A bitter wind, tinged with the scent of sulphur, was blowing out of the sourlands to batter Castle Maniyadoc and wrap itself around me with icy fingers, before gathering its strength and trying to rip me from the wall. It thrust my hair into my eyes and numbed my hands and feet. Again I had the feeling of the wind as a living thing—malevolent—beating just out of time with my heart and waiting for the moment when I loosened my grip or found a toehold that would crumble before it tried to push me from my roost, high above the courtyard. I was thankful when I entered the lee of the side walls, where I found respite from the wind’s grasping currents.
In the courtyard below I watched toys of people I knew march around the water clock and hoped they did not look up. I had decided against the rope and nails. Even with its coating of soot, the rope was still pale, and a quick glance upwards would have given me away, so I climbed the hard way—free hand. Occasionally I found a stone sticking out, probably a support for the scaffolds used to raise the keep, and would hang from it and gather my breath for a while. On one such rest stop I heard voices—familiar but not clear enough to give names to. The wind distorted the voices by elongating the vowels or turning consonants into hisses that sounded like ghosts, conversing about the secrets only the dead knew.
“… have had enough …”
“… this … or duty …”
I tried to pinpoint where they came from. Leaning back to listen.
“… sick of … cruelties …”
First they came from one place then another as the wind bounced the sounds around me.
“… then you doom us all …”
And they were gone. All I knew was they had come from within the castle and not below. Had I heard something important or something of no consequence? Plotters talking of assassination or chamber boys talking of broken crockery and mean overseers?
There was no way to tell so I put it aside and continued my climb. Twice I dislodged loose bricks which skittered and clattered down into the courtyard while I hugged the wall, hoping no one too sharp-eyed would look up.
When I reached two floors above our room I started to make my way across the wall, my arms burned with strain as I returned to the capricious arms of the wind, though its determination to see me dashed to the ground had waned a little. I paused at the window of Neander’s room. The priest set me on edge and there was definitely something off with him. Not only had he hinted at gathering allies when he had spoken to me but I had found him sneaking around a derelict area of the castle. Whether that made him likely to be the one hiring an assassin I did not know, and he seemed close to Adran. Though, in my experience, a closeness often made someone more likely to want to kill than not. I listened for any sound within and, hearing nothing, thanked Xus the unseen and gently pushed the greased canvas away from the window, letting myself into the welcome warmth of the room. I took a moment to thaw my hands, which had become like claws, in front of Neander’s banked fire while wishing I was back in the main hall chucking apple ferment down my gullet until my stomach chose to throw it back up.
Once I had finished feeling sorry for myself I set about my task.
Neander’s quarters were full of knick-knacks. A priest is meant to live an austere life, but he clearly cared little for it. Worse, the room was filthy and dust coated everything. He may simply have been slovenly, but he was a clever man and it was as likely he knew a coating of dust would give away a careless intruder.
But I am not careless.
Sewn into my underwear was a garrotte chain, an extremely fine chain with tiny metal teeth cast into it. It had been a present on the day my master had deemed my fourteenth birthday and was one of my most treasured possessions. I did not intend to garrotte anyone with it, and if I had to I would have failed in my mission. Instead I used it as a marker—before I lifted an object I lay the chain around its bottom so I knew exactly where to return it to.
In some ways the dust made my task easier. I could see what had been recently disturbed and avoided anything with more than the lightest coating of dust, knowing it had not been moved for a long time. Once I had checked something dusty over, I took a bottle of false dust, made by sloughing off my own skin with a rough sponge, from my inner pocket and used it to cover anywhere I had disturbed.
From the dust it appeared Neander only ever touched a few of his books and only ever sat in one chair. Paths showed where he walked between his bed, the wardrobe, the fire and his desk. I ran my hand under his bed but left the covers alone as it would be impossible to put them back as they were. I checked under bottles, under cups and anywhere anything of interest could be hidden, but found nothing. Finally I checked his book of names. Mine was the last name written in it, and in the back of the book I found the only interesting thing in Neander’s room, though I could not fathom what it meant. Groups of letters, set out in columns: RTK, ATK, DTS, VTSm, HTQC and ZAG.
It looked like there was some pattern but I could not fathom the code. It could be something of religious significance or a shopping list. I memorised the sequence, thinking that maybe my master could make sense of it, then left the room the way I had come in and continued my exploration of the keep’s walls. Below me I heard Rufra’s voice.
“… an arrow in my back?”
Then Tomas.
“… not … Hallin. When … kill … will be … to face.”
I hoped whatever argument they were having would stop them looking up and at the same time wondered why Tomas hated Rufra so much. A breeze wrapped itself around me just as a stone I was using as a handhold fractured under my weight. I let out a yelp as I clung on to my one remaining handhold.
“What was that?” Rufra’s voice from far below as I dangled from the cold stone by an aching arm. The damp seeped through my nightsuit as the throb of tiring muscles seeped into my bones.
“What was what?” Tomas’s voice.
“I heard … thing.”
“Spooked by … dark, Rufra?”
Rufra chose not to answer. I could see the pale oval of his face staring up at the walls. He stared for a long time, and my arm was trembling with the effort of holding my weight. Suddenly I wanted to laugh. How terrible would it be if I was to be discovered by my only friend? Eventually, he shook his head and walked away. Then I found myself in the awful position of having to choose speed over care, crabbing across the wall as quickly as I could and hoping my burning muscles wouldn’t betray me and twitch or cramp at the wrong time, sending me falling to my death. It felt like it took an age to reach Daana ap Dhyrrin’s window. I barely even checked to see if the room was occupied before dragging myself over the stone lip of the windowsill and falling onto his carpeted floor.
As the heat of the room warmed my frozen hands the hot aches hit, and to avoid crying out in pain I had to bite down so hard I thought I would crack my teeth. There was little I could do while I waited for the agony to pass and tears of pain streamed from my eyes. When the burning started to leave my hands it bit into my feet, and my club foot felt like it had been plunged into a fire. I fell to the floor and curled up into a whimpering ball, counting out my-masters until the misery passed.