Blood of Assassins Read online

  “Tomas’s great-grandfather, Daana ap Glyndier, killed your mother,” I said. It was true, though, to be fair, my master and I had put into motion the series of events that led to her death and put my friend Rufra on the throne. All in all, if I were to die here for that it would be worth my life.

  “Maybe he did, but you had a hand in it.” I nodded. He had been there after all. “You would have killed me too, given a chance.” I nodded again and Aydor stood, carefully clambering back onto his throne, treating it as if it were an unruly mount that was likely to rear and send him sprawling onto the floor. When he finally settled he stared at me for a long time before speaking. “I forgive you,” he said.

  I could not have been more shocked if he had sprouted antlers and asked me to ride him around the tent.

  “Sorry?”

  “I have a child now, Girton Club-Foot.” He tried to smile but it was as if thoughts of his child brought as much pain as pleasure. “A daughter. She’s called Hessely and you have never seen a child as golden and beautiful as her.” His smile broadened and he was no longer looking at me; his gaze rested far from the tent we were in.

  “Congratulations?” I said, confused and unable to reconcile the man before me with the spiteful young man I’d known five years previously.

  “They took her away from me, of course.” He stared at the floor and then looked up. His gaze locked with mine, his blue eyes clear as ice. “I didn’t meet my mother until I was seven, Girton, you know that? Seven. Before then I’d only ever known my nurse. First thing Mother did when she met me wasn’t hold me, or even talk to me. She took away my favourite toy. She was a complete stranger who took away my toy and give me a sword. ‘Kings don’t have stuffed mounts,’ she said.” Aydor shook his head. “He was called Dorlay, my toy mount. She burned it and made me watch. Said it would harden me. Said kings need to be hard.”

  “She was a hard woman.”

  “She was a cruel woman!” he shouted, standing and dashing his goblet from the table by his throne with a gauntleted hand. Then he spoke more quietly, “And if we tell the truth, the Tired Lands are probably better off with her dead and myself nowhere near a throne. But still, I loved her.” His hand briefly touched the scar on his face she had given him and then came to rest on the hilt of his stabsword. I glanced at the weapons lying before me.

  “I do not blame you for wanting vengeance,” I said. He stared at me as if I were a madman then shrugged, the leather beneath his armour creaking.

  “I was telling you about Hessely,” he said quietly and bent over, swaying slightly as he picked up his dented cup. “My Hessely … Her mother hated me. She died in childbirth and the nurse told me I had a daughter over her corpse. She looked frightened, the nurse, small and frightened, holding out this tiny bloody body and almost apologising for not handing me a son.” He filled his cup from a barrel of perry on the other side of his throne. “But when I held Hessely, when her skin touched mine …” He drifted away again, then took a drink. “Everything changed. Nothing else mattered. The politics? The fighting? Thrones? They were all my mother’s dreams, all her wants and needs, not mine. After that it was the priest Neander who talked me towards power.” At Aydor’s mention of the priest my ears pricked up a little. He had been the shadow behind so much at Maniyadoc, including the death of my lover, and thoughts of vengeance had kept me going through hardship and long, cold nights.

  “Neander is here?”

  Aydor stared at me as if I were an idiot and shook his head.

  “I realised all I wanted was for Hessely to be safe, and from the moment I held her there was no other thought in my mind. Is that not strange? She could not talk, or even smile. But …” His voice tailed off and a tear ran down his cheek.

  “Why are you telling me this, Aydor?”

  “I want you to understand, of course.” His brow furrowed in puzzlement again. “You need to understand. I made some very bad decisions you see, Girton Club-Foot, and I cannot put them right, not alone.”

  “And this is to do with your daughter?” I said haltingly. “You said they had your daughter, who are they?” He frowned as if I had missed something obvious. “Tomas and Neander of course.”

  Suddenly I felt like I understood where this was heading.

  “You want me to get your daughter back?”

  Aydor stared at me.

