Rebellion

CHAPTER 28

“I bear dreadful news, Rixium,” said Swelt, three days later, “and I’d prefer the whole household did not hear of it. At least, not yet.”

“News of the war?”

“Yes.”

“How did you hear?”

“Your great-aunt insisted on knowing the affairs of Hightspall, and I’ve maintained her network of informers.”

“It’s a long walk from any of the battlefronts to here.”

“We use carrier hawks. One flew in an hour ago.”

“You’d better come in.” Rix opened the door to its fullest extent and Swelt squeezed through.

Out of respect for his great-aunt, and the feelings of the house-hold about her, Rix had not taken her chambers for himself. He had occupied the rooms of her late husband, Rorke, an ineffectual man who had died thirty years before and not been missed by his spouse or anyone else.

Rix gestured Swelt to the chair by the fire and resumed his seat at an ornate desk by a narrow window. The only light in the chamber came from the fire but he did not light a candle. If they would soon be besieged, every candle was precious.

“What news?”

“You knew that Lyf had sent an army of twenty thousand across the mountains to attack Bleddimire?” said Swelt.

Rix’s stomach knotted. “I’d heard he’d sent an army. I didn’t know it was that big.” The army of wealthy Bleddimire was Hightspall’s main hope of relief. “What’s happened?”

“There was a battle by Lilluly Water yesterday.”

“Where’s that?”

“Two hours’ march south of Bledd. Lyf’s forces wiped Bleddimire’s army out, leaving the capital undefended. They’ll be attacking the walls of Bledd by now.”

Rix rose abruptly, stalked to the fire and stirred it with a poker. Sparks shot out onto the floor. He crushed them under his boot. “What about the chancellor?”

“He’s holed up in Fortress Rutherin, a hundred and fifty miles to the south.”

“But… he must have known Lyf was marching on Bleddimire.”

“He must have,” said Swelt. “Not even Lyf can move so great an army in secret.”

“Why didn’t the chancellor go after him? He could have attacked from the rear.”

“At a guess, because he’s a schemer, not a fighter.”

“But he’s got half a dozen generals…” said Rix. Swelt was shaking his round head, his jowls quivering like dewlaps. “Hasn’t he?”

“It seems Lyf targeted our commanders in the initial attack on Caulderon. All the chancellor’s generals and senior officers were killed or captured on the first day.”

“Even so — ”

“The chancellor’s army is small, and his only officers are raw lieutenants. They don’t know anything about military strategy and they’ve got no battle experience.”

Rix drew another chair up to the fire and sat down abruptly. “So we’ve lost the centre, the south and now the north-west. Half of Hightspall will soon be occupied — the strongest and wealthiest half. And the chancellor, who’s useless, is stuck in Rutherin, a hundred miles across the mountains from anywhere. What do we do, Swelt?”

“Why ask me? You’re the lord of Garramide.”

Rix had already come to rely on the old man, and valued his advice. In some respects, Swelt was the kind of father figure Rix had yearned for, but never had. “I haven’t been in charge of a fortress before. I don’t know these mountains and I don’t know the servants. What are they like? Will they support me?”

“Depends what you want to do?”

“I told you, fight for my country.”

“Then most will support you — as long as you don’t just talk about it.”

“But some won’t.”

“The ones who served your great-aunt — a couple of hundred, all up, including myself — are loyal. Most of them have lived and worked at Garramide for generations and they loved the old lady. Since she named you her heir, they’ll follow you.”

“Even to war?”

“Of course — they know what the alternative is if Lyf wins.”

“What about the others?”

“The war has brought over a hundred new people in, counting Leatherhead’s fighters and their hangers-on. In the absence of anyone stronger, most of them will follow you…”

“And the rest?”

“Troublemakers. They’ll obey you if you’re strong enough, but you’ll never gain their loyalty.”

Rix sat back. “What about the enemy?”

“Lyf has a few garrisons lower down in the mountains. There’s one at Jadgery, one at Fladzey, further east, and another way up north at Twounce. Only forty or fifty men at each; he’s just showing the flag.”

“I know Jadgery,” said Rix. “I spent some time there when I was a kid.” He rubbed his jaw. “So… if we could take one of their garrisons…”

“Jadgery is closest,” said Swelt.

“It would inspire everyone else. It would be the first start to an uprising.”

“Which would bring Lyf down on us, quick-smart.”

“But with all the battles he’s fighting, and all the provinces and cities he’s occupying, he can’t have many troops to spare right now.”

“It’ll be different in spring.”

“Once he controls his captured lands, he’ll be able to spare an army. If we wait until spring to take him on, it’ll be too late.”

“What’s your plan?”

“A raid on his garrison at Jadgery.”

“If you succeed it’ll be a great boost to morale,” said Swelt.

“I’ll take Leatherhead’s fifty. They’re the only experienced fighters I have.”

“How can you be sure they’ll fight?”

“If we win, they get a share of the plunder.”

Swelt shrugged, his shoulders wobbling. “If you win, it’ll also bind them to you.”

