“Girton ap Gwynr, sire.”
“Girton ap Gwynr,” he said to himself. “Girton ap Gwynr.” A focusing of his eyes. A hardening of his mouth. “I know the ap Gwynr, Girton ap Gwynr,” he said, “and they have only daughters.” The wind suddenly bit far more deeply into my skin as he continued to stare at me. “So you must be my assassin,” he said quietly and pulled me even closer. “Girton ap Gwynr—” he raised his head to expose his throat “—make it quick. Do that one thing for me.”
I was about to tell him that I was not here for him when my name was called.
“Girton.” The king let go of my jerkin, and I turned to find Rufra standing in the door that led to the spiral staircase. “I saw you from below and— sire!” He fell to one knee.
The king waved us away.
“Go, boys, go. And Girton—” he gave me a sad smile “—until later.”
Chapter 17
“You are not going to be popular with the squires,” said Rufra as he made his way down the tightly twisting staircase. His voice echoed oddly around me and in the flickering torchlight I had the oddest feeling we were the only people in the castle.
“That’s why you tracked me down, Rufra? To tell me something I already know?”
“No, I tracked you down because you were not at the meeting we have just had.”
“Meeting?”
“Yes, to make up for the guards having to work on First of Festival the queen is having a feast for them tonight. The squires are to stand guard in their place.”
“And that’s my fault?”
“No, but you are invited to the feast because the queen heard about the beating you got. Wasn’t that what the king meant when he said he would see you later?”
“It must have been,” I said, but I sensed the hand of my master at work. From the way Rufra turned and lifted a quizzical eyebrow he knew there was something off about this arrangement. “Is it true we will ride out tomorrow, Rufra?”
“Oh yes!” His eyes lit up with excitement. “We ride to protect the cows. I did it last year with a Rider named Stenna. The stink and dust are unbelievable, but it is still exciting.” He grinned at me. “Try not to drink too much tonight.”
“I do not think I will ever drink again.”
“Everyone says that, Girton, but we always do. Just don’t do it tonight as Nywulf takes a perverse joy in punishing the hungover.”
“Is it safe, Rufra?”
“There are likely to be bandits. The cows are valuable, and if they know only squires are guarding them this year they may think they stand a better chance of making off with a beast. But they will not stand against mounted cavalry, even if we are only squires.”
“I don’t mean that,” I said. “I mean we will be out alone with real weapons and a bunch of boys who hate us.”
He stopped and turned to me. His face furrowed in concern, and the poor lighting on the staircase took him past ugly and into something almost bestial. “Nywulf will be with us, and besides, it would be too suspicious if you died from a sword in the back so soon after your beating. Tomas has been humiliated enough. I would be more worried about being late for the queen’s feast. It is due at the striking of the eighth bell and you have not even put on your kilt.”
“Oh dead gods, my kilt.”
“Well, if you would rather stand in the cold all night then I can affect a limp and rub mount dung on myself. I am sure I could pass for you … .”
“I do not smell of mount dung.” I punched him on the arm and he feigned a look of hurt.
“I meant it as a compliment to your farmyard heritage. If you feel insulted must we duel?”
He looked so serious I couldn’t help but laugh.
“I will survive the insult, Rufra.”
“Should I get myself some dung?”
“I would not want to rob you of a night in the cold, Rufra. It would feel cruel.”
He gave me a smile.
“Try and smuggle out some pork for me. I am sick of porridge and scraps.”
“I did not know it was possible to become sick of porridge,” I replied with a laugh, and we parted—him to get ready for guard duty and me to prepare for the feast and the struggle with my kilt.
My master waited in our room. She sat cross-legged and so still she could have been one of the gruesome statues outside the empty temples of the capital city. Her skull face had been reapplied and it glistened in the candlelight. In her lap was the rope I had brought. She was rubbing soot into it and had laid out a black nightsuit on my bed.
“Girton, how has your day been?”
“Good.” A memory of Drusl’s kiss returned and a thrill ran through me. “I checked the stables for anything odd but could find nothing.” She nodded slowly. “And I met the king. He told me of the battle with the Black Sorcerer.”
“It haunts him, I think. Battle often haunts those who survive.” She shifted the rope from her lap. “Do not be fooled by the weakness of his body, Girton. His mind is alert even though he is infirm. I think Adran still fears him.”
“He thought I was an assassin come for him.”
“So would you if your wife was poisoning you.”
“Will he send guards for us?”
“No, Adran will not allow it. She controls his troops now. All Doran ap Mennix has left to order about is the jester.”
“What is going on in this castle, Master?”
“The king is dying, Girton, and not everyone thinks Aydor is the best choice to take the throne.”
“Me included.”
“I know.” She smiled. “But you for more personal reasons. Some support Aydor because a young and inexperienced king is traditionally an easy way to advance; the blessed who do not favour Aydor believe he will always be controlled by his mother. Their upset is passed on to the guards, all of whom have familial allegiances.”
“So who would these blessed prefer?
“Tomas ap Dhyrrin, I suspect. Though few are foolish enough to voice it. His great-grandfather would rule him, at first, but Daana is very old and they see opportunity there.”
“So any blessed who favours Tomas is a suspect?”
“Yes, but …”
“But?”
She stood and walked to the door, leaning her head against it. “I have been among them all for days now. They all spy on each other but they are generally a small and timid lot. I have not yet met one I think would risk voicing an opinion Adran may disagree with, never mind one who would plot against her.” She turned to me, her make-up leaving a smear of black on the honey-coloured pine of the door. “Doran ap Mennix picked his sycophants well, mostly. Which brings me to tonight.”
“I see you have put out a nightsuit,” I gestured at the black clothing on the bed.
“Yes, hastily stitched but it should hold together. I hope you have not grown too much since the last time I made you clothes.” She stepped towards me and placed her hand gently on the side of my head. “You are nearly a man now, Girton. Sometimes I forget.”
“I do not feel grown up, Master.”
She shook herself out of her reverie and took her hand away from my face. “Tonight Adran throws a feast for the guards. I will perform Death’s Count.”