she laughed and dropped her sword. Liam overbalanced. While he tried to keep his feet and retain his sword, Lane bent double and barreled forward, head-butting him solidly in the groin. Liam saw stars. Gasping, he dropped to his knees. Lane caught his sword as it slipped through his fingers.
“First lesson,” the armswoman said as Liam rolled off his knees and onto his back, fighting for air. “Unless a man’s lucky enough to be born a lord, or canny enough to earn position as that lord’s quire, a man fights on foot, and on foot a man’s best weapon is his own mass. Don’t try for fancy or fair. Knock the bastard down then stab him. Used correctly, a broadsword’s as effective as any halberd when it comes to bludgeoning. Rapier’s mostly useless against mail.” Her shadow fell over Liam as she extended a hand. “Again,” she ordered. “H’up.”
Liam found his feet with difficulty then had to brace his hands on his thighs and breathe while his head stopped swimming. The armswoman waited until he straightened before again handing over his sword. Her weathered face split in a grin as he adjusted slippery fingers on the pommel. His forearms quivered.
Lane snorted. “What you’ve gained in height you lack in bulk, squire. It’s heavy work and there’s naught for it but practice. There now. Forget what little you learned on the wooden sword. Don’t feint, wallop.”
“She means fight dirty,” Arthur suggested from behind Parsnip, supper in hand. “Pretend she’s a bloody blond-headed Rouen pirate prince.”
Liam’s laugh choked to a snarl when Lane aimed a kick at his kneecap. He stepped sideways. The armswoman staggered, but her sword came up. Blades crossed again, and Liam’s muscles screamed. Lane bared her teeth, dancing out of his reach. The tip of Liam’s broadsword dipped toward flagstone, unbearably heavy. Lane hooted derision.
“Again!” she called, then used the flat of her blade to club him mercilessly about the shoulders.
When at last Liam fell, still dressed, into bed, stars twinkled in the night sky outside the dormitory windows. He ached all over. He could feel bruises blooming like blushes over his limbs, shoulders, and arse. Lane’s tutelage was more enthusiastic than he recalled. Although she’d never split his flesh or struck so hard as to break a bone, neither had she tempered her attack more than absolutely necessary to spare him serious injury.
Certainly she’d taken no care to spare his pride.
Groaning, he curled close as possible on the sagging cot, trying to spare his skin the pressure of the old horsehair mattress. His battered knuckles were a trifle compared to the agony of overworked muscles in his arms and calves. He had no energy left for anger. Only the promise of another chance at redemption come morning kept him from gut-deep mortification.
He knew that given time he would grow stronger. If the armswoman meant to chase him back to Mal, tail between his legs, she was in for disappointment. He intended to prove himself to Lane, and to the king’s constable, and to any other who looked into his face and saw only the telling marks on his flesh. He was a blooded man, and he’d killed already for the king, even if it was in a foreign land with a light weapon against men who wore silk instead of steel. He would serve again, as Kingsman, and learn the trick of brute strength against enemies.
A sluggish breeze swirled through the windows, causing Morgan to sigh and stir on his cot. Arthur lay on his belly atop his blankets, snoring lightly, fingers twitching in his sleep. Parsnip’s bed was undisturbed; Liam and Lane had left her in the courtyard, reading in the light of the bonfire. Parsnip struggled with book learning more than either of the lads; she claimed the inked letters danced and changed places on the parchment as if ensorcelled. Captain Riggins despaired she’d ever learn to write more than her name or decipher anything longer than the most basic of words. But a soldier who couldn’t read would never climb the ranks and Parsnip, like Liam, had a point to prove.
The night breeze was a boon. Liam closed his eyes, chasing sleep. Dawn would come sooner rather than later. His body ached for respite. But his brain wouldn’t let him rest. Vague, disturbing images tumbled across the back of his eyelids: the trapper, spread out like an offering on a mountain of pelts, the barrowman, impassive even in captivity, and Mal, still and small in his chair. He tossed fitfully, wincing when muscles pulled, and tried to think of pleasant things. Avani’s solid embrace had been a comfort, one he sorely missed. Even as he yearned to find his own place in the larger world he couldn’t help but long for the simplicity of boyhood, when his only concerns had been the Widow’s temper and his hollow stomach.
Eventually Liam would have to confess to Avani Mal’s dark secret. No matter how he ducked her attention, in the end she would suss him out. Already, he thought, she was growing suspicious. What would she do when he spilled the shipboard tale? She was staunchly disinclined to believe the vocent changed for the worse. Would she call Liam a liar? Or would she take his warning to heart and rush headlong into danger as she was wont to do, demanding explanation from the magus?
Liam didn’t think Mal would hurt Avani. Anyone with two eyes could see they were close as two pups in a kennel master’s mixed litter, made family by circumstance and like to defend each other till fur flew.
But surely Mal thought of Liam as family, too. He’d said so more than once, and kept Liam close as any brother.
The magi were flawed, one way or another. Deval’s collection, the temple histories, the old tales—proof was writ clear for all to see.
