Curse of Kings

The Tailor Rynish burst through his workshop door.

“What’s going on?” he growled.

“Villius Ren is in Derrington,” said Jerome.

Oland felt a rough hand grab on to his arm. He turned to see the Tailor Rynish talking over his head to his brother. “I’ll take him,” he was saying.

“What?” said Oland, struggling against him. “Take me where?”

“Shut your mouth!” snarled the tailor. “Shut your mouth; they’ll hear you.” He looked at Jerome. “I’m going to collect The Craven Lodge’s new cloth. Villius knows this so he won’t stand in my way.”

Jerome nodded.

“No,” Oland managed to say. “No.”

“It’s your only hope,” said Jerome.

“I’m not going anywhere!” said Oland. He turned to the tailor. “You work for Villius Ren; I don’t know where you’re going. This could all be a trick—”

“Go, Oland,” said Jerome. “Just go. Unless you want to be in my parlour when Villius Ren bursts in.”

Before Oland had a chance to say another word, the Tailor Rynish was dragging him down the hallway out into the cold night. He pushed him to the back of the cart. As he forced Oland in, a small figure jumped in from the opposite side. Oland could scarcely believe it. It was the monkey, Malben. It gave Oland strange comfort as they were both thrown under a length of tarred canvas.

Oland could hear Jerome’s voice as he leaned down and spoke to him through a gap in the cover: “My brother has a keen eye,” he said. “But do not fear, Oland. For he knows how to turn a blind one.”

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HE ROADS IN DECRESIAN WERE ROCKY AND UNEVEN, winding under trees that were once rich with leaves, but whose branches were now skeletal. Grubby fields, bordered by tangled hedges, stretched back from behind the trees, some with small houses at their far corners, others with just the stone imprint of what had once been. Oland imagined that, to the Tailor Rynish, every journey through Decresian was a solemn reminder of the glory of a different reign.

Oland could barely breathe. He was wedged between two thick bolts of wool, with another at his feet, and the layer of heavy canvas pressed down on him. He slid the cover from his face at intervals. It offered some relief, but was soon replaced by the chill of icy night air. There was some cloth beneath him, but it did little to cushion him.

Tired of hiding from empty roads, Oland eventually sat up in the corner behind the tailor, with his legs to his chest and Malben curled up, hidden, at his feet. Oland watched from the corner of his eye as the tailor’s shoulders moved up and down, up and down as he worked the reins. Every now and then, he wiped his sleeve under his nose. But still, he drove on. He had not spoken one word to Oland since they left Derrington.

They had been travelling for three hours before Oland felt the horse slow. He slipped back under the cover.

The tailor guided them down a lane with a narrow strip of grass at its centre. The fields on either side were scattered with sheep. The cart came to a stop outside a small white farmhouse. The tailor jumped down and tethered the horse. He pulled back the covers and gestured to Oland to stay quiet and follow him. When he turned away, Oland tucked Malben under the cloth and gave him a look he hoped would make him stay put.

Oland and the tailor made their way around the back of the house to a row of barns. The tailor slid the bolt back on the middle gate and, as they walked in, they were hit with the rich stench of manure. They crossed the filthy floor to the back wall of the barn. The tailor slid a panel of shelves to one side, and pushed open a small door that was hidden behind them. He took off his boots and laid them on a shelf, before he unlatched the door. Oland did the same, and followed the tailor into a cramped, windowless room, lit by a half-melted candle. The floor was strewn with straw, but it had been sprinkled with pine needles, so the air smelled fresher than the barn behind them.

There were two chairs in the room, one bed and a table with a bottle of milk and a sandwich on it. Oland and the tailor sat opposite each other at the table. The tailor took a knife from his pocket and cut the sandwich, handing half to Oland.

“I’m Arthur,” said the tailor. “And I want to say thank you for saving my friend’s life.”

“But I…” Oland paused.

“Malachy knew what he was doing when he agreed to help you,” said Arthur. “But you had no idea what the consequences of your actions would be when you jumped in to help.”

Oland nodded. “No. I didn’t.”

Arthur took a drink from the bottle. “What happened to Malachy tonight was a terrible tragedy,” he said, “but he wasn’t a very healthy man, we all knew that, and he had suffered a terrible shock. Despite what happened in the arena, I know Malachy was proud of the part he played in helping you. Giving you the meat to feed the animals was his quiet protest against The Craven Lodge’s savagery, and his humble way of honouring King Micah. He was very grateful to you for what you did today – he just didn’t get a chance to tell you himself. So I’m telling you now. It’s important for you to know that Malachy Graham’s heart was not your responsibility. It was his. Although, for the most part, he would say that it was his wife who protected it.” He tried to smile.

