Twenty-Three

A Lady’s True Colours

Two days had passed and Gratia sat side-by-side with her grandfather at the dining table. There were at least a hundred people there. Most were courtiers and groundsmen, all scrubbed and polished, though there were a few gentle folk there too. At the far end of the room was a huge marble stand with a long table at which sat Lord Quathrobe and his Lady. The space where his son should have sat was empty for the time being, though his three daughters seemed to make up for their brother’s absence. It made Gratia smile to see gentle folk dining with their labourers. It was rather a pleasant change.

They sat on a table on a temporary stand which had been erected solely for their benefit and they were served by some of the finest kitchen hands. She was just about to start on a fish platter when something caught the corner of her eye. Straining to see over the crowd, she excused herself from the table and brushed aside a number of hands who had come to see if she needed anything.

Making her way through the hubbub she eventually stepped through a large archway and into a deserted corridor. Whatever had caught her eye had been moving in this direction – sneaking, rather. 

She still wasn’t entirely certain exactly what it had been, but she was sure she had a good idea. It hadn’t been that long since she herself had been a thief. Only, it wasn’t a thief she had been pursuing. Admittedly, it had skulked through the crowd like a thief and carried the preferred weapon of many thieves, but the only thing an assassin stole was lives. 

But what sort of assassin drew their weapon in full view, and skulked like a rat around a banquet hall, when a trained man would have walked casually amongst them?

Turning a corner, she found her answer.

“Emalus, what are you doing?”

The young man almost jumped clean out of his boots. Letting out a little yelp, the stiletto skidded wildly across the floor, where it came to rest by her foot. She bent down and plucked it up. Examining it, she could see that it was badly made, worn and blunt. Turning her attention back to him, she was stunned at the change. His eyes were sunken and obscured by dark smudges. His lips were drawn nervously tight across his gums, and the bottom one was swollen and split. A deep gash ran across his left temple and bruises covered his face in numerous places. The air was perfumed with stale alcohol and he seemed a lot thinner than before.

“What happened?”

He stood silently for a long time; dull, almost lifeless eyes never leaving hers.

“I tried to tell them,” he said, eventually. “Tried to warn them about Demivolsh – what he was. But no one believed me. No one would listen.”

Gratia winced inwardly. She knew it was never a good idea to stand alone and oppose a person of power. “Who beat you up?”

“I was only trying to warn them, but they wouldn’t listen. They told me I was drunk and my wife had been a slut. They said she’d been the good time had by all.” His voice was braking. “They said half the town'd had her and it was a pity she’d gone.” Hot tears were flowing down his cheeks. “But she wasn’t like that. She wasn’t! Not my Lana. She wasn’t like that.” He looked down at the floor, drowning in his own grief.

She sighed and held out the blade. “So, what were you going to do? Kill him?” She knew the answer to that already.

“Yes. No. I just wanted to hurt him a little.”

Gratia let out a bitter laugh. “What, rip off his right arm so he could behead you with his left?” She went to him and drew him close, trying hard to think over his child-like sobs.

“You poor, sweet thing. You could have talked to me. I did offer.”

“But what does talking do? It achieves nothing but the passing of time. It wouldn’t put him in his grave where he belongs, rotting in the fires of hell.” A fresh batch of tears dampened her silk. He was wailing on like a bairn, a stormy tantrum-strained whine for a voice.

“Maybe, but attacking him with that will only serve to reunite you with your wife all the sooner. Believe me, it’s no match for a five-foot sword.”

“Then I shall buy a six-foot sword.”

Gratia sighed. It was clear that this had gone far beyond talk, but she couldn’t afford to help him. She had risked her neck once already, she didn’t fancy testing her head as well. Besides, she had never assassinated anyone. Though she had seen it done and possessed the skills – but that was ridiculous, it would make her no better then Zieb^Dum or Nalon. Did she really wish to risk all this comfort and luxury just for some misplaced sense of friendship?

“That won’t be necessary,” she said quietly.