Liam grit his teeth. He pressed his forearm against his eyes to stop the parade of blotchy images. He dozed. But before long the sound of running in the hall stirred him from sleep, and a hand on his knee had him sitting so abruptly he groaned.
“Liam! Sir, wake up!”
Muddled by broken sleep, Liam was at first slow to recognize the gap-toothed lass, and tardy in finding his tongue. So she shook him again, harder, until he swore in protest.
“Stop! Parsnip, stop!” he whispered. Morgan and Arthur slept on, oblivious. “What is it? What are you doing?”
Satisfied that he was paying attention, the lass stepped back. It was still dark outside, the stars visible. Parsnip had traded her book for her ax; she held it openly in her right hand.
“What’s going on?” He looked from the ax to her face—little more than a shadow in the night—to the windows. “By the Aug, Parsnip, I just got to sleep.”
“You went to bed hours ago,” the lass said. “Everyone did. Hush, be quiet. Come and see, Liam. I’m frightened.”
Honest terror made her voice shake. Liam rolled to his feet, pains forgotten, and belted on his knife as he squatted to better see her face. Her eyes were round, her freckles stark. Liam couldn’t imagine what had given her such a fright, not in the safety of the king’s barracks, at the center of Renault’s walled and well-protected city.
“What is it?” he repeated more gently.
“The straw men,” Parsnip whispered. “Come and see. They’re walking.”
Liam had seen corpses walk on Stonehill, animated by sidhe spells, when before he’d assumed what was dead stayed dead. He’d seen enormous long-nosed elephants walk in Roue when he thought such animals were naught but legends, like dragons or the basilisk. He’d watched cannons shake an entire mountain, he was all but certain he’d watched a raven coax funnel clouds up from the placid sea, and by all accounts he himself had once been the focus of dark sorceries wrought deep in the earth.
He’d sat immobile beneath an implacable green stare as year after year of his life was unwound from his very living spirit, and he’d been unable to save himself.
He was no stranger to perilous sorceries. He knew it was better to creep up on such magic sideways if at all possible so as not to draw undue attention. Wary of the unknown, he whistled low after Parsnip’s scurrying shadow.
“Slow down,” he cautioned when she paused. “Wait for me. Best not to rush chinfirst into anything.”
“Did you not hear me?” she whispered, near quivering in place. “They’re moving. Walking about. We have to stop them!”
“They’re made of straw and burlap,” Liam pointed out. “They’ve got no fingers to hold a weapon or—for that matter—feet to make haste. I hardly think four wee mannequins will storm Wilhaiim.”
“Five!” Parsnip corrected, as if she thought one more would make the difference. “They’re walking, they’re not meant to; they’re up to something and it’s nothing good. Hurry up before they get away.” She pulled on his sleeve, an entreaty, reminding Liam that she’d seen her fair share of horror in her short life. Mayhap she had reason to be afraid.
They passed a night guard as they jogged through the barracks. Silver thread decorating his livery glittered in the torchlight. He was armed with sword and dirk and wore a slim silver pipe on a leather cord around his neck; one shrill treat would summon immediate aid. Liam hesitated but Parsnip shook her head vehemently. The night guard, no doubt looking forward to a shift change and a break from the heat, paid Liam and Parsnip the courtesy of a smile before pacing on.
“He’s meant to keep the barracks safe,” Liam pointed out when they were out of earshot. “We should have spoken up.”
“What would you say: ‘Help us: the practice dummies are plotting treason’?” Parsnip challenged. “He would have sent us straight to bed and we’d be seeing Captain Riggins in the morning for causing mischief.”
“Are they?” Liam wondered skeptically. “Plotting treason?”
“How should I know?” Parsnip retorted. “They’ve gourds for skulls. I misdoubt they’re plotting much of anything.”
She hurried off again along the corridor, torchlight painting her pale hair and dingy tunic gold. Liam followed more slowly, newly cautious. The breeze carried the scent of wood smoke from the bonfire in the yard. He could hear the pop of dry tinder shifting in the brazier, loud in the otherwise quiet night. He resisted an urge to stop and peer through the nearest loophole; he’d see only shadows with torchlight at his back and the bonfire blazing below.
Instead he drew his knife and joined Parsnip where she stood beneath the vaulted, gray stone portal that separated barracks from practice yard. The iron portcullis meant to keep the barracks safe from outside intrusion was winched open, almost invisible in the arched ceiling. The gate was kept open day and night; Liam had never before given it much thought, but now he eyed the winch, wondering when it had last been oiled.
“They were there,” muttered Parsnip, “just there, beyond the fire, near the weapons’ rack. I was reading, here on the step, and something made a noise like falling sticks. I thought mayhap the fagots needed tending but when I stood up for the poker I saw two of them, and they were moving, coming toward me, and a third had knocked over the wooden swords.”
“One of the night guard about her rounds,” Liam suggested, peering into the yard. He’d been blessed with a keen eye, even in the dark, but the unlooked-for breeze was stronger outside the roof and walls. The air was thick with smoke stirred up off the brazier. “Or a soldier out late after dicing.”
“Taking a piss in the pages’ yard?” Parsnip argued in a whisper. “I don’t think so. I tell you: I saw their faces, and their painted mouths, and the straw sticking up around their collars.”
