Juliet McKenna - The Assassin's Edge

’Gren was contemplating a plate of glaucous grey lumps that I’d thought looked unappetising even before I realised that’s where the smell halfway between rancid milk and a plague house privy pit was coming from.

He raised a golden eyebrow at me. “Why not?”

“Suit yourself.” I picked up my spoon. “I’m not sitting near you if you do.”

“All right.” He gave up his teasing and pulled a leg from a vaguely goose-shaped bird. I’d tried some of that the previous evening and would have sworn I’d been eating fish, if I hadn’t carved it for myself.

“Where’s Ryshad?” Shiv cut into a slab of meat too dark and substantial to be a goat so I guessed it must be some seabeast flesh. Perhaps meals would be easier if I just stopped trying to work out what was what.

“Just coming.” I nodded towards the door as I took some bread. There was plenty of that and if the grain and texture were unfamiliar, it did at least taste recognisable.

Ryshad brushed his hand across my shoulder as he passed behind me and pulled up a stool. “This is all very informal.”

“Compared to last night,” Sorgrad agreed, looking the length of the long table at people we’d yet to be introduced to, gathering in small groups, chatting as they helped themselves from the array of bowls and platters.

“What were all those stories about?” asked Ryshad. We’d sat through an interminable if well-presented banquet, all of us seated as Olret’s guests of honour, and the evening had rounded off with endless recitations resounding with the heavy rhythms of ancient Mountain sagas. With upwards of a hundred of Olret’s people packed into the hall and all rapt attention, Sorgrad hadn’t liked to translate.

“Wraiths and wyrms, the usual stuff,” ’Gren answered, mouth full.

“One warned of travellers who turned out to come from behind the sunset.” Sorgrad chewed and swallowed. “It reminded me of a Gidestan tale about the Eldritch Kin, though that’s not what they called them.”

“Pass the water, please.” Shiv looked thoughtful. “Geris reckoned myths of the Eldritch Kin were half-remembered tales of the Plains People.”

I took some of the wonderfully clean-tasting water for myself after pouring a horn cupful for Shiv. “What do we make of that?”

“Another curiosity for the scholars of Vanam?” Ryshad hazarded.

“There were a good few tales of life among the Elietimm here.” I looked to Sorgrad for confirmation.

“Which bear out what Olret was saying about no overlords,” he nodded. “And it seems the lowest born can end up ruling a clan hereabouts if he can convince enough people to back him.”

“If he’s got the stones for it.” ’Gren was unimpressed. “Half those tales were about someone with a bit of gumption coming to a bad end. Where’s the fun in that?”

“Bad and bold got exiled or worse while meek and mild got enough to eat and saw his grandchildren thrive,” I said to Ryshad.

He considered this. “So while anyone could rise to rule in theory, in practice, the strong hand their power to their sons?”

“Sort of.” I frowned. My knowledge of the Mountain tongue had been found wanting a good few times. “I wasn’t quite clear on the daughters, Sorgrad.” According to Mountain custom, the wealth of their mines and forests was always passed down the female line, which did make sense when you wanted to keep such resources within the family. There will always be women to vouch for a child being born to a particular mother but independent witnesses to a conception are never going to be easy to come by.

“From what I could work out, marrying into an established clan bloodline certainly strengthens a claim to power but it’s not set in stone like Anyatimm tradition.” Circumspect, Sorgrad surveyed the hall and the people coming to and from the table.

“They don’t like their women getting above themselves,” I commented. Several tales had mentioned in passing wives who’d abandoned their husbands for some intrepid lover and either starved in exile or died a bloody death with every hand raised against them.

Sorgrad was still considering Ryshad’s question. “Their songs praise hard work and keeping your head down but if you don’t, just as long as you win, no one condemns you for it. That final song started with a woman who shirked her duty to expose a child born to her husband’s concubine. The boy lived, ran wild as he grew and finally returned from exile to burn his father’s house down around his ears, killing everyone inside. The son ruled and no one gainsaid his right, by conquest as well as by blood.”

“That was the song Olret cut short?” asked Shiv.

I nodded. “Doubtless because that’s the kind of tradition Ilkehan relies on.”

“And there’s no overlord or union of the other rulers to keep anyone inclined to abuse his power in check.” Ryshad grimaced. “It used to be any two leaders with a dispute would agree on a third to act as mediator, lawspeaker,” Sorgren looked grim. “But that’s a tradition Ilkehan seems to have killed off.”

We all fell silent as a maidservant appeared to collect empty plates and make up full dishes from half-emptied ones.

A resounding blow on the double doors interrupted everyone’s meal. The leathery-faced retainer Maedror entered, swinging his bone staff as if he’d like to hit someone with it. A liveried guard followed, apprehension naked on his face as he dragged in a cowering hound. Brindled and bred for coursing by its long slender legs and narrow head, it was a pitiful-looking beast, cowering on its creamy underbelly. As it fought against the leash with heart-rending whines, we all saw the bloody socket where some scum had gouged out one of its eyes.

Furious, Maedror shouted at a maid who took to her heels. We all sat tight, along with everyone else caught unawares by this turn of events. Those servants who could, vanished behind the wall hangings. Olret soon came into the hall at a run, tunic unbelted over loose trews and shod in slippers of soft cured hide rather than his lordly boots. He skidded to a halt when he saw the brindled cur.

“What is that?” With Olret spacing his words with deliberate cold calm, I easily understood.

Maedror’s reply was too hasty and stumbling to be clear but I caught the word Ilkehan. A chill ran through the room as if someone had opened a window on to a blizzard.

Olret walked slowly down the hall. He circled the whimpering dog, bending to look more closely at its rump. The beast crouched low, tail tucked between its legs. Infuriated, Olret snatched Maedror’s staff and smashed the wrist-thick bone down on the dog, snapping its spine with an audible crack. The beast howled its uncomprehending anguish, back legs useless, bowels and bladder voiding on the floor. Its front paws scrabbled at the flagstones for a nerve-shredding moment then Olret brought the butt of the staff down to stave in its skull. But that was not enough. He pounded the sorry corpse, blood and brain spattering everywhere. Heedless of his footwear, he kicked the ruined mess of skin and bone time and again, sending gory smears across the floor.

Revolted, I didn’t dare look away. No one else had moved so much as a hair, not even the guard with the leash biting into his fingers. Maedror stood as still as a statue, even when Olret, panting with exertion, flung the staff at him. The heavy bone, dull with blood and muck clattered to the floor as Maedror failed to catch it. Olret glared at his retainer with almost the hatred he’d shown for the dog. Maedror bent to recover the staff and even halfway down the hall, we saw the fear in his face.

’Gren nudged me with a whisper. ”If that’s the local sport, I don’t reckon much to it.” Fighting for ’Gren is only fun if your opponent can appreciate the pain and danger coming his way.