“So?” I said. “You saved Adran once. It does not make you responsible for her now.”
“No, Girton,” whispered my master. She stood and lifted her tunic to show me the twisting, wiry scar that ran across her belly. “It was Adran that was born thankful, not I.” I did not know what to say, and she did not give me time to reply. Instead she grabbed my shoulders, spun me round and pushed me towards the hole where there had once been a door. “Now go to your friend. Leave me to consider if there is any way out of this castle which doesn’t involve us ending up in the swillers’ yard.”
I walked away, but what she had said preyed on me. The thought of my master being beholden to the queen, and worse, to hear her speak openly about being young, helpless and on the point of death sent an almost physical shock through me. She was strong and she always had been strong. To find out she had been as weak and fallible as any other human was to have the rock my world was built on crack down the centre.
I tried to see Rufra but the healers’ servants would not let me in. They would only tell me that he seemed well and no permanent damage was done before shooing me away, saying he needed to rest. At a loss, I let my feet take me where they would. First I wandered around the castle, listening while the water clock tolled off half-hours and hoping that Rufra would leave his room and I could see him. When it became obvious he would not I slowly made my way out of the castle. I could not shake an uncomfortable sick feeling within me that I had made a terrible mistake in the wood, but what else could I have done?
Eventually, I found myself in the townyard. I could not get near Festival because of the cows coming into the courtyard, and I swear it was not by design but I found myself at the stables. I could not tell Drusl why I felt so terrible, but maybe her presence would assuage the dull pain clinging to me.
I heard screaming.
I ran.
Chapter 21
There is a very particular noise a human makes when confronted with unexpected death. A certain constriction of the throat made by the animal buried deep within us when it is forced to confront its own mortality.
It is a sound I know well.
I ran for the stables as fast as my lopsided run allowed, coughing my way through the dust thrown up by cows, my feet sliding on slippery cow shit as I called out Drusl’s name. Others were running too. I saw Heamus, his scratched armour jingling as he ran, and although the old Landsman had two good feet to my one he was no match for the speed and strength of youth.
I entered the stables first.
The air was thick with the scents of pepper and honey. Drusl stood in the middle of the clear area between the stalls, rooted to the spot and with her hands over her face like a statue of Adallada mourning her consort, Dallad. About ten paces in front of her lay Leiss, dead. His clothes lay open and an ugly black welt ran along his flesh from shoulder to hip. The walls of the stable block pulsed in time with my heart. Then Drusl was in my arms and pushing her face into the place between my ear and my shoulder. Hot tears ran down my neck.
“He’s dead, Girton,” she sobbed. “Leiss is dead.”
“What happened?” Before she could reply Heamus interrupted. His words barely more than a grey whisper.
“Dead gods in their graves beneath the water, it is the black whip.” Drusl must have felt my body stiffen against her. The black whip was a weapon of sorcerers and at its mention Drusl sobbed harder into my neck. I heard Heamus roaring at the people gathering outside the stable, “Away, all of you! Get away! Someone bring the queen’s guard!” The huge doors were shut and we were lit only by the amber sunlight filtering through the panes of crystal set into the roof far above. Gentle arms separated us and then Heamus was stooping so he could look into Drusl’s eyes. He took a rag from beneath his armour and gently wiped her face, reminding me of a doting father. He moved strangely slowly. “Drusl,” he said, “did you see who did this? If you saw who did this, you must tell me. Did they leave through the back?” He spoke slowly, emphasising each word to break through her shock. “Do you hear my words, girl? You must tell Girton and I what you saw. Did Leiss’s attacker leave through the back?”
She nodded slowly and wiped more tears away with her arm. “I was in a stall with Bal, telling it its companion would not return. When I came out, Leiss was shouting at … shouting at someone stood at the far end. Near the door to the dung presses. Then he—Leiss, I mean—was dead and the one who did it ran away.”
“Did you see his face or was he cowled?” said Heamus.
“Yes,” she stuttered, “he was cowled.”
“Girton!” shouted Heamus. “Why are you still here? Did you not hear the girl? Leiss’s killer went out the back. Follow him, boy!”
“Yes,” I said. Then I was running, the door to the tackle room flying open from a hard push. I climbed the dung press to get to the high windows, action clearing my mind.
From the top of the press I could see the sorcerer had chosen a perfect place for his murder. The spilled mount urine from the presses masked any sign of magic, so there was no telltale ring of death to show it had been used. Outside the window the bales of hay provided a convenient way down. My heart thumped in my chest as I descended. Every time I dropped a level I expected the black whip to reach out and wrap its sharp coils around me. As I neared the ground my heart froze. A cowled figure slipped into one of the many arched doorways cut into the townwall. I had explored the area around the stables in my free time and knew that the inner wall had collapsed and, though it looked like it should be filled with rooms, few of the doorways in this area led anywhere. Most were nothing but short tunnels ending in rubble and fallen blocks. I made my way carefully down the last few bales, all the time keeping the door the sorcerer had gone into in sight. My blades were back in my room and I had nothing more than my eating knife to use as a weapon. However, if I could remain unseen then even a small knife, coupled with the element of surprise, may be enough.
I hugged the outer wall to make my body as flat as I could while I inched towards the doorway in the wall. Every moment I expected the sorcerer to appear and strike me down but I quickly found myself against the lip of shaped stones that framed the doorway.
My breathing seemed impossibly loud and gave me an idea. Silence was usually my ally, but not here. Now my best hope was to make a lot of noise and hope it surprised him enough to stop him doing whatever he did to rip magic out of the land.
I raised my knife and, with a scream, threw myself around the corner. The knife came down. The cowled figure grabbed my wrist with one hand and my throat with the other then, using his hip, threw me to the ground. Before I had time to gather myself I was pinned down and my own knife was at my throat.