Talus and the Frozen King (11 page)

Lethriel took a deep, shuddering breath. 'I know they argued: Gantor and his father. That was nothing unusual. They argued all the time.'

'What was the argument about that night?'

'I don't know. Gantor came to me afterwards. He told me he was never going to speak to his father again. He was crying. But he didn't tell me what they'd said to each other.'

Bran tried to imagine tears on the face of that solid slab of a man who spent his days hewing stone and bending whalebone. It was difficult.

'When he came to me, Gantor was ... he was carrying a bonespike. One of the long ones he used to scribe the stones. He kept spinning it in his hands. I told him to go home and sleep. I told him everything would look brighter in the morning.' She looked first from Talus, then to Bran. The moonlight turned the tears on her cheeks to stars. 'But I don't think it did.' Talus slipped his hand inside his cloak. He brought out the bonespike Bran had retrieved from the cairn. The bonespike that had been used to murder the king. Bran was relieved to see Talus had cleaned the blood from it.

As soon as she saw it, Lethriel let out a cry. 'Where did you find that?'

'That is not important,' said Talus. He held it out. 'A bonespike is a common enough thing.

Do you know this one? I believe you do.'

Lethriel took the bonespike. She traced a trembling finger all the way from the weapon's blunt end to its lethal tip. She turned it in the silver light.

'Here,' she said. She pointed to an engraved mark. Bran peered at it; it looked a little like a bird in flight. 'It's a gull. One of the black ones that haunts the cliffs. It was Caltie's mark. He used to scribe this shape on the rock face whenever he raided a nest. Sometimes he would open his arms and pretend he was about to jump off. He used to boast he could fly. He used to scare me.'

'So the bonespike belonged to Caltie,' said Talus.

'Yes. After Caltie died, I gave it to Gantor. As a memory. He thanked me. It became ... very precious to him.'

'What happened last night?' Talus's voice was barely audible. Outside the shack, the wind moaned.

'I don't know for certain. But after Gantor left me, I think he went back to his father's house.

I think he used the bonespike to kill the king, then dragged his body out into the maze so it would freeze in the snow, and nobody would know who had done this dreadful thing.' Lethriel hitched in a breath, wiped her eyes. 'Gantor was a good man. He came to the feast to honour his father—the man he'd killed—but he couldn't bear it and left early. He must have roamed through Creyak in torture, unable to live with the thought of what he'd done. So he went to the place he knew best and brought those stones crashing down on himself.'

The tears had dried on her cheeks. Despite the softness of the moonlight her skin looked raw, as if the wind had burned it. Her shoulders were square and somehow proud. 'He punished himself for what he had done,' said Talus.

Lethriel showed no sign of having heard him. 'Gantor knew exactly what would be waiting for him in the afterdream,' she said. 'The ancestors, baying for him like wolves. He couldn't bear the thought of living his life in anticipation of that hell, and decided to go to it with open arms. Gantor was always the bravest of them. He had to be.'

'Brave indeed,' said Talus. He lifted the bonespike from Lethriel's limp hand and stowed it away. 'Bran—have I not said to you before that most murders are committed through passion? We should not be surprised that the killer proves to be the king's own son.'

Bran felt deflated. After all the drama he'd witnessed here, the truth seemed desperately ordinary.

'What will I do?' said Lethriel. 'Now they're both gone, what will I do?'

Talus jumped to his feet. His bald head brushed against the hanging herbs and grasses, setting them swinging to and fro. At the same time, the breeze strengthened, making his motley robes flutter around him. Its moaning transformed into a high-pitched whistle.

'You will help us, Lethriel! Tonight you have shown that you are clever. And, like Gantor, you are brave. Bran and I will need your help if we are to track down the real killer!'

Bran and Lethriel gaped at him.

'Talus, what are you talking about?' said Bran. 'She just told us ...'

'Lethriel has told us what she believes. Not what she knows. The two are not the same.'

'Do you mean you don't believe me,' said Lethriel, 'when I say the king was killed by his son?'

'On the contrary,' said Talus. 'I believe that is exactly what has happened. However, I do not believe poor Gantor is the son in question.'

'Then which one of them is?' said Bran.

Talus reached up and plucked a clump of dried grass from the ceiling. He waved it in front of Bran's face.

