Broken Empire: Prince Of Thorns Part 5

"Says his name is Renton. 'Sir' Renton, if you please," Makin said.

I looked the fellow up and down. A nice black bruise wrapped itself halfway round his forehead, and an over-hasty embrace with Mother Earth had left his nose somewhat flatter than he might have liked. His moustache and beard could have been neatly trimmed, but caked in all that blood they looked a mess.

"Fell off your horse did you, Renton?" I asked.

"You stabbed Count Renar's son under a flag of truce," he said. He sounded a little comical on the "stabbed" and "son." A broken nose will do that for you.

"I did," I said. "I can't think of anything I wouldn't have stabbed him under." I held Renton's gaze; he had squinty little eyes. He wouldn't have been much to look at in court finery. On the steps, covered in mud and blood, he looked like a rat's leavings. "If I were you, I'd be more worried about my own fate than whether Marclos was stabbed in accordance with the right social niceties."

That of course was a lie. If I were in his place, I'd have been looking for an opportunity to stick a knife in me. But I knew enough to know that most men didn't share my priorities. As Makin said, something in me had got broken, but not so broken I didn't remember what it was.

"My family is rich, they'll ransom me," Renton said. He spoke quickly, nervous now, as if he'd just realized his situation.

I yawned. "No, they're not. If they were rich, you wouldn't be riding in chain armour as one of Marclos's guards." I yawned again, stretching my mouth until my jaw cracked. "Maical, get me a cup of that festival beer, will you?"

"Maical's dead," Rike said, from behind Sir Renton.

"Never?" I said. "Idiot Maical? I thought G.o.d had blessed him with the same luck that looks after drunkards and madmen."

"Well, he's near enough dead," Rike said. "Got him a gut-full of rusty iron from one of Renar's boys. We laid him out in the shade."

"Touching," I said. "Now get my beer."

Rike grumbled and slapped Jobe into taking the errand. I turned back to Sir Renton. He didn't look happy, but he didn't look as sad as you might expect a man in such a bad place to look. His eyes kept sliding over to Father Gomst. Here's a man with faith in a higher source, I thought.

"So, Sir Renton," I said. "What brings young Marclos to Ancrath's protectorates? What does the Count think he's up to?"

Some of the brothers had gathered around the steps for the show, but most were still looting the dead. A man's coin is nice and portable, but the brothers wouldn't stop there. I expected the head-cart to be heaped with arms and armour when we left. Boots too; there's three coppers in a well-made pair of boots.

Renton coughed and wiped at his nose, spreading black gore across his face. "I don't know the Count's plans. I'm not privy to his private council." He looked up at Father Gomst. "As G.o.d is my witness."

I leaned in close to him. He smelled sour, like cheese in the sun. "G.o.d is your witness, Renton, he's going to watch you die."

I let that sink in. I gave old Gomsty a smile. "You can look after this knight's soul, Father. The sins of the flesh though-they're all mine."

Rike handed me my cup of beer, and I had a sip. "The day you're tired of looting, Little Rikey, is the day you're tired of life," I said. It got a chuckle from the brothers on the steps. "Why're you still here when you could be cutting up the dead in search of a golden liver?"

"Come to see you put the hurt on Rat-face," Rike said.

"You're going to be disappointed then," I said. "Sir Rat-face is going to tell me everything I want to know, and I'm not even going to have to raise my voice. When I'm done, I'm going to hand him over to the new burgermeister of Norwood. The peasants will probably burn him alive, and he'll count it the easy way out." I kept it conversational. I find it's the coldest threats that reach the deepest.

Out in the marshes I'd made a dead man run in terror, with nothing more than what I keep inside. It occurred to me that what scared the dead might worry the living a piece too.

Sir Renton didn't sound too scared yet though. "You stabbed the better man today, boy, and there's a better man before you. You're nothing more than s.h.i.+t on my shoe." I'd hurt his pride. He was a knight after all, and here was a beardless lad making mock. Besides, the best I'd offered was an "easy" burning. n.o.body considers that the soft option.

"When I was nine, the Count of Renar tried to have me killed," I said. I kept my voice calm. It wasn't hard. I was calm. Anger carries less horror with it, men understand anger. It promises resolution; maybe b.l.o.o.d.y resolution, but swift. "The Count failed, but I watched my mother and my little brother killed."

"All men die," Renton said. He spat a dark and b.l.o.o.d.y mess onto the steps. "What makes you so special?"

He had a good point. What made my loss, my pain, any more important than everyone else's?

"That's a good question," I said. "A d.a.m.n good question."

It was. There weren't but a handful of the prisoners we'd taken from Marclos's train who hadn't seen a son or a husband, a mother or a lover, killed. And killed in the past week. And this was my soft option, the mercies of these peasants compared to the attention of a young man whose hurt stood four years old.