Oland realised now that Arthur had been crying on the journey.

“Oland,” said Arthur. “There is something different about you. What you did today was extraordinary. Where did you learn to fight like that?”

Oland stared at the floor. “I… don’t know. I didn’t.”

“Where did you come from?” said Arthur.

“I don’t know,” said Oland. He could hear how his own voice cracked.

“I’m sorry,” said Arthur. “I thought perhaps that your parents were from outside Derrington and you were sent to work at the castle.”

“Wickham tells a story,” said Oland. He paused. “Do you know Wickham?”

“I have never met him,” said Arthur, “though I have been given his measurements, have made his clothes, have passed him several times in the castle hallways, yet never seen him in one of my garments.”

“Wickham used to tell a story of a woman who gave birth the night that King Micah was killed,” said Oland, “and that the father of the child was murdered, and that the woman left the baby in a crate with its name pinned to its blanket…”

“And you think that child might be you?” said Arthur.

“I had thought so,” said Oland, “but then I found out that Villius Ren told Wickham all those years ago to make that story up. It sounded like it could be me. It… felt like it could be me. But I don’t know – maybe some of it is true.”

It was the first time he had spoken to anyone about the part he thought he might have had in the story, and he struggled to keep the emotion from his voice. “The mother was to come back to reclaim the boy,” said Oland. “He wasn’t just going to be left there forever.”

“As you say, there may well be some truth in Wickham’s story,” said Arthur. “And, if your parents were at the castle the night King Micah was overthrown, there could be a record of their names. But only if they were there officially, if they were employed there or perhaps visiting. You see that night was also the night of the Decresian census. The king had dispatched his men to call at every house in the kingdom to take a record of the name, age and occupation of every person there at that time, along with details of the land that they owned, the crops that they sowed, and such. That was why there were scant men left to protect King Micah, and why a coward like Villius Ren saw that as his chance to strike.”

“Where is the census now?” said Oland.

Arthur let out a breath. “It could be with the son of Archivist Samuel Ault. There is a bloodline of archivists who originated in Dallen, but who came to Decresian after the ruler of Dallen was overthrown. Samuel Ault’s father was murdered the night of the Dallen uprising.”

“That was the night they stormed King Seward’s Hospital and set it on fire,” said Oland.

Arthur nodded. “The uprising started with the founding of the hospital. King Seward thought he was doing the whole of Envar a great service building a hospital where the plague-stricken could be looked after. The ruler of Dallen at the time welcomed it.”

“But his people didn’t,” said Oland.

“Neither their land nor their livestock had been poisoned, so they wanted nothing to do with the infected patients, even though the plague wasn’t spread from human to human,” said Arthur. “Anyway, the night of the uprising, Samuel Ault’s father had ensured his family’s safe departure to Decresian ahead of him. But, as he was leaving his home, an angry mob descended on him. He was unable to defend himself, and he was beaten and left there to die. His son, Samuel, vowed that his own son, Tristan, would never become an archivist, that he would be trained as a warrior, so that he would always have the skills to survive in what Samuel Ault now came to see as a vicious world. Tristan had no interest in being a warrior – he wanted to follow in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps, but his father insisted and, from the age of ten, the boy was trained in a special form of combat, Jandro. But, as if the family was condemned to repeat history, Samuel Ault was killed on the night King Micah was overthrown.

“The question is whether Tristan Ault chose to honour his dying father by becoming a warrior or, instead, if he thought that true honour was to be found only by following the Ault family’s ancestral vocation.”

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LAND KNEW ABOUT ARCHIVISTS FROM THE BOOKS IN the king’s library, but he had found no mention of Archivist Samuel Ault having a son. His father must have wanted him undocumented, so that there would be no natural expectation that he would follow in his footsteps.

“This is what I know,” said Arthur. “For years, Villius Ren had been King Micah’s closest advisor in practical matters. In matters intellectual, it was Samuel Ault. He was King Micah’s confidant, his scribe, his archivist, the trusted guardian of all the secrets of Decresian. At the time King Micah was overthrown, Tristan Ault was not much older than you are now. I suspect that he was sent away by his father with the history of Decresian – the only thing that could be protected from the treachery of Villius Ren. The last document Samuel Ault would have been working on that night was the census.”

“So, Tristan Ault has the census,” said Oland.