I would never be normal.
The dark mouths of alleys between tents and caravans gaped, and in each one I saw an opportunity. I saw thieves working the crowds and lifting purses. When one tried to ply her trade on me I could not resist using the Shy Maid, a double sidestep, to send her sprawling in the mud. The longer I stayed and the more I drank the more being surrounded by so many people made me feel like I was being followed, even if I thought it for no other reason than I knew how easy it would be. I started to become sure that every person who passed stared at me. I no longer saw bodies and people, I only saw eyes because that was where any threat began. If I was to be attacked I would see it there just as I had seen that thief mark me as an easy target in a glance she gave as I passed a stall filled with teetering piles of clay pots and plates.
A stilt walker, so dark-complexioned he seemed made of night, handed me another drink and I knocked it back. I considered heading for the stables but knew it was more likely Drusl would be here. Among the people.
All the people.
The need to get out came upon me in a rushing wave of fear and nausea. Maybe it would have been different if Rufra or Drusl had been there to distract me. Maybe it was the effect of the alcohol, which was sickly sweet and easy to drink. I was not used to alcohol and it fuddled all my senses, making me feel more vulnerable than I ever had before. Whatever it was, the urge to escape became overwhelming. I turned my back on Festival, on the food and the entertainments and, in a stumbling run, made my back towards the keepyard gate.
My sense of direction, which was usually so good, now betrayed me, and I cursed every drink I had taken. My night vision had been ruined by the fires, and once in the dark I saw only amorphous blobs of colour which spun slowly and added to my nausea. I knew I was heading away from the centre of Festival, because the noise was slowly dying away behind me to be replaced by the grunting of pigs, but I couldn’t tell in which direction I went. I left through a different gate to the one I had entered through and ended up on the far side of Festival in an alley between caravans and the townyard wall. The stink there was as loud as the noise of the hogs and I rubbed my eyes, trying to rid them of the after-images of the fires. I turned from the pigs; figures crowded the other end of the alley. Five, maybe six people, but it was hard to tell in the dark smoky air and with my mind fogged by alcohol. I heard laughter and muttering and felt sure they wanted nothing good. I fell into the position of readiness. In hand-to-hand combat I should be able to escape five brigands easily enough. Surprise would be my ally; they would not expect a boy to be so well trained in martial skills.
Wisps of alcoholic fog blew from my mind. What if these were not brigands? Rufra had warned me that events in the squireyard had consequences outside it. If these were squires coming to administer a punishment beating then fighting back was not an option if I wanted to keep up the fiction of Girton ap Gwynr.
Why had I been such a fool? Rufra had warned me not to walk about alone.
Or had Rufra lured me here? It had been his idea for me to come to First of Festival. What if he had never been by the keepyard gate? Never been my friend at all?
And if they were brigands and I did not defend myself? My life could end here with a quick blade between my ribs and my body pitched in with the pigs. There would be nothing left of me in the morning.
“Lost, boy?”
The voice was almost recognisable behind the muffling effect of a cloth mask. Did I know it?
“Who asks?” I said into the darkness, and words were said in return. What words? I could not hear them properly. It could have been “It’s him,” or it could have been “Get him.”
Breathe …
No time.
Brigands or squires?
Death or the shame of giving myself away?
With a roar I ran at the figures, my arms windmilling just as a boy with no idea how to defend himself would do. I heard laughter and as I approached the nearest figure sidestepped, leaving a foot in my way and sending me sprawling onto the filthy ground. Then the kicking began. I curled myself into a ball and did my best to roll with each kick to minimise the damage done. The beating seemed to go on for a long time but there were too many of them and they got in each other’s way, that and my rolling protected me from the worst of it. Once they had tired themselves they stood back and I heard the scratch of a flint. A torch flared into life.
Six men. Two hung back—they could have been squires as they were a little smaller in build, but it was hard to tell as they were behind the light of the torch. The other four were definitely not squires—too big. My bet would have been on guards but they could also be hired ruffians. Plenty in the Tired Lands would happily take coin to hurt another.
“Show me his face.” Rough hands on my body, pulling me to my knees, and then my hair pulled so my face was in the torchlight. “This definitely him?”
“Yes.” Whoever spoke did so quietly, too quietly for me to decide if I knew them.
“Girton ap Gwynr, I have a message for you, country boy—” I knew the voice, I was sure of it “—a message about knowing your place among your betters. Ain’tn’t you in the right place now, eh? In the pig shit!” A round of laughter. “You understand, cripple?” I tried to nod but was held too tightly to move. “In future you shoot your bow like a fool from the country and learn to respect your betters.” The hand holding my hair let go. “Wait,” said the speaker. I could not see his face for the torch but the voice, I knew the voice. “I have my own score to settle with this boy.” A knife glinted in the torchlight, an invisible hand gripped my stomach. Dollis. That was the voice. It was Dollis, the man who had locked me in with the dogs. I tried to kick out but I was too well held. “I can think of a way to ensure that he never outshoots anyone again, and to settle a score of me own.” He laughed and then growled out, “Hold him still.” I struggled but it was in vain. The men who held me were strong. “Told you in that drinking hole, didn’t I, boy? Always fancied scarring a blessed. So, you favour your left eye or your right eye?”
“No,” said one of the figures in the background. “That was not what you were told to do.” I was sure it was one of the blond twins, Boros or Barin, who spoke.
“Quiet or I’ll do you too!” roared Dollis “The cripple insulted me—this is between me and him.” He pulled down his cloth mask so I could see the grin on his face and the gleam in his eye. “I might even go down as low as ten bits for your information after this, boy, if you survive. He cackled, and the point of the blade grew huge and silver in my vision.
I threw up, hot vomit spewing from my mouth. Dollis laughed.