I remained still, listening.
Voices echoed up the stairs. Three male, one female, and they were taunting Rufra. I heard snatches of laughter and cruel words, talk of fire and the pain it caused. At first they spoke in such a way they could pretend it was an innocent conversation, but it was obviously enacted entirely to cause pain to a fourteen-year-old boy.
“Nah, Forig. I reckon they stay alive for at least half an hour on a fool’s throne.”
“Could be—remember Banil? He were twitching and screaming for ’is mother for a good hour.”
“Aye, wonder who you scream for if you don’t have a mother? Hey, traitor! You ain’t got a mother. Who you gon scream to help you when you burn?”
The anger within suddenly had a target. These people were hurting my friend, delighting in it, and I would kill them for that. No turning back. No doubt. No room to get this wrong.
Down a step. Breathe out.
Fear made my hands shake. Fear of facing the guards in the dungeon. Fear of failing and leaving my friend to burn.
Down a step. No time for fear.
The back of a guard’s head just visible around the tight turn of the staircase. He takes off his helmet and scratches his head. He has a scar high on his pate that shows pink and tight against his dandruff-filled hair. A crossbow dangles at his side. Beyond him is the dungeon.
Down a step. Breathe in.
In front of the guard is a large room with a wide corridor between walls that run with damp. Inset in the walls are thick wooden doors. The same cells my master and I had been kept in. Where is Rufra? Is he hurt? Have they beaten him? What if he can’t walk? Sometimes they blind traitors …
Down a step. No room for fear.
I see him. They have opened his door the better to taunt him.
Down a step. Breathe out.
He is chained to the back wall of his cell. His clothes are filthy. He stares at the dirty straw of the floor. Around the dungeon burn torches and in the fireplace a piglet roasts while the guards laugh about how good it smells and ask Rufra if he likes it, if he wants some roasted flesh.
Down a step. Breathe in.
I slide out my stabsword. The Conwy steel shines in the dim light, so different to the rough black iron of the eating knife in my left hand.
Down a step. I am the instrument.
I had always imagined myself as the sharp shining blade created for, and excelling in, my purpose. But without access to the tricks I had taken for granted I felt more like the blunt, dark eating knife.
Down a step. Breathe out.
I can see all four guards. The man with his back to me.
Breathe in
Two men at the table, eating.
I am the weapon.
The woman by the far door.
Breathe out.
She sees me.
I am the weapon.
I am the weapon.
My stabsword flashes out and the Conwy steel goes through the spine of the man with his back to me. He’s dead before he knows I’m there. The woman by the door turns to raise the alarm and I throw my eating knife. It cuts through the air and catches her in the side of the neck. She tumbles backwards in a cascade of crashing armour. The two at the table stand and draw their blades. They come at me instead of trying to raise the alarm. I meet them.
First iteration: the Precise Steps. Into the third iteration, the Maiden’s Pass. I go under a blade, and my Conwy steel darts out, through the eye and into the brain. Fourteenth iteration: the Carter’s Surprise. I spin hand over foot across the table and land behind the last guard. He turns, slashing at me with his blade. Sixth iteration, a Meeting of Hands. I block the downward swing of his longsword. Fourth iteration: the Surprised Suitor. I jump back out of reach of the follow-up swing of his stabsword. Second iteration, the Quicksteps. Forward, forward, forward, pushing my opponent back and forcing him into a defensive posture. Eighth iteration: the Placing of the Rose. My blade up through his mouth and into his brain.
Rufra watches, open-mouthed.
“Girton?”
“Yes.”
“You came for me?”
“Yes.”
His eyes widen. There is fear there. Fear of me.
“I had nothing to do with Drusl’s death. I swear I would never—”
“I know,” I checked the dead guards for keys. Found them and unlocked Rufra’s shackles. “Quickly, Rufra. Put these on.” I threw the slave’s clothes I had under my jerkin at him then went to look through the inside door to make sure no one had heard the brief struggle.
“Slave’s clothes?” said Rufra.
“Yes.”
“But I am not a slave.”
“You are someone who wants to escape.” He looked sceptical. “Look, Rufra. How many slaves are there in the castle?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.”
“Exactly, Rufra. No one thinks about slaves; we barely even see them. Keep your eyes down and press yourself against the wall if anyone approaches. Get to Festival as quickly as you can.”
“Festival? I doubt they will give me sanctuary, not while they are in the castle grounds.” He pulled the slave jerkin over his head and then stared at me, his eyes wide. He looked frightened and young.
“This is not about sanctuary, Rufra.”
His face screwed up in puzzlement.
“Not about—”
“Rufra, we do not have time for questions. Get dressed before someone comes.”
“How will I get past the guards on the keepyard gate?”
“Here.” I gave him the letter. “That was given to me by the queen and everything about it is real but a few words and the date. Nywulf is waiting for you with Cearis and her Riders. Be ready to act.”
“Act?” He pulled on the slave’s trousers and I dragged him out of the cell, pushing him towards the stairs.
“Yes, act. Arm up and be ready to act. Now go.”
“But Girton,” he said, “what about you?”
“I will be …” I tried to smile, remembering how my master had said we would most likely be going to our deaths. “I will be fine, but I have to go back into the castle.”
I think he heard it in my voice, the belief that I would not be fine at all.
“I …”
“Go, Rufra,” I shouted. “Nywulf waits.”
He nodded and would have thanked me but his eyes were filling with tears and I think he was worried his voice would betray him. Then he glanced down at the body of the guard at the bottom of the stairs and nodded at me. I retrieved my eating blade and cleaned the cheap black iron on the guard’s kilt, realising that whether I was the dull black knife or the shining Conwy blade it made no difference.
Both killed equally well.
Chapter 26
I changed my clothes and wiped what blood I could see from my skin then went to find Queen Adran. She was in conference with her son, Borniya, Hallin and Celot.
“Merela’s boy,” she said. “I see you are back on your feet. Shouldn’t you be gone by now? I doubt the Landsmen will look kindly on the lover of a sorcerer.”
“Mage-bent in more ways than one, eh?” added Hallin. Aydor laughed and his mother gave him a withering glance.
“Well?” she said. “Why are you here, boy?”