The King's assassin

‘I’m sorry,’ said Gelisya. ‘I didn’t realise it was you. But I went inside, and you are there, and you’re here as well. How do you do that?’

‘I don’t have the first idea what you mean.’

She giggled. ‘Silly! How can you be in two places at once?’

Berren growled at her but she didn’t go away; instead she passed a jug of water.

‘I like my maid,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry she hit you. I’ll tell her not to. I’ll tell her I’m cross.’

‘I’m sorry too. Apparently I’m going to have to hurt her. And then I dare say we won’t ever meet again.’ He poured water between Tarn’s lips. Tarn jerked, then coughed and spluttered. Alive, thank the four gods!

‘You will.’ Gelisya’s voice sounded solemn. ‘And I am sorry. But I know how to make it better.’

‘Don’t bother.’

‘But you’ll like her. And she’ll like you. It’s important. We’re supposed to be friends.’

‘You’re just a child!’ He said it as much for himself as for her. ‘I don’t even know who she is. I’ve never seen her before. I don’t know anything about her and I don’t know anything about you.’ He had to stop, because as he spoke Tasahre flashed into his mind again. The slave, the shape of her, she reminded him of the sword-monk, which only made it all even worse. ‘She slapped me, that’s all. I hardly felt it, and for what I’m doing here, I might have slapped me too. She doesn’t deserve to be punished. So don’t.’

Gelisya didn’t say anything. She twirled in circles on the spot behind him as Berren sat Tarn up and gave him a shake and slapped him on the back. ‘He’d take you with us,’ she said. ‘I know he would if I asked him.’

‘What? Who?’

‘Saffran.’ She leaned forward and whispered in his ear. ‘I know you’re going to keep the teaching stone, aren’t you? I suppose I don’t mind. But you have to keep it safe. You have to promise. He’s my friend in there.’

Berren clenched his fists, Maybe if he wished hard enough, she’d read his mind and go away.

‘It fills the hole, you see. Like the Black Moon and the Dead Goddess fill the hole in the world. He showed it to me. You have to keep it closed otherwise something will come through. Not yet, but one day. Before you both come back for the very last time. You have to keep it closed.’ Even with her lips almost touching his ear, her whisper was so quiet that he could barely hear her. ‘He’s making us ready. To let it in when the Ice Witch brings the Black Moon down.’

Enough! Berren spun around, but before he could throw Gelisya out of the shed Tarn’s eyes flew open. He sat bolt upright, was violently sick, then started thrashing about and screaming. Berren tried to hold him still but Tarn was a big man and strong with it, and Berren was neither. He swatted at Berren, trying to push him aside, eyes staring away into the distance.

‘Petarl? Petarl!’ Whatever he was seeing it wasn’t Berren.

‘I’ll get some of father’s soldiers,’ said Gelisya in a sing-song voice. She danced out. Tarn finally cuffed Berren aside and staggered to his feet.

‘Tarn! It’s me! It’s Berren!’

Tarn stared at him. ‘Petarl? Have the Swords of the Sun struck camp yet? And where’s the bear? I haven’t seen him!’

Berren tried to sit him down but Tarn was having none of it. He scrabbled around for his sword, was sick for a second time and then went back to shouting and screaming. Other Hawks ran into the shed, eyes wide with surprise. It took three of them to wrestle Tarn down, but when he finally grew calm and the first glimmers of recognition flickered in his eyes, it was Berren he clung to. The others slowly backed away, drawing signs of protection in the air around them. The looks they gave Berren were a strange mix — fear and admiration, loathing and respect — but Berren ignored them all, holding’s Tarn’s face in his hands, talking about their days together under Sword-Master Silvestre; and as he did, Tarn seemed to come back, piece by piece from wherever he’d been. It was slow: one moment he was lucid, the next he had no idea who Berren was or where they were or why. He kept asking about Petarl and the bear and the Swords of the Sun, whoever they were.