  “Yellower’s piss, no. She’s quite safe. She carries the blood of kings and they want to marry her to Tomas’s son, Diron, and besides, Celot guards her.”

  “Celot has left you?” It seemed impossible. The Heartblade had been utterly loyal to Aydor in his own childlike way.

  “Celot? Left me? No, I sent him to her, to keep her safe. If anyone can, he can.” He sat down again, a sadness falling over his scarred face. “I did send him away once. I called him a fool, you know? I called him a fool and sent him away.”

  “To guard Hessely.”

  “No, before that. Of course I was the fool. I have been such a fool. Thankfully Celot did not leave me. He hid in the woods outside the camp and when Neander decided to have me killed Celot was there. Fighting like a god. Saved me.”

  “Why did Neander want you dead?” In his alcoholic fuzz Aydor was hopping from subject to subject and I was finding his tale difficult to follow.

  “Wait,” he said. He emptied his goblet onto the floor and went over to a water butt in the far corner of the tent. He filled his cup from it and drank the contents in one gulp, then did it again and again. Once he had drunk his fill he stuck his head into the cold water. When he emerged, water streaming down his armour from the soaked ropes of his hair, his eyes seemed a little clearer. He glanced at the guards. “You can go.” When they hesitated he roared, “Go!” He watched them leave and returned to his throne, filling his cup from the perry barrel before letting out a small noise that could have been a laugh or a cough. “So many times I dreamed of having you before me, you know? All the things I said I would do to you. Now that I actually have you here all I want to do is ask for your help. I’ll beg, if needs be.”

  “Why, Aydor?”

  He lifted his cup and stared at the hunting scenes chased into the gold.

  “After Hessely was born, Girton, I saw it was wrong. All of it. The way I’d been raised, the lust for power. The constant wars. Wrong. I wanted it to stop. I told Neander that and we met with Tomas to discuss an alliance to finish Rufra and end the war.”

  “But?”

  “I wanted Neander to meet with Rufra also. He wouldn’t. I pressed him. At some point I think Neander realised his desire for power could be better served with Tomas than with me.”

  “What of Neander’s sorcerers?” I whispered the words, unsure who knew about the plot that had brought down Aydor’s mother.

  “He told me they were dead.”

  “And you believed him.”

  “Girton,” he sighed, “until Hessely was born I did not even think to question him. After she was born I no longer believed a word he said. A gulf grew between us and when I insisted on meeting Rufra I think that was the last straw. If Celot had not been as loyal as a hunting dog I would be dead now and Neander could carry on with his plans unopposed.” He put his cup down. “But I am not dead.”

  “Why did you want to meet with Rufra? You hate him.”

  “Aye. I did. Maybe I saw in him something I could never be and that is why I loathed him.” He picked up his cup again and laughed quietly. “Sometimes you only see truth through the crystal of hindsight.” He stared at the floor, his huge shoulders rising and falling as he breathed. When he spoke again he spoke quietly. “Anyone can be a king, Girton, anyone. And anyone can find followers if they have money and power, but there are very few people who troops actually want to follow.” He looked up, wet lips working at his few teeth. “I fought Rufra all across Maniyadoc.” He sucked on his lips. “Sometimes I even won.” Aydor sat back in his throne and took a drink from his goblet then let out a laugh. “More often I lost.” He leaned
forward. “I lost even when I should have won, Girton. His people always fought far harder than mine, and Rufra was always there when I lost, always in the thick of it, always.”

  “And you?”

  “I watched from my mount. Too valuable to risk, as Neander put it. I did fight of course – I led my cavalry – but Rufra mostly fought in the shieldwall.”

  “He was always reckless.”

  “Mad, Neander said, fighting next to the thankful, but when he was there those thankful fought like Riders.” He took another drink. “Like Riders! He inspired them, see. Even when we outnumbered him it seemed to mean nothing. So I thought I should try it, fighting with the commoners. But Neander would not allow me to fight in the shieldwall no matter how I tried to reason with him. One day he let me take out a patrol, a patrol of living men and women of course – there were no thankful fighting in our army.”