'The answer lies exactly where such answers always lie,' he said. 'Beneath our noses. Shall we begin?'

Talus busied himself darting from one side of the shack to the other, yanking down bundles of herbs from the ceiling and tossing them on the floor. He was only vaguely aware of the bemused looks on the faces of his companions. The buzzing of his thoughts had elevated to a kind of screech. He knew from experience that the only way to dampen the sound was to work.

Soon he'd covered the dirt floor with herbs. He hopped among them, kicking here, scuffing there, making patterns from the debris. Every so often he stopped to survey his work. Was it good enough? He supposed it would have to do.

Clapping his hands, he ran outside into the moonlight.

'Talus?' Bran's voice floated out of the shack. 'Where are you going?'

Talus didn't reply. Speaking would only divert him from his task. He picked his way across the frozen grass, scooping up as many stones and pebbles as he could find. When his hands were full, he dashed back inside and dropped his collection in a pile just inside the doorway.

'Do we have to guess what you're up to?' said Bran.

'All will become clear,' Talus replied.

He picked a stone from the pile and placed it beside the nearest bundle of herbs. He took more stones and positioned them at different locations on the floor, some singly, some in groups.

Where necessary, he made adjustments to the arrangement of the herb bundles. When he was done, he stood back with his hands on his hips, assessing his masterpiece.

Lethriel had been watching all this with her mouth agape. Bran was shaking his head. Talus supposed his performance must strike them as odd.

'Now,' he said, 'we can make a start.'

'Talus,' said Bran, 'what you've made is a mess.'

'Be quiet, Bran. Look at the ...'

'At the mess?' Talus waved his hands, exasperated. Why did he always have to explain?

'Wait,' said Lethriel. She rose to her feet and slowly circled the pattern Talus had made on the floor. 'It's not a mess.'

'At last!' said Talus. 'Somebody who knows how to look.'

'Looks like a mess to me,' said Bran.

'No,' said Lethriel. 'It's a picture. This --' she pointed to a bundle of purple heather '-- this is the king's house. And here is where Tharn and Cabarrath live.' She looked at Talus. 'I'm right, aren't I? This is a picture, isn't it? A picture of Creyak?'

Talus smiled. He couldn't help himself. 'I call it a map. Each herb bundle is a house. The spaces between them are passages. Yes, this is Creyak, laid out for us to study.'

'What are the stones for?' said Bran.

'I know,' said Lethriel. She picked up one of the stones—a coarse chunk of shale—and turned it in her fingers. 'This is Gantor.' Before replacing the stone, she kissed it.

'You are correct,' said Talus. The first time he'd encountered Lethriel, he'd recognised the intelligence in her eyes. It was pleasing to see it at work.

'Here is the house of the king.' Lethriel pointed to some bound strips of willow bark. Three stones lay beside the bundle: smooth grey pebbles from the beach, one large, two small. 'The big pebble is Hashath. The smaller pebbles are the youngest brothers: Sigathon and Arak.'

Warming to his task, Talus traced his finger through the gaps he'd left between the herbs. He reached a bunch of lavender and two lumps of green jade.

'Tharn and Cabarrath, the elder sons. They share the home of the huntsmen. They live at the entrance to the maze, strong men guarding the settlement's most vulnerable spot.'

He was no longer looking at herbs and stones, but at walls and faces. The map wasn't just a picture; it was real.

'Here stands Fethan's house. He is the only man in a home occupied by artisan women. 
Gantor lived here, remote from the rest, close to the burial cairn.' 

'All very clever,' said Bran. 'But how is playing with stones going to help us?'

'Playing with stones turned out to be very important to Gantor,' said Talus.

'You think he was murdered too,' said Lethriel slowly. 'Gantor, I mean. Do you think it was the same person? Do you think whoever who killed the king tipped those stones down over poor Gantor too?'

'I thought you said Gantor killed himself,' said Bran. Lethriel flinched.

'That is not what I believe,' said Talus.

Bran sighed. 'Talus, we've only been here a day and we've spent most of that time under guard. How do you suddenly know exactly where everyone in Creyak lives?'

Delighted by Bran's question, Talus laced his fingers and stretched them until his knuckles cracked.

'As you must have noticed, Bran, most of the people in Creyak leave their doorways open.