"Consider me a spokesman," I said. "When it comes to stageacting, some men are more eloquent than others. It's given to particular men to have a gift with the bow." I nodded to the Nuban. "Some men can knock the eye out of a bull at a thousand paces. They don't aim any better for wanting it, they don't shoot straighter because they're justified. They just shoot straighter. Now me, I just . . . avenge myself better than most. Consider it a gift."

Renton laughed at that and spat again. This time I saw part of a tooth in the mess. "You think you're worse than the fire, boy?" he asked. "I've seen men burn. A lot of men."

He had a point. "You've a lot of good points, Sir Renton," I said.

I looked around at the ruins. Tumbled walls in the most, and blackened timber skeletons where roofs had kept a lid on folk's lives for year after year. "It's going to take a lot of rebuilding," I said. "A lot of hammers and a lot of nails." I sipped my beer. "A strange thing-nails will hold a building together, but there's nothing better for taking a man apart." I held Sir Renton's rat-like eyes, dark and beady. "I don't enjoy torturing people, Sir Renton, but I'm good at it. Not world-cla.s.s you understand. Cowards make the best torturers. Cowards understand fear and they can use it. Heroes on the other hand, they make terrible torturers. They don't see what motivates a normal man. They misunderstand everything. They can't think of anything worse than besmirching your honour. A coward on the other hand; he'll tie you to a chair and light a slow fire under you. I'm not a hero or a coward, but I work with what I've got."

Renton had the sense to pale at that. He reached out a muddy hand to Father Gomst. "Father, I've done nothing but serve my master."

"Father Gomst will pray for your soul," I said. "And forgive me the sins I incur in detaching it from your body."

Makin pursed those thick lips of his. "Prince, you've spoken about how you'd break the cycle of revenge. You could start here. You could let Sir Renton go."

Rike gave him a look as if he'd gone mad. Fat Burlow covered a chuckle.

"I have spoken about that, Makin," I said. "I will break the cycle." I drew my sword and laid it across my knees. "You know how to break the cycle of hatred?" I asked.

"Love," said Gomst, all quiet-like.

"The way to break the cycle is to kill every single one of the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds that f.u.c.ked you over," I said. "Every last one of them. Kill them all. Kill their mothers, kill their brothers, kill their children, kill their dog." I ran my thumb along the blade of my sword and watched the blood bead crimson on the wound. "People think I hate the Count, but in truth I'm a great advocate of his methods. He has only two failings. Firstly, he goes far, but not far enough. Secondly, he isn't me. He taught me valuable lessons though. And when we meet, I will thank him for it, with a quick death."

Old Gomsty started at that. "Count Renar did you wrong, Prince Jorg. Forgive him, but don't thank him. He'll burn in h.e.l.l for what he did. His immortal soul will suffer for eternity."

I had to laugh out loud at that. "Churchmen, eh? Love one minute, forgiveness the next, and then it's eternity on fire. Well, rest at ease, Sir Renton. I've no designs on your immortal soul. Whatever happens between us, it will all be over in a day or two. Three at most. I'm not the most patient of men, so it will end when you tell me what I want to know, or I get bored."

I got up from my step and went to crouch by Sir Renton. I patted his head. They'd tied his hands behind him, and I had my chainmail gauntlets on, so if he had a mind to bite, it'd do him no good.

"I swore to Count Renar," he said. He tried to pull away, and he craned his neck to look at old Gomsty. "Tell him, Father, I swore before G.o.d. If I break my vow, I'll burn in h.e.l.l."

Gomst came to lay his hand on Renton's shoulder. "Prince Jorg, this knight has made a holy vow. There are few oaths more sacred than that of a knight to his liege lord. You should not ask him to break it. Nor should any threat against the flesh compel a man to betray a covenant and forever place his soul in the fires of the Devil."

"Here's a test of faith for you, Sir Renton," I said. "I'll tell you my tale and we'll see whether you want to tell me the Count's plans when I'm done." I settled down on the step beside him and swigged my beer. "When I first took to the road I was, oh, ten years of age. I'd a lot of anger in me then, and a need to know how the world worked. You see, I'd watched the Count's men kill my brother, William, and slit Mother open. So I knew that the way I'd thought things were supposed to work was wrong. And of course, I fell in with bad sorts-didn't I, Rikey?"

Rike gave that laugh of his: "hur, hur, hur." I think he just made the sound when he thought we expected a laugh. It didn't have any joy in it.

"I tried my hand at torture then. I wondered if I was supposed to be evil. I thought maybe I'd had a message from G.o.d to take up the Devil's work."

I heard Gomst muttering at that one, prayers or condemnation. It was true too. For the longest time I looked for a message in it all, to work out what I was supposed to be doing.

I laid my hand on Renton's shoulder. He sat there with my hand on his left shoulder, and Gomst's hand on his right. We could have been the Devil and the angel from those old scrolls, whispering in his ears.

"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 h.e.l.lfire and d.a.m.nation. 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 s.p.a.ce.

"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 pa.s.s 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 s.h.i.+eld 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 ma.s.s 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 h.e.l.l.

"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 pa.s.sed 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.