Rebellion

CHAPTER 23

The outlaws shuffled their filthy feet, staring at Maloch, and Rix’s grey right hand, and the body of their fallen leader, as if they could not comprehend it. No one spoke. No one met his eyes.

There were more than forty of them now, and despite that some were clearly drunk, and others barefoot and only armed with knives, they were a formidable force.

Behind them, through the gate, the fortress servants were gathering, at least a hundred of them. Quite a few were armed, and Rix saw a dawning hope in their eyes. Though the fall of House Ricinus had damaged his reputation, the old dame they’d loved had named him her heir and given him the sword, and he could hardly be as bad as these outlaws. Rix saw no uniformed guards, though, and that was a worry. Presumably Leatherhead had killed them when he’d attacked the fortress. Rix had to have guards, and plenty of them. The fortress could not be defended without them.

What would the outlaws do? If they rushed him, he might kill three or four before they overwhelmed and killed him, but kill him they would. But would they attack? They seemed like common thugs to Rix; no one had the look of a leader. It wasn’t surprising — men like Leatherhead kept order with brutish violence and did not encourage rivals.

“What are you going to do?” said Rix quietly, so they had to strain forwards to hear. He raised Maloch. “No one bearing this sword — Axil Grandys’ enchanted sword — has ever been beaten in battle.”

“Deadhand’s just one man,” said a toothless, brawny thug at the front. “We can take him.” He reached for the sword sheathed at his hip.

Rix leapt forwards and pressed Maloch’s tip against the man’s throat. Blood threaded a path down his dirty neck. “Touch your weapon and you die.”

The thug choked. He couldn’t speak; the tip was pressing into his voicebox. His hand froze in mid-air, inches above the hilt. Rix lowered Maloch, cut the thongs of the man’s sheath and it fell to the ground. He forced him backwards to the gate, then kicked the sheath back to Glynnie, who drew the sword.

“When we escaped from Caulderon,” said Rix, “I killed six men with my bare hands — plus a whole pack of hyena shifters.”

He paused to let that sink in. Every eye was on his dead hand.

“And even if you could beat me, where can you go in mid-winter? The fortress is armed against you now; try to retake it and you will die.”

The thugs turned, saw the great line of armed servants, turned back to Rix. “But we’re at war,” said Rix, “and I need men who can fight, so I’ll make you an offer. Swear to serve and obey me, and I’ll take you on — and any raids we make against the enemy, you get a share of the plunder.”

The servants stared at one another, then there was a furious muttering among them. They weren’t happy. Perhaps they were wondering if Rix would be any better than Leatherhead.

“But be warned!” Rix said in a booming voice. “I intend to run Garramide as my great-aunt ran it. You will live like men, not pigs, and any violence against the people of this household will be punished by exile — or death. There will be no more warnings. Well? Do you swear to serve me and follow the laws of the fortress, on pain of death?”

There was some sullen nodding among Leatherhead’s men, a few quiet affirmations, some whispered oaths.

“Aloud!” cried Rix, brandishing Maloch. “On your knees.”

They went to their knees in the freezing mud and swore.

Rix gestured to them to rise. As he studied the faces, trying to take their measure, it occurred to Rix that Glynnie was still at risk.

He gestured behind him and she came to his side. “Glynnie will be in charge of my household. You will obey her as you do me.”

One of the outlaws, a big lout of a man, round-faced, with a beard as coarse as the bristles of a boar, sniggered and made a vulgar gesture.

Rix leapt forwards and struck the man down with the flat of his sword. “Get off my land.”

“But Deadhand, this is my home,” whined the lout, struggling to his knees. “I’ve lived here all my life.”

“Liar!” yelled a stocky maid whose yellow hair hung in a single braid to her waist. “You slaughtered your way in last week.”

“No warnings, I said,” said Rix. “You’ve got ten minutes to be gone. After an hour, I’m giving the hunting dogs your scent and setting them loose.”

The man looked vainly for help among his fellows, then trudged in through the gates. Rix studied the faces before him, one by one. None of the outlaws met his gaze.

“Anyone else disagree with my orders?”

No one spoke.

“I asked a question,” Rix said, lowering his voice so they would have to strain to hear. “As the master of Garramide, I expect instant and total obedience. Does anyone disagree with my orders?”

“No, Lord Deadhand,” they said in a ragged chorus.

“Get this muck cleared away.” The sweep of his hand included both the offal and Leatherhead. “Then go to the bathing house and scrub yourselves clean. I’ll have no filth in this house.”

The man Rix had struck down reappeared with a thin, shrew-faced woman who was whacking him with a knobbly walking stick.

“Stupid, useless lump,” she shrilled. “Why I put up with you I’ll never know.” She came up to Rix, put on a sickly smile that did not approach her eyes, curtsied clumsily and said, “He’s a fool, Lord. Never opens his mouth but to vomit out his stupidity, but he don’t mean it. He’s a good man, deep down. And we don’t got nowhere to go, Lord. Please — ”

Momentarily, Rix’s heart softened at the appeal, and against his better judgement he was considering relenting when Glynnie spoke.

“He’s rotten all the way through, and you’re no better. Get going.”