On our various trips around the village, therefore, I have been able to look inside most of the houses. Shall I tell you what I have seen?'

'Will it make a difference if I say no?'

'In the house that stands beside the maze, a cloak was clearly visible lying on the nearest bed. I later saw Tharn wearing that same cloak. The house is therefore his. Above the next bed, the low roof was badly dented, so Tharn clearly shares his home with an unusually tall man: almost certainly his brother, Cabarrath.'

'He's right,' said Lethriel. 'In Creyak, older brothers live together until both have married.'

'The custom is common. I also knew it was likely that the youngest brothers, Sigathon and Arak, lived with their father. This was proved when I saw mock-weapons—driftwood axes and so on—stored beside two of the beds in the king's house: the same weapons the two youths wore at tonight's feast.

'Again, he's right.' Lethriel couldn't have looked more excited. Bran, on the other hand, just looked bored. 'Which brings us to Gantor. Lethriel has already told us he lived alone. That puts him in this isolated house near the cairn. As for Fethan: he clearly enjoys the company of females.'

'I did notice how all the women at the feast kept smiling at him,' said Bran.

'Not all of them,' said Lethriel with a scowl.

'This house --' Talus pointed to a bundle of dried samphire and its accompanying stone '- contains five beds for women and only one for a man. The man who lives there has long black hair; I saw many strands of it spread over not just one bed but all of them.'

'Have you finished?' said Bran.

'You asked me to explain.'

'All right, Talus, you've proved you're just as clever as you always were. But this still doesn't tell us anything useful.'

'I disagree,' said Talus. 'It proves that Gantor did not kill the king.'

Tears welled in Lethriel's eyes. 'What? How?'

Talus stepped into the middle of his map. He felt like a giant stepping on to the world. The patterns he'd made on the floor were vivid, and told him much. He wondered why they couldn't see.

'As heirs to the king, Tharn and Cabarrath could have lived in any house they chose. They chose this one, which lies to the left of the maze. Inside the house, they chose beds in positions that favour the left hand. Their cloaks and possessions lie at their left side.'

'So they're left-handed?' said Bran. 'That's unusual, I suppose.'

'Sigathon and Arak carry their mock-weapons at the left side. Fethan, when he threatened you with his bonespike, Bran, held his weapon in his left hand. Tell me, Lethriel, did Hashath favour his left hand too?'

She nodded. 'He did.'

'The king and his sons: a strange family, whose hands work in strange ways.'

Bran's good right hand stole across to cover his useless left. Talus knew that he too had been left-handed once. 'I still don't understand,' said Bran.

'All the sons are left-handed except Gantor.' He stepped, light-footed, across the map. 'Do you see how he built his house on this side of the cairn and not the other? And did you not notice which hand he used to take his bowl of broth from Lethriel at the feast?'

'It must have slipped my attention.'

'Why does that not surprise me?'

'Why does it matter?'

'Stand up,' said Talus. He stepped out of the miniature Creyak he'd made. Bran heaved himself to his feet. 'Pretend you hold a bonespike in your right hand and stab me under the left arm.'

'But why ...?'

'Do as I say.'

Bran bunched his fist and lunged towards him. Talus blocked him easily with his upraised hand. Bran tried several times more, but each time the bard fended him off.

'Enough,' said Talus. Bran backed away. 'You are stronger than me, Bran, and heavier. Yet I held you off. For Hashath the warrior-king, fending off such an attack would have been even easier.'

'It would be different if his attacker came from behind.' Now they were talking about fighting, Bran's interest was aroused.

'At last you are thinking for yourself! Very well, then, come behind me!'

Again they played out the little scene. Lethriel watched, her mouth a thin, tight line. Again they parted.

'You landed five blows out of six,' said Talus.

'Proving?' said Bran, panting a little.

'You landed them on my right side. The wound that killed the king was on his left,' said Talus.

'This play-fight—together with the shape of the king's wound—proves to me that the king's attacker was left-handed. Gantor was innocent.'

'All right' said Bran. 'I believe you. But Gantor could still have killed himself.' Talus closed his eyes. He recalled the image of the pit he'd fixed in his mind: Gantor lying crushed; the angle of the big man's body; the resting places of the gigantic stones; the way the heaviest one had first landed, then rocked back under its own weight.