A souring, that was what she meant, but she was not foolish enough to put it in writing in case anyone found it.
Thoughts of magic drifted into my mind like the bad smell that came when the winds blew from the sourlands. I pushed them aside but no thought can ever be truly banished. Like mice they always find some hole through which to creep back into your mind. I was glad when the bell of the waterclock tolled out time for training. I needed something to occupy me and hoped training would be the cat to chase away mice-thoughts of magic, but it was a morose affair that morning. News of Kyril’s death had left even those squires who disliked him subdued. When Aydor turned up, proudly showing off his scar, there was such a rush to hear his story that Nywulf called the session to an end early.
“Come on,” said Rufra. “My desire to hear about the fight isn’t as strong as my desire to get away from Aydor. Let’s go to the stables.” Following Rufra, I glanced behind and saw Aydor talking to Borniya and Hallin and pointing in our direction.
We had to detour around Festival. The tent city was now surrounded by miles of zigzag fences making enclosures for the livestock which would start flowing in from the surrounding countryside, not only the ubiquitous pigs but also sheep, goats and rare and expensive animals like cows. At its centre was a walled city of brightly coloured tents and caravans, and in the middle of that the two-storey Festival Lords’ caravans. Around them, like skeletons of dead mounts rising above a colourful grassland, were the frames for rides which would swing you up and out and round in terrifying circles.
“Are you all right, Girton?” asked Rufra as we jumped over fences.
“Me?”
“Yes, you seem out of sorts.”
“Sorry,” I said, and tried to force a smile onto my face.
“Is it Kyril’s death?”
“I didn’t like him,” I said quickly.
“Who did?” He shrugged and we walked in silence for a while. “Is it the first time you have been close to death?”
“Yes,” I lied to my friend, and he put an arm around my shoulder.
“The first person I knew who died was a servant called Danyl. He was a beast of a man—all the hall’s children were terrified of him. One day he fell over a loose cobble and broke his neck. I was nine and it unsettled me for days but not because I liked him—I didn’t—it was because it made me realise I could die. But you cannot change the way life is, Girton. You must carry on and do the best you can.”
We jumped the last fence, finding ourselves on a well worn path thick with those about their daily business.
“I suppose,” I said, and although it was magic not death that was my problem I realised he spoke the truth. Not that it helped much; I still felt like a sewer ran through me.
“You should come to First of Festival with me tonight, Girton. That would take your mind off death.”
“I am sleeping in the castle, Rufra, and the gates are kept shut to anyone who doesn’t have a pass.”
“Do you have any money?”
“Money?”
“Yes. Look out for guards who wear something red. Most of them would rather Tomas was the heir. Aydor has not made himself popular. The captains hide it well—troublemakers are put into more loyal units or moved to a later shift where they are not seen—but they are there, and their numbers grow. So if you see a guard with a splash of red somewhere on them they will probably take a bribe.”
The more I learned about Maniyadoc the more it seemed like a castle on the edge of tearing itself apart.
“I do not know if I can afford a bribe, Rufra. I have money doled out to me and little of it.”
He stopped and took hold of my arm, steering me into the shadow of the townwall and away from the steady stream of servants, slaves and Festival staff.
“Here.” He put some coins in my hand. “That should be enough.”
“Rufra, this is four bits, I cannot—”
“You are my friend and the money is my uncle’s. It is a pleasure to give it away as he hates charity.” Rufra grinned at me, slipping into almost-handsome. “I will be to the right of the keepyard gate at nine. If you cannot get out you cannot. I will wait for half an hour.”
“Thank you, Rufra.”
“You need not thank me, but it would be nice if you could attempt a smile.”
I tried but my mood would not lift. My mind could find a thousand worries but, curiously, not one was magic. Either it had some power of its own that would not let me examine how I felt or it was simply too enormous and frightening for me to confront.
When we arrived at the stables Drusl was sitting on the ground outside, soaking up what little of the cold yearsage sun remained. She smiled as we approached and my mood lifted a little.
“Is it true?” she said.
“Is what true?” I asked.
“Oh come on. The whole castle is talking about it. Kyril and Aydor were set upon by a hundred bandits and both have been hacked into pieces.” She was very grave, as if the whole idea left her puzzled and sad.
“If only that were true,” said Rufra.
“Kyril is dead,” I said. “The heir was hurt but not badly, and it was not a hundred bandits, merely a handful.” I tried to look past her into the stable. “Is Leiss here?”
“No,” said Drusl and tried to smile. “He will not be back for an hour or so yet. He has gone to collect more fodder for the mounts before the stockers bring in their animals and the prices shoot up.”
Rufra made an elaborate show of looking into the sky at the sun.
“Oh, it is later than I thought. Nywulf will have more interminable lessons on tactics for me. I should be gone.”
“You need not,” I said. I did not want him to feel unwelcome, though I wished, more than anything, to be alone with Drusl.
“Oh, I think I need to,” said Rufra with a grin. “Nywulf has been in a strange mood recently and I don’t want to upset him any more by being late. You two have fun.”
I sat on the ground by Drusl, leaving enough room between us so that another could have sat. The ground and the wall of the stables were acting as a sun trap, and though the air had a cold nip the ground was warm to the touch. We did not speak straight away, and for the first time that day my mind seemed to settle rather than constantly slipping and sliding around the idea of magic.
“Did you know him well?” she said. “The boy that died, Kyril?”
“Yes, well enough,” I said. I noticed she sat with her hands by her thighs, palms up in a slightly unnatural posture. I moved so my hands were by my side, palms on the warm ground.
“He was fond of the whip,” she said. There was only four palm-widths between my hand and hers. “I often treated his mount for cuts, though it was a gentle animal and did not deserve them.”
“He was that type.” I moved my hand, only a fraction, making it look like an accidental move, but it left me nearer to touching her hand. “He and his friends liked to throw their weight around. He once pushed me over in the castle just because he could.” My hand crept a little closer to hers, inching across the ground.
“Be glad you’re not what he saw as attractive; his type often try more than a push.” My hand froze.