  “How did that go then? Badly?” I could not keep the sneer out of my voice. It was not hard to imagine how the high-handed arrogant heir I had known would rub his troops up the wrong way.

  “Yes, it went badly, but not in the way you think.”

  “Did you put many to death?”

  He pointed at me casually with the hand holding his drink, as if I had not spoken. “I liked the troops. Got on with them. Had ten with me, good men and women all. But …” He let the word tail off and stared into the air. Outside I heard a mount whistle and men and women laugh.

  “But?”

  “I misread the map, never paid much attention to such things in my lessons. What sort of king has to read a map, eh?” He took another drink. “We got turned around, went the wrong way. Got ourselves too near Rufra’s lines. By the time I realised that it was too late. He had us.”

  “Rufra?”

  “Himself, aye. Caught us in a valley. My heart still jumps at the thought of him on that hunger-cursed white mount.” Aydor squinted at me as if he was having trouble focusing – it may have been the drink but his eyesight had always been bad. “He had twenty of those pissing mount archers with him. On the other hill forty heavy cavalry, and there was me with ten, all on foot. Well, Aydor, I thought, this is it. Your time is over and you’ll never see your daughter again, but you know what?” He took another drink, spilling half of it down his armour. “Part of me was glad the fight was over. I’m tired of war.”

  “But he didn’t kill you.”

  “No.” Aydor shook his damp head. “He didn’t. Tomas would have. Tomas would have laughed and set his heavy cavalry on me. Probably had me taken prisoner so he could execute me himself.”

  “But not Rufra.”

  “No.” He put down his goblet. “Not Rufra. Do you know what he did, Girton?” I shrugged, though I had a fair idea. “He took out his sword and saluted me. He saluted me and then he waved his cavalry away so we could return to our lines. He could have killed me but he didn’t. His honour would not have been tarnished. He had found his enemy on the field; he only needed to bring me to battle.”

  “Rufra does not care about honour,” I said, “he only cares about—”

  “What is right.” Aydor nodded slowly to himself. “He only cares about what is right.” He raised his head and pushed his straggly fringe out of the way so I could see his eyes. “Walking back to my camp I found myself thinking, ‘I could follow a man like that.’ What sort of thought is that for a king, eh?” He laughed quietly to himself. “But the thought wouldn’t leave. This was way before Neander took Hessely, by the way. Maybe it was when the fracture started between us. I don’t know. But I couldn’t lose that thought. I started to see that from the moment my mother burned Dorlay all I’ve ever done is follow. Followed what my mother wanted at the castle, followed what Neander wanted since then. Dead gods, Girton.” He sat back in his throne. “I’d make an awful king, awful. But we both know that.” Then he stared at me, his eyes as sharp as any flying lizard’s. “I want you to go to Rufra for me and—”

  “Offer an alliance?” I sneered. “From you? He’ll never accept that.”

  Aydor stared at me for a while. His hand strayed towards his goblet, seemingly of its own accord. He picked his drink up and then looked at it as if surprised at what he held. He put the cup down.

  “I think, Girton,” he said quietly, “we both know Rufra better than that.”

  He was right: I did. Rufra was an idealist. He’d put aside his own hatred of Aydor if he thought an alliance could shorten the war. At least the Rufra I had known would, and from his actions on the field he did not seem to have changed much. I looked away.

  Aydor chuckled. “I’m not a fool, Girton. Rufra’s Triangle Council would never accept me on nothing but my word. That’s why I’m telling you all this – about my daughter, about my weakness. But there’s something else. Something he needs to know, whether his council accepts me or not.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “It’s why I am glad to have found you, Girton Club-Foot.” He leaned forward. “You solve puzzles and see more than others. There is a puzzle in Rufra’s camp that needs to be solved.”

  “Which is?”

  “Someone close to him is a traitor, Girton, and they plan to kill him when he finally faces Tomas. That is my gift to King Rufra. It is not the few troops I have still loyal, it is that information.”

