“She suspects everyone. But as we are talking of suspicions, did any of the squires seem suspicious?”
“They all seemed suspicious. But only of me.”
“Who are they?”
“They do not use family names. So, Aydor apart, I do not know who they are, and they are mostly a nondescript lot. There is one called Tomas, a leader. Some twins called Boros and Barin. Aydor has some cronies, boys named Kyril, Borniya and Hallin. There’s a boy named Rufra, who they bully and I do not like the look of—he slinks about like a thief. And they are split into two very distinct groups, which struck me as odd.”
“Sometimes I think I have kept you too sheltered.” She put a hand on my shoulder and stared into my eyes. “That is normal for boys your age, and men, to split into groups.”
“It is? They do not want friends?”
“They want the right friends, Girton.”
“I would take any at the moment.” She smiled at me and shook her head, then became very serious.
“Bad friends are worse than no friends, believe me. Do your best to join a group and I will quiz the servants about the squires. Before tomorrow we will have some information on them.” She took her hand from my shoulder. “Tell me of the others.”
“The squiremaster, he is a hard man, though a good one, I think. The armourer I met was a fool.” The feeling of discomfort fled and I brightened, realising I had forgotten to tell my master something important. “My blades, Master, you should see my blades. Reach behind you.”
She paused in straightening my hair and retrieved the swords.
“Rusty.” She placed the stabsword on the bed and ran her eyes over the long sword before picking it up and feeling its weight. “But very well balanced and … Oh. Conwy blades? And he just gave them to you?”
“I do not think he knew what they were. They are copies of course.”
“Are they?” Her eyes shone like she had discovered something magical. “These are a king’s weapons, if anyone sees …” She reached down to her pack and took out a roll of bandages. Binding the bottom of the blade was traditional for squires, to make sure they were not mistaken for Riders. It also covered the name on the blade.
“I also met an old man called Heamus, after I picked up the blades.”
“Heamus Galdin,” she said.
“You know him?”
“He was famous once.” She put down the bound longsword and began to bind the stabsword.
“He may have reason to want the king’s son dead.”
“Really?”
“Aye. When he and the king were young they fought over a girl. He is still angry. He says he is not—” I stared at the floor “—but he is.”
“You like him.” It was not a question.
“He was kind to me.”
“The Scourge, they called him as a Landsman. Maybe you would not like him so much if you had seen him locking village wise-women in blood gibbets or leading the sick, the mage-bent and the miserable to join the desolate’s journey to the sourlands, where he bled them into the dead ground.”
“I …”
“Secrets and false faces,” she said. “It is the same in all these places, Girton. I would tear them all down if I could.” She stood. “I must change my motley now, and you must make your way to the banquet room. I will meet you there.”
She left while I finished hanging my kilt. It took me another half-hour because a kilt is a truly stupid garment and I question the sanity of any man who would wear one voluntarily.
The castle was busy and the kilt’s shoulder pieces kept sliding off as I walked. Although almost everyone of status was wearing similar clothing—a parade of rainbow colours—I felt more conspicuous than ever. The bright blue material shouted, “look at me!” For someone who had spent their life in drab browns hiding in the shadows it was an uncomfortable feeling. Walking the corridors, sandals padding on thick carpet, I felt as if all eyes were on me. Slaves dressed in little more than liveried sacks, and unaware I should really be one of them, stepped to one side and stared at the floor nervously as I passed. More than once I caught a flicker as I was looked up and down when they thought I was not looking. Servants were a different matter, and each one that I passed politely moved aside for someone they saw as their social better, but I could feel their judgment. Whether it was because I was new and they recognised me as an outsider or simply because I wore my kilt badly I’m not sure, but their gaze made the back of my head itch and sweat. Any of them, if not all, could have been reporting on me.
I passed more and more of the blessed in their ragged finery, kilts mostly. They were gathered in little groups having whispered conversations and slinging filthy looks at each other. As I walked by they would cease their muttering and stare openly at me as if I was some sort of curiosity brought in to entertain them. More of the blessed started to fill the corridors, streaming up through the castle and I let myself become part of them. A twig drifting along on powerful currents. I was drawn up stairs and down corridors and felt more comfortable as I became lost in the mass of people. I was about to climb a staircase when a man I had never seen before grabbed my arm. My instinct was to hurt him but I held myself in check.
“Aydor or Tomas?” he whispered urgently. The man had ears of corn plaited into his hair and his nose and cheeks were red from too much alcohol.
“Sorry?”
“You’re new here. Who do your family support? Ap Mennix or ap Dhyrrin?” there was something almost desperate about the way he spoke.
“I …”
He shook his head and looked me up and down. “Another stupid country boy,” he hissed. “You people have no idea what matters. You should make your mind up quickly if you value your life.” He let go of my arm in disgust and melted back into the mass of people, leaving me shocked and confused.