“What if I lose?”

“Try to lose the thugs we don’t want back.”

As Swelt was waddling out, panting with each breath, Rix said, “Swelt?”

He turned. “Yes?”

“How’s Glynnie getting on?”

“Surely you know better than I do?”

“She’s been avoiding me,” said Rix.

Swelt inflated his cheeks. “I’m not one to carry tales, Rixium!”

“I need to know.”

“Well, I have to admire the girl.”

“For taking charge of the household?”

“No,” said Swelt, “for taking on the lowest, dirtiest and most menial tasks of all, and doing them perfectly.”

He went out, leaving Rix staring after him.

“You called for me, Lord Deadhand?” said Glynnie, from behind Rix.

He had not realised she was there. He started and knocked the ink bottle across his map.

“Sorry, Lord Deadhand. Let me clean it up.”

“I’ll do it!” he said, more brusquely than he had intended. “And call me Rix, dammit.”

She stepped back smartly, until he could barely see her in the dim light, then stood stiffly to attention as though awaiting Lady Ricinus’s pleasure.

“Don’t be like that, Glynnie,” he said, sighing.

“How may I serve you, Lord?” she said in a voice stripped of all emotion, though it quavered on Lord.

“Please, not after all we’ve been through together.”

“That was then,” she said quietly. “This is now.”

“We were friends. I miss you. I need you.”

Her face was tilted away from him. “You’re back where you belong, the lord of a manor with thousands of rich acres and hundreds of servants. And I’m back where I belong — the least of them all. I’m not making that mistake again.”

“You’re not least,” said Rix. “I gave you charge of the household servants.”

“I begged you not to. I’m just a maid — the least of all.”

“You’re strong and clever, and you know how House Ricinus was run.”

“But I didn’t run it. I don’t give orders, I obey them.”

“You can run this household; I know you can.”

“They won’t have me, and I don’t want it.”

“Is that why you’re doing the dirty jobs? To spite me?”

“When I see a job that needs doing, I do it. There’s nothing more to say. Will that be all, Lord?”

She was turning to go when he said sharply, “What’s happened? What did they do?”

“Nothing, Deadhand,” she muttered. “Just the everyday life of a servant in a great house.”

He sprang up, caught her by the shoulder and turned her around. She resisted, then obeyed. Her left eyebrow was badly cut and swollen, the area around her eye turning blue-black.

“Who hit you?” he raged.

“I’ll never say and you can’t make me.”

“I’ll have the lot of them up here. I’ll make the bastards talk.”

“And they’ll get me for it. Rix — Lord,” she clutched at his hands. “I told you this would happen. Why wouldn’t you listen?”

“I was trying to do the right thing. You’re so clever and capable, and you’ve done so much for me.”

Glynnie exploded. “You’re so stupid!”

“What are you talking about?” he said, genuinely bewildered.

“Ten days ago you were looking for a housemaid’s position for me, without asking me, because I’m an inexperienced girl who knows nothing of the ways of the world. Now, suddenly I’m old and experienced enough to be put in charge of a vast household?”

After a long pause, he said quietly, “I — wanted to make up for the way I’d treated you.”

“You’ve got to take it back.”

“If I do, they’ll assume I’m weak. They’ll know they’ve won.”

“They have won. You know the rumours Blathy is spreading about me?”

“No,” said Rix, frowning. “How could I?”

She made an exasperated noise. “She’s calling me your mistress — though that’s not the word she uses.” She flushed.

“What word does she use?”

“Slut! Your slut, Rix.”

“But I’m trying to do the right thing,” he bellowed.

“It’s not working.” She went out.

Rix threw himself on the huge old bed, which emitted clouds of mouldy dust.

Damn Blathy. He had to get rid of her, right now. He could not put off the evil moment any longer. He sprang up and headed downstairs to the servants’ quarters, feeling that familiar pain in his belly again. What if she wouldn’t go and he had to throw her out?

“Where’s Blathy?” he said to the widow Lobb, a toothless crone who was sitting by a narrow window, using a darning needle to gouge an ugly splinter from a boy’s hand, and making a bloody mess of it. She must have been half blind. The boy’s eyes were damp and he was trying not to cry out.

“I’ll take you to her, Lord,” said the boy — a sturdy, grey-eyed lad of about eight years, with wild sandy hair and a gap where he’d lost two front teeth.

Rix looked down at the boy’s raw hand. “Yes, right away.”

The boy wriggled free of the widow Lobb. “This way, Lord Deadhand.”

“Mind you come straight back,” Lobb said sharply.

“What’s your name, lad?” said Rix, following.

“Thom, Lord. I’m one of the wood boys.”

“An important job. I’ll see you get leather gloves in future.”

“Thank you, Lord.”

Thom led Rix through a maze of passages and up a damp, south-facing tower to a weathered plank door. “Here’s Blathy’s room, Lord.”

“Thanks.” The boy was waiting, watching him, and Rix didn’t want any witnesses. “Better run back and get that splinter out.”