  “Your gift is to sow dissent among his people?”

  Aydor stood, his armour clanking as he heaved his huge bulk up from his throne. He paced backwards and forwards. When he stopped anger burned in his eye.

  “I knew you would think this” he shouted. At the sound of raised voices two guards ran into the tent. “Get out!” he screamed at them and then grabbed his long hair in his hands. For a moment I thought he would tear it out but when he spoke again he was calm, though breathing heavily. “Neander has long crowed about his source in Rufra’s Triangle Council. And he knew things – he knows things – and I have no doubt his traitor is real. If Rufra wants proof ask him about the battle of Goldenson Copse. He’ll understand.” He stood close to me, and for a moment I thought he would fall to his knees. “Some time soon Tomas will bring his full force against Rufra. He’s never going to be stronger than he is now and he intends to destroy Rufra and his army totally. The best way for that to happen is on the battlefield. That is when the traitor will strike, and you know what happens when a king falls on the field.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you are free to go, Girton. And your master too. My healer says she will need care over the next weeks so I will send him with you. I will also send some of my guards with you. The Long Tides are safe for no one and you are a hunted man.”

  “You mean you’ll send a spy with me and some of your men to escort me to Rufra’s lines to make sure I deliver your message?”

  He returned to his throne, sat back and let out a sigh.

  “No. Go where you will, Girton Club-Foot, and send the healer away if you feel you cannot trust him. What you do next is your choice. I’m done with ordering men about. I will offer myself to Rufra whether you go to him or not.” He picked up his goblet. “Now, I have a wish to drink myself into oblivion. Maybe one day we will share a goblet, Girton Club-Foot. I had hoped that day would be today but it is not. Leave when you wish. Go where you wish. I will not order you to do anything.”

  I watched him drink and wondered what game he played.

  Chapter 4

  The same man who had kicked me in the head, a captain named Thian, led our little convoy away from Aydor’s small encampment. Aydor had no more than twenty Riders and a few hundred troops. Everything about his encampment was bedraggled and careworn, a ragged collection of patched tents festooned with yellow and purple pennants which hung impotently in the still air. Four mounted men headed our column and six on foot brought up the rear. The troops walking with us were subdued and edgy, whether this was because we would walk into enemy territory or because they were men and women who knew they were on the losing side I had no idea, but it did not make me f
eel any more comfortable with the situation. At some point I would have to make a decision about where we headed and talk to the man who led us, but for now there was only one road to follow and I would choose my fork when I found it. For the moment I maintained a sullen silence and plodded along with the draymount, worrying about my master and dwelling on all the harsh words that had passed between us since we were last in Maniyadoc.

  I glanced at the healer who cared for my master. I could not hear her breathing and only the occasional soft groan told me she still lived. When he caught my eye I looked away, though more than anything I wanted to ask how she was, but at the same time I was frightened of the answer he may give. When I finally approached him he raised his face to me, dark skin and deep brown eyes under a sharp, intelligent brow. I wondered if he came from the same faraway lands as my master.

  “How is she?”

  “Ill, very ill,” he said, “and the cart does not help.”

  “Oh …” I began and the cart hit a rut, making my master moan as if she were stuck in a nightmare and he turned back to her. I waited but he did not look back to me, his entire attention focused on her in a way that made me uncomfortable. When next I looked his way he had returned to the mortar he was grinding strong-smelling spices in, and I thought it best to leave him to his work.

  Even though yearsbirth brought her green cloak to Maniyadoc it felt like a very different place to the one I had left five years ago. Entire villages had been reduced to a few blackened poles, and green shoots forced their way through the rotted remains of ungathered crops. We passed stumps where copses of trees had been struggling on their way to becoming woods before they were cut down to make siege machines. An hour later the machines themselves came into view. The slender towers of catapult arms rose above the grassland like the necks of the huge herbivores I had seen in lands far away where sorcerers’ wars had not bitten as deep and people did not even know of the Tired Lands or care for its horrors – mostly because they had invented their own.