By the time Talon came back, an hour later, Tarn was almost himself. He greeted Talon as though nothing had happened, and Talon told him about the slaving camp and everything that had followed. Somehow, from Talon’s mouth, the words seemed to strike home.

‘And what did a death-mage want with slavers?’ asked Tarn when Talon was done.

‘Nothing good, you can be sure of that. Berren here put a crossbow bolt into him, but we all know it takes a lot more to bring a warlock down. Old friends, those two.’

Old friends? Berren had been about to say something about Gelisya but now his tongue was numb.

‘I was trapped,’ said Tarn. ‘In another place from a long time ago.’ He shook his head and shivered. ‘Horrible. All I remember is chasing the man in grey into a dark room, and then I was lying helpless and powerless and waiting to die, back among the worst days I ever had.’ And he told them how years ago he’d been caught up in a vicious tale that wound around a sacked monastery, murderous monks, poisoned wells, starvation and desperation and desertion, and finally ended with Tarn, too weak from hunger to move and paralysed with fear, watching while the rest of his ruined company had had their throats slit in their sleep by zealot boys half his age.

‘That was before the Hawks,’ he said. ‘I was young then. Very young.’ His face was pale. ‘I’d almost forgotten.’

They went outside and Talon got straight into an argument with the castle steward, something about about horses and wagons, the steward politely insisting that Talon take some of the castle horses and Talon politely declining. Berren and Tarn watched. It seemed a strange argument, since the steward clearly wanted Talon not to take up his offer, while Talon was clearly eyeing the horses with envy. Berren could hardly blame him for that, for the two beasts that had been brought out of the stables looked like fine Deephaven cavalry mounts, not draught horses for pulling wagons. Even the saddles that the steward had had put on their backs were exactly like those the Emperor’s lancers used, right down to the flash of silver thread embroidered into the stirrup straps.

Berren frowned at that. They were a long way from Aria. What were Deephaven lancers doing out here? There had been men from Aria in Kalda too and they’d tried to kill Prince Talon. Were they the same? They had to be, didn’t they?

Eventually a pair of horses and a hired wagon drove up from the town. Talon and the steward were still arguing even as the mercenaries loaded up what little they’d carried with them from the ship. For a minute Berren began to hope that he might not have to whip Gelisya’s bondswoman after all, but then, even as Talon was walking back to the wagon, three of the castle soldiers came towards them, pushing a figure in white ahead.

Talon was right about one thing — Berren had been flogged more than once while he’d been a skag. It was a common enough punishment but always done with a certain ritual. The victim would be called out by name. The two sailors who tied him to the mast wore special hats. Sentence would be read aloud and most of the ship’s crew were called on deck to witness the punishment. None of that happened here. The soldiers tied the woman to a whipping post, tore the clothes from her back, gave Berren a lash and then lounged, obviously bored. Talon’s Hawks waited impatiently to leave. Everyone else around the palace, bondsmen and soldiers alike, went about their business as though nothing was happening.

Without thinking, Berren looked for scars, for any signs that she’d been through this before, but there were none. He took a pace closer and touched her skin, feeling how soft it was. Again a sailor’s ritual, judging how hard the stroke would need to be to draw blood. Anyone who’d been to sea would know from that touch that Berren meant to stay his hand as much as he could.

But those hands were shaking. He didn’t want this. It was unfair, unjust. He leaned forward. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, hoping no one else would hear. There was no reply. He stared at the back of her head looking for any kind of acknowledgement, any indication that she understood. ‘I have to do this,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to.’ Out of the corner of his eye he could see Talon’s foot beginning to twitch. Get on with it!

But no, he couldn’t. He lifted the whip to strike and his arm was quivering so much that he couldn’t keep it straight. He dropped the whip. ‘No. I’m not doing this,’ he said and stamped towards the wagon. Talon jumped down to block his path and Berren met his eyes. ‘No,’ he said again. ‘I’m not doing it. Let