“We caught Bishop Murillo down by Jedmire Hill,” I said. “I’m sure you heard about the loss of his mission? Anyhow, the brothers let me have the bishop. I was something of a mascot to them back then.”
The Nuban stood and walked off down the hill. I let him go. The Nuban didn’t have the stomach for this kind of thing. That made me feel-I don’t know-dirty? I liked the Nuban, though I didn’t let it show.
“Now, Bishop Murillo was full of harsh words and judgement. He had plenty to tell me about hellfire and damnation. We sat a while and discussed the business of souls. Then I hammered a nail into his skull. Just here.” I reached out and touched the spot on Renton’s greasy head. He flinched back like he’d been stung. “The bishop changed his tune a bit after that,” I said. “In fact every time I knocked a new nail into him, he changed his tune. After a while he was a very different man. Did you know you can break a man into his parts like that? One nail will bring back memories of childhood. Another will make him rage, or sob, or laugh. In the end it seems we’re just toys, easy to break and hard to mend.
“I hear that the nuns at Saint Alstis still have Bishop Murillo in their care. He’s a very different person now. He clutches at their habits and slurs awful things at them, so they say. Where the soul of that proud and pious man we took from the papal caravan is-well, I can’t tell you.”
With that, I “magicked” a nail into my fingers. A rusty spike, three inches long. The man wet himself. There on the steps. Burlow gave an oath and kicked him, hard. When Renton got his breath back, he told me everything he knew. It took almost an hour. Then we gave him to the peasants and they burned him.
I watched the good folk of Norwood dance around their fire. I watched the flames lick above their heads. There’s a pattern in fire, as if something’s written there, and there’s folk who say they can read it too. Not me, though. It would have been nice to find some answers in the flames. I had questions: it was a thirst for the Count’s blood that had set me on the road. But somehow I’d given it up. Somehow I set it aside and told myself it was a sacrifice to strength.
I sipped my beer. Four years on the road. Always going somewhere, always doing something, but now, with my feet pointed toward home, it felt like I’d been lost all that time. Lost or led.
I tried to remember when I’d given up on the Count, and why. Nothing came to me, just the glimpse of my hand on a door, and the sensation of falling into space.
“I’m going home,” I said.
The dull ache between my eyes became a rusty nail, driven deep. I finished my beer, but it did nothing for me. I had an older kind of thirst.
11
Four years earlier
I followed Lundist out into the day.
“Wait.” He held his baton to my chest. “It never pays to walk blind. Especially not in your own castle where familiarity hides so much-even when we have the eyes to see.”
We stood for a moment on the steps, blinking away the sunlight, letting the heat soak in. Release from the gloom of the schoolroom held no great surprise. Four days in seven my studies kept me at Lundist’s side, sometimes in the schoolroom, the observatory, or library, but as often as not the hours would pass in a hunt for wonders. Whether it was the mechanics of the siege machinery held in the Arnheim Hall, or the mystery of the Builder-light that shone without flame in the salt cellar, every part of the Tall Castle held a lesson that Lundist could tease out.
“Listen,” he said.
I knew this game. Lundist held that a man who can observe is a man apart. Such a man can see opportunities where others see only the obstacles on the surface of each situation.
“I hear wood on wood. Training swords. The squires at play,” I said.
“Some might not call it play. Deeper! What else?”
“I hear birdsong. Skylarks.” There it was, a silver chain of sound, dropped from on high, so sweet and light I’d missed it at first.
“Deeper.”
I closed my eyes. What else? Green fought red on the back of my eyelids. The clack of swords, the grunts, panting, muted scuffle of shoe on stone, the song of skylarks. What else?
“Fluttering.” On the edge of hearing-I was probably imagining it.
“Good,” Lundist said. “What is it?”
“Not wings. It’s deeper than that. Something in the wind,” I said.
“There’s no wind in the courtyard,” Lundist said.
“Up high then.” I had it. “A flag!”
“Which flag? Don’t look. Just tell me.” Lundist pressed the baton harder.
“Not the festival flag. Not the King’s flag, that’s flown from the north wall. Not the colours, we’re not at war.” No, not the colours. Any curiosity in me died at that reminder of Count Renar’s purchase. I wondered, if they’d slain me also, would the price of a pardon have been higher? An extra horse?
“Well?” Lundist asked.
“The execution flag, black on scarlet,” I said.
It’s always been that way with me. Answers come when I stop trying to think it through and just speak. The best plan I’ll come up with is the one that happens when I act.
“Good.”
I opened my eyes. The light no longer pained me. High above the courtyard the execution flag streamed in a westerly breeze.
“Your father has ordered the dungeons cleared,” Lundist said. “There will be quite a crowd come Saint Crispin’s Day.”
I knew that to be understatement. “Hangings, beheadings, impalement, oh my!”
I wondered if Lundist would seek to shield me from the proceedings. The corner of my mouth twitched, hooked on the notion that he might imagine I’d not seen worse already. For the mass executions of the previous year, Mother had taken us to visit Lord Nossar at his estates in Elm. William and I had the fort of Elm almost to ourselves. Later I learned that most of Ancrath had converged on the Tall Castle to watch the sport.
“Terror and entertainment are weapons of statehood, Jorg.” Lundist kept his tone neutral, his face inscrutable save for a tightness in the lips suggesting that the words carried a bad taste. “Execution combines both elements.” He gazed at the flag. “Before I journeyed and fell slave to your mother’s people, I dwelt in Ling. In the Utter East pain is an artform. Rulers make their reputations, and that of their land, on extravagances of torture. They compete at it.”
We watched the squires spar. A tall knight gave instruction, sometimes with his fist.
For several minutes I said nothing. I imagined Count Renar at the mercy of a Ling torture-master.
No-I wanted his blood and his death. I wanted him to die knowing why he died, knowing who held the sword. But his pain? Let him do his burning in Hell.
“Remind me not to go to Ling, Tutor,” I said.
Lundist smiled, and led off across the courtyard. “It’s not on your father’s maps.”
We passed close by the duelling square, and I recognized the knight by his armour, a dazzling set of field plate with silver inlaid into acid-etched scrollwork across the breastplate.
“Sir Makin of Trent,” I said. I turned to face him. Lundist walked on for a few paces before realizing I’d left his side.
“Prince Honorous.” Sir Makin offered me a curt bow. “Keep that guard up, Cheeves!” A barked instruction to one of the older boys.
“Call me Jorg,” I said. “I hear my father has made you Captain of the Guard.”
“He found fault with my predecessor,” Sir Makin said. “I hope to fulfil my duties more to the King’s pleasing.”
I’d not seen Sir Grehem since the attack on our coach. I suspected that the incident cost the former Captain of the Guard rather more than it cost Count Renar.
