Stephen Deas - The King's assassin

‘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 her go.’

Talon hissed. ‘Fool.’ He strode past, pushing Berren hard, almost knocking him down, and picked up the whip himself.

The first three strokes were vicious. Berren heard the woman gasp as the first one struck and her skin split. After the third, she was hanging from the whipping post by her wrists, whimpering uncontrollably. Talon turned to Berren. He held out the bloody whip. ‘Ten strokes,’ he said. ‘Seven left. You or me. If it’s me then I will make every one as hard as the first. Now do your duty, soldier.’

Berren stared, hating Talon at that moment because he knew the prince meant it. Savage. He shook his head. Talon clenched his teeth and lashed the woman again. Hard. She spasmed and screamed. Then he turned back to Berren and snarled and held out the whip again. ‘Do you want me to kill her? You are not a boy now, Berren of Deephaven. You are a man and a soldier of the Fighting Hawks. Like it or not. Now do what must be done!’

Berren had tears in his eyes now. His feet felt like lead, the earth like quicksand sucking him down and holding him fast, but he forced himself to move. He walked to Talon and took the whip. His face was numb and his voice shook when he spoke. ‘I’ll remember that you made me do this.’

Talon pointed to the woman’s back. ‘And I will remember that you made me do that . Now finish!’ He stalked back to the waiting wagon.

Berren closed his eyes. He tried to think what Tasahre would do, what she would say. She wouldn’t do this , that was for sure. She would refuse and find a way to stop Talon too. She would stand up for what was right, no matter what. And he couldn’t. Couldn’t find that strength she had.

He howled as he cracked the whip. The stroke made the woman cry out and he felt her agony as deeply as his own. He was killing a part of himself by doing this. Stepping away from the man Tasahre had seen in him and towards Saffran Kuy. The last five strokes were weak, as light as he dared, but he made them, and each one left a bloody mark on her back. When he was done, he was sobbing. He moved closer and whispered in the woman’s ear.