Thom studied his butchered palm, trembling. Rix took pity on him. “Go down and find Glynnie — you know her, don’t you?”

“Yes, Lord. She’s pretty.” Thom reddened. “And kind.”

“Tell her I sent you. She’ll have that splinter out so quick you won’t even feel it.”

“Thank you, Lord.” Thom ran.

Rix took a deep breath and rapped on the door. “Blathy, come out.” What if she wouldn’t go? He should have brought some guards.

After a minute or two she wrenched the door open and stood there in her shift, staring at him. She must have come from her bed, for her heavy-lidded eyes were half closed, her long hair was a tangled mess and her feet were bare.

“What do you want, Deadhand?” she said imperiously.

“According to the official charter, you have no right here. I’m putting you out. Gather your things.”

She stared at him for a long time, then strode across to the rumpled bed and in one swift movement drew her shift over her head and dropped it on the floor. She stood before him, proud, majestic and completely naked.

“Throw me out.”

She was bluffing. She had to be.

“Get dressed.”

“Make me.”

He wasn’t going along that road. “I’ll send the guards up, and some women to dress you.”

She picked up a heavy knife. “They’d better come armed.”

“They will,” said Rix, cursing her.

“If you expel me I’ll tear my clothes off and walk naked into the snow, to freeze to death.”

“That’s your choice, not mine.”

“But you’ll be blamed. You’ll bear it for the rest of your life.”

She threw her head back, proudly meeting his eyes, staring him down. She wasn’t bluffing. Blathy was a terrible, vindictive woman, but a magnificent one too — she was prepared to risk everything on her estimate of his character, and face the consequences if she was wrong.

“What do I care if you live or die?” he muttered.

“You’re chivalrous, Deadhand. With my death on your conscience, you’ll burn with guilt.”

“You’re assuming I have a conscience.”

“When it comes to dealing with women, you’re weak. It’s your curse.”

There was nothing to say. He walked out, cursing his folly. I am weak, he thought, and she’s beaten me. How will I ever get rid of her now?

His wrist was aching worse than ever. He manually flexed the fingers of his dead hand, then rubbed the inflamed scar where it joined the healthy flesh of his wrist. It did not ease the pain. If there had been more of Tali’s healing blood, might it have saved his hand?

He had not thought about her in ages. In truth, he’d avoided thinking about Tali because her small betrayals — notably, not telling him about Lord and Lady Ricinus’s treasonous plan to assassinate the chancellor — had been too painful. Now he realised that her failings paled beside his own.

He flexed his fingers again. Why had his rejoined hand worked so well, then gone dead? He should never have used his own blood to paint with. Had the prophetic mural ended the life of his hand?

In the past, Rix had often painted things he did not want to see, yet painting had also been his main solace in childhood. It had been the one thing that had not been bought by the wealth of House Ricinus. He wanted to paint now. No — to get the insoluble problems of Glynnie and Blathy out of his head he needed to paint. Even something crude, which was all he could manage left-handed, would be better than nothing.

He turned and went up to see the castellan.

“Paintbrushes?” said Swelt, as though he’d never heard of such arcane objects. He peeled a dried fig off a string, popped it in his mouth and contemplated another. “Why would you want paintbrushes?”

“Painting helps me to think,” said Rix. “Do you have any artist’s brushes in the stores?”

“Certainly not. But…” Swelt masticated another fig, like a cow chewing its cud. “In the days when the great dame had ladies to stay, some of them used to paint. I’ll see what I can find.”

He lumbered out, and shortly returned, red in the face and gasping for breath, bearing a handful of brushes in one balloon-like hand and a rack of six little paint pots in the other.

Rix took them and thanked him. “Where did the ladies paint?”

“Out on the lawns, when the weather was clement. In the solar when it was cold or wet. Splendid light in the solar, they used to say.”

“Not at this time of night,” said Rix. “Is there a high room somewhere, quiet and away from everything else?”

“The great dame was fond of looking at the stars from her observatory,” said Swelt. “It’s a hundred and eighty steps up the rear tower — the one without a dome. You won’t mind if I give you directions?”

Rix preferred it. He took the rusty old key Swelt was holding out, a bracket of candles, the paint pots and brushes and some oil, and headed up the tower.

The observatory was open, windy and miserably cold, though in his present mood that suited Rix. Cold not only numbed his wrist, it also occupied his mind and turned off his endlessly cycling worries. About Glynnie, and the enemy, and all the other problems he had created for himself and could do nothing about.

He had no paper, no canvas, no board, but that didn’t matter. Rix was happy to paint on the pale stone. It would fade in months, and weather away in years, though that didn’t bother him either — it was the sheer act of creation that mattered, not what was done with the work afterwards.

He unfastened the lids of the paint pots, resurrected the desiccated contents by stirring with a little oil, took a handful of brushes, not sure which one to use, then out of habit thrust the largest brush through the hooked fingers of his dead hand.

And the fingers moved.