The small hairs on Liam’s arms rose but he scoffed. “More like you dozed over your book and dreamed. Holder and his talk of the Automata giving you nightmares, and I can’t blame you. His talk of giant metal monsters bid walk by power-mad necromancers was enough to give anyone evil dreams.” He looked at Parsnip, willing her to agree. “You fell asleep over your studies.”
“If that’s what you think,” the lass said sweetly, “best be sure.” She prodded him with a pointed elbow, all the while gripping her ax. “You go first. Stay close to the fire. They’re made of straw, they’ll probably burn a treat if your knife don’t work.”
So Liam eased down the steps, walking on the balls of his feet as he turned this way and that in the firelight. The breeze tossed angry sparks from the blaze onto flagstone where they lingered like small stars before snuffing out. Parsnip was not wrong; if an ensorcelled mannequin came at him out of the night the bonfire was Liam’s best ally. Weapons had done little to deter Stonehill’s reanimated corpses; if this was more barrowman tricks it was possible the straw men were immune, as well.
“Do you see them?” Parsnip demanded, startling him. He’d expected her to stay on the step but she’d followed in his wake, close enough as to be an extra limb.
“Nay.”
The practice mannequins were not where they belonged, arranged all in a line near the weapons’ rack. The wooden posts used to keep the mannequins upright were empty, hanks of rope dangling. The pummeling bag swayed on its branch on the yard’s periphery, making leaves rustle. Miniscule curls of white ash danced along flagstone before disappearing deeper into the night. The surface of the water in a large barrel kept near the brazier for snuffing the fire rippled. “You?”
“You’re the one built like a watchtower,” the lass retorted. “What’s happened? What do you see?”
“They’re gone.” Despite the warm breeze, Liam shivered. The shadows at the edges of the yard seemed hostile.
“Told you. And don’t go saying someone stole the awful, horrible things—no one would want them. They walked away all on their own. I didn’t dream it!”
“Stay by the brazier,” Liam ordered. “Don’t leave the fire. Shout if anything other than me moves.”
“Where are you going?”
“Taking a look.” Liam advanced slowly away from the fire. The breeze went still. His footsteps seemed immediately too loud on the flagstone. He scrutinized the shadows as he moved, but nothing seemed untoward. With his back to the flames the shades of black solidified into perimeter trees and shrubs, and the bench from which Avani and Everin had once supervised his training.
The weapons rack lay on its side, its contents dispersed in a loose circle around the toppled stand. Liam did a quick count of swords and pikes and shields and thought nothing had been taken. The posts from which the mannequins had hung stood straight as ever; they were old as the barracks and driven deep into the ground by ancient magic, solid as stone. He crouched to examine dangling rope. Each loop was severed clean through, most certainly by a sharp blade. The straw men had been cut free.
“Liam!” Parsnip rasped from behind him. He smothered an undignified squeak of alarm and whirled. Parsnip looked up at him from her hands and knees. White ash flickered in her hair; she clutched her ax in one fist. “Stay down!”
“I told you not to leave the fire!”
“They’re coming back!” She jerked her head frantically at the tree line behind the empty posts. “Hide yourself!” She scuttled crabwise across flagstone and into the brush. Liam stole a glance over his shoulder. He saw that Parsnip was right; figures were moving around the bonfire in their direction.
Sparing little thought for courage, he dived around the post after Parsnip. Bracken caught at his trousers. He tripped on a root and would have fallen face-first into a low-hanging branch if Parsnip hadn’t caught the lace of his boot and yanked him prone into the thicket.
“Look,” the lass whispered. “Oh, look!”
Liam used the tip of his knife to part thorn and leaf. He saw clearly the straw mannequins mincing over the flagstone. He could not mistake the ungainly bodies for guardsmen or soldiers or even servants late about their chores. Their shiny gourds reflected firelight; their painted faces swiveled above burlap collars. They gave the bonfire a wide girth as they made for their abandoned station.
Their knees bent backward instead of forward, making for a bobbing, awkward shuffle, while their arms swung rigidly from slumped shoulders. Straw sprinkled from the gaps between their burlap sleeves and the cuffs of their misshapen gloves. They had no feet at all; Holder had simply stitched their trouser legs together at the ankles. The stubbed ends of their legs scraped softly at the flagstone as they walked.
The straw men inspired in Liam a bone-deep, visceral terror the like of which he hadn’t known before. His belly went all to liquid and his thighs quivered in anticipation of flight. Parsnip trembled against his side. Liam could hear the rasp of her fright exhaled through her nose, much too loud for safety.
Had Holder given the mannequins painted ears to go with eyes and mouth? Liam thought not but as Parsnip’s snuffling grew more pronounced five pumpkin heads swiveled unerringly in their direction. The straw men changed direction, loping toward the tree line.
“Liam,” Parsnip whimpered, rattling the thicket with her shaking.
“Run!” Liam ordered. “Fast as you can!” He tugged the lass off her feet and pushed her ahead, away from the barracks into the woods. Twigs snapped at his heels as he darted after. The straw men were not far behind.