“You little bitch,” cried the shrew-faced woman. “I’m not taking orders from a half-grown scrag I could break over my knee.” She launched herself at Glynnie, hissing and spitting.

Glynnie sprang forwards but Rix thrust his sword between them. “Go, or your man joins Leatherhead — in two pieces.”

“Couldn’t care less if he does,” muttered the shrew-faced woman.

She gave Rix a hard glare, and Glynnie a look of fire and brimstone, then resumed belabouring her man about the shoulders, driving him down the road. But before they turned the corner she looked back, and Rix could have sworn he saw a grin of triumph. It troubled him, momentarily. Then they were gone and he put her out of mind.

Rix gestured with his sword towards the offal. Men ran to clean it up with shovels and buckets.

“You shouldn’t have stopped me,” said Glynnie quietly. “It’s bound to cause trouble now.”

“They won’t be back,” said Rix.

“Maybe not, but everyone in the fortress saw you interfere to protect me. Now they’ll think I’m a helpless girl put in a place I don’t belong. That the only authority I have comes from you — ”

“If they challenge my authority I’ll put them out the door.”

“They won’t challenge your authority, Rix. But they’ll undermine me at every turn, and — ”

“Let’s worry about that when it happens. I’ve got a million things to do and I haven’t even gone through the gates.”

Before they could pass inside a woman came hurtling out, howling like a mad thing. She wore an embroidered white blouse, a brightly patterned skirt, and despite the cold her arms and feet were bare.

Tall, she was, very tall, with a mass of chestnut hair, thick and wavy and wild, a full mouth, white teeth bared in a rictus of pain, and a proud, arching nose. She shot past Rix and Glynnie and threw herself onto the headless body of Arkyz Leatherhead, embracing it and smearing his blood all over herself.

She let out a howl of anguish, sprang up, looking around wildly, then plunged down the slope to the remains of the offal heap, where his head lay. The woman picked it up, kissed his bloody mouth then, cradling the dripping head against her bosom, lurched back to the body and fitted the head in place. Letting out another savage moan, she lay full length on the body, embracing it again, then rose and rent her garments, baring herself to the waist.

She stalked up to Rix, her full skirts swishing. She must have been thirty-five, and was by no means a beautiful woman, but even in her bloodstained fury, she was a majestic one.

“Who are you?” he said.

“I am Blathy.”

Rix knew her by reputation. “Leatherhead’s long-time mistress,” he said quietly to Glynnie, “and said to be just as bad.” Rix met Blathy’s eye. “What do you want?”

“You killed my man. I demand the blood-price.”

“Blood-price isn’t payable for self-defence.”

“My man was defending his hearth. His death is murder.”

“He took Garramide by force. I’m the legitimate heir — ”

“Garramide belonged to Arkyz by right of might.”

“He’s dead,” said Rix, “and the fortress is mine, by right and by might. Begone.” He raised the bloody sword.

She ignored the blade. Blathy was no coward. “I won’t go, and you can’t compel me.”

“I’ll carry you to the edge of the escarpment and dump you over if I have to,” said Rix.

“According to the founding charter of Garramide, the widow of the old lord must be given an apartment here for as long as she cares to stay. If the new lord does not make such provision, his lordship is void.”

“What a load of rubbish,” said Glynnie. “You made that up.”

Blathy looked down at Glynnie, who was a head shorter, then up again, dismissing her. “Ask Porfry.”

“And Porfry is?” said Rix.

“Keeper of the Records.”

Without taking another look at her dead man, nor pulling her blouse together over her naked chest, Blathy stormed in through the gate.

He looked down to see Glynnie scowling at him. “What have I done now?”

“You’re going to regret not casting her out,” said Glynnie.

“She’s just lost her man.”

“It doesn’t make her any less of a viper, and now you’ve given her the freedom of your house.”

“She’ll take another man within a fortnight, and once she does I’ll see her gone.”

“What if she doesn’t?”

“I don’t follow.”

“There are women who will only have one man, and if they lose him they never take another. I think Blathy is such a woman. You’ve got to get rid of her.”

“I took a vow to protect vulnerable women. I can’t cast her out in the middle of a war, in mid-winter.”

“She’s no more vulnerable than you are,” Glynnie said furiously. “And… and you’d better watch out. She’ll be after you next.”

“You just said she’d never take another man. You’re rambling, Glynnie.”

“And you’re stupid. You can’t see what’s in front of your own face.”

Rix’s wrist gave an agonising throb. He looked up at the brooding sky, and the fortress he must make his own against all opposition, then prepare it for an enemy attack that was bound to come before he was ready. Suddenly he felt exhausted, and unaccountably irritable.

“What makes you, a girl of seventeen who’s lived all her life in one great house, so wise about the ways of the world?”

It was a stupid thing to say, for all kinds of reasons. The great houses were miniatures of the world, with all its lessons in close-up.

She sprang away as though he’d slapped her, rubbing her cheeks with her hands. “I’ll never be anything but a maidservant to you. Someone to be dumped on the first doorstep, and never to be taken seriously. Never to be treated like a woman.”

“Can we talk about this later?” said Rix. “I’m — ”

“Don’t bother, Lord Deadhand.”