We passed through huge open double doors. An arch had been woven from twigs and boughs cut from the fruit trees which grew around the castle—an enormous expense. If cutting the trees back so severely killed them there was no guarantee new ones would grow: the Tired Lands were sick. Even outside the sourlands the land was sick, but tonight I and all these people would feast and pretend that everything was plentiful. Outside the walls of Maniyadoc, Xus the unseen stalked while starvation did its slow work.
A servant with the same stumpy body and blocky features stamped on so many in the castle led me to a place of honour on a bench at the first row of tables. On the raised stage the scaffold I had been hoisted on was gone, replaced by a long trestle table covered with white cloth. Behind it were two thrones, and several high-backed seats had been set out on either side of them. Straw hobby dolls, bright with warding rags, had been strung across the stage to keep hedgings away from the feast. Behind me were more tables and benches, which would be filled by people of lesser and lesser importance as they neared the back of the hall. Adran had clearly decided to put on a show of riches for the Festival Lords as slowly dying branches had been tied to all the columns to hide the excised faces of dead gods. I ran my hand across the bottom of the ancient wooden table before me and found I sat at an old assassin’s contact point, where I could read a history in scratch writing. To any other it would have felt like simple scoring and weathering of the wood, but to me it was a tale of decline. The older marks, now mostly rubbed away, were thick on the wood but unreadable. As they became newer they became clearer, and I could read them—this one begging for the death of a blessed who treated his slaves badly, that one asking for the death of a guard or King’s Rider—but the newer the marks the fewer had replies saying the job had been done, and as more time passed fewer and fewer names were scratched in the wood. I took my hand away, placing it on top of the table, and sat there feeling out of place as the room filled with kilted men and women and the air grew thick with the scent of people.
A cloaked figure sat beside me, and I wondered if I would get another quizzing about taking sides. “This seat is taken,” I snapped.
“By me, Girton,” said my master. She wore a thick cloak, cowled like a priest, the better to keep her motley and made-up face secret. “Let me tell you about your squires while we wait for the top table to grace us with their presence. You are right about them being split into two groups. There is little love lost between them.”
“You said that was normal.”
“Normal enough, but blood has been spilled more than once. The squiremaster, Nywulf, is new. The old squiremaster had an accident.”
“Fatal?”
“No, but he will not be back for a good while. Servants’ rumour puts the blame on Kyril, Borniya and Hallin. They are rough and not well liked. Kyril appears to lead that little group, but it is Borniya and Hallin who the servants really fear. The current squiremaster should be careful.”
“I think he can handle boys; Nywulf has the look and movements of an exceptional warrior. I thought it strange such a man was training squires. Could he be the assassin?”
My master tapped a finger on the wood of the table.
“I doubt it, but remember it is who hired the assassin that matters so keep your eye on that blade. Now, the squires, as you have seen, fall into two camps: Aydor’s lot and Tomas’s. Aydor’s group is bigger.”
“Only by a couple.”
“No, there are more. Two are out visiting the waycastles and one is laid up hurt. Tomas’s group are the least interesting to us at first glance. They are all the sons of the blessed but not of any of the true lines.”
“So if they cannot inherit the throne they are unlikely to be our quarry.”
“Not exactly. They are all loyal to Tomas, and Tomas is an ap Dhyrrin.”
“And?”
“Clearly I have neglected your history as well as your social skills, pupil. The ap Dhyrrin ruled Maniyadoc before the ap Mennix and some would say they have a better claim. Tomas is the last of his line. His mother, Aytir Mennix, was sister to the king, and his father was Dolan ap Dhyrrin, eldest and only son of the house. They both fell victim to accidents.”
“Our type of accident?”
“Most likely,” she said. “Tomas survives as he has the protection of his great-grandfather, Daana ap Dhyrrin, who we shall see soon enough when he comes to the top table. He is an old friend of the king and acts as his chief adviser.”
“So Tomas has reason to want Aydor dead.”
“Yes, but so do his friends. If Tomas becomes king they will do well from it.”
“But they are just boys …”
“As are you, Girton, and you are more than capable of planning a death. Aye?” I nodded and stared at the table, deep in thought. “Now, Aydor’s group are at the same time more and less interesting. They are all of old families, but to inherit they would need to kill both Aydor, Tomas and whoever else in their little group stood before them in line.”
“Were this a normal day we could become rich.”
The flash of a grin beneath her cowl, the merest hint of a laugh.
“If Aydor falls there will be ample opportunity for us to catch our coin, Girton, if we can escape alive.”
“There will be blood whatever; the heir and his boys enjoy cruelty.”
“Such is the way of the blessed.” I could not see my master’s face but I could hear the distaste in her voice. “It is unlikely that one of Aydor’s group would kill him. They all stand to do well when he comes into his inheritance. Most of them anyway.”
“Men are ever greedy though.”
“True, so you must watch them all, just in case. Try and insinuate yourself into one of the groups.”
“That had not occurred to me, jester,” I said, and then yelped as my master gave me a playful kick under the table. “I will try for Tomas’s group. I am sure Aydor would not have me. He would rather I was in a cell, and Tomas’s group seem to be more about martial skills. Maybe I can impress them with my bow work. I—”
“Quiet now and pay attention. The high table comes.” She nodded at the stage.
First came the Festival Lords. There were four of them, each clad from head to foot in blankets covered in bright geometric designs. Meshes made of straw covered their faces, and ears of wheat stuck out from either side of their conical hats. They kept their arms within their blankets, turning them into strange pyramidal beings, like fertility gods long cut from folk memory. They sat in pairs on either side of the thrones, and their triangular shapes made the top table look oddly architectural. They had no serving places set out, the Festival Lords were governed by an arcane set of rules which dictated their behaviour and they would not eat with us until Festival was set up.
Heamus came next, together with another old Rider who wore the yellow tabard of Castle Maniyadoc.
“Heamus Galdin you know, the other is Bryan ap Mennix, cousin to the king and commander of his armies,” whispered my master. “An idiot, though plenty of idiots have worn crowns. But he is an unlikely suspect—he has no heir and prefers the company of men.”
The two knights bowed to the empty thrones and sat at opposite ends of the table, quietly joined by two women.
“The women?”