Kingdom's Fall

Chapter 8, Part 2

Cuan walked out into the stable yard to find the men clustered around a barrel tapped and set on its side, holding cups and talking quietly amongst themselves. With the lamps out, the stables looked as though they had been swaddled in ink-dark cloth. The men looked up as he approached, but none made any overture or welcome. He was too young for them to feel comfortable offering him a share of the drink, but the company he kept and the blade on his hip were enough to keep them from shooing him away. Again, he found himself touching the hilt, resting the centre of his palm on top of the pommel and feeling the weight of it shift as he applied a little pressure. My sword, he thought, and it was a nice feeling to have. He had had precious few belongings, and even secondhand it was still the most expensive thing he had ever owned. I wonder if I should name it? Some of Gray's men had named their weapons, and it had always struck Cuan as an odd thing for a soldier to do. Now that he had one of his own, though, he could see the appeal. There was an attachment there, a bond, that had formed from the very first moment he'd picked it up. It was an odd thing to be distracted by, but he was glad of it all the same. There was a question lurking at the back of his mind, and the less attention he paid it, the better. Why me? Out of all of his men - trained soldiers to a man - Gray had chosen him. He had no experience and no influence; there was nothing he could do to help. There isn't a person in the Kingdom that would miss me. That thought made him feel slightly ill.

"Are you alright?" A friendly hand settled onto his shoulder, a warm, strong grip that brought him back to the courtyard. Cuan realised that he'd leaned forward as the tension in his stomach had gripped at him. The rest of the men were staring at him, and the closest ones had shuffled away in wary anticipation. Everyone wanted to stick close to the drink, but nobody wanted sick on their boots if they could avoid it.

Cuan swallowed firmly and looked up at the young man standing over him. "I'm fine, thanks," he said. "I think I got up too fast."

"I know exactly what you mean," the man said. He was a head taller than Cuan, with short, dark hair and a genial expression that put Cuan in mind of Ronan trying to butter up a barmaid. "I'll get you a drink, that should see you right." He waggled his own, empty cup at Cuan. "You don't mind sharing, do you?"

"No, not at all."

"That's the spirit. Can't stand it when people have to have their own cup, you know?" He gave Cuan an encouraging look, waiting for him to agree. Cuan couldn't say he'd ever met anyone like that - having grown up in a mess where you ate as quick as you could and didn't turn round for fear of someone stealing your dinner - but he nodded along to keep the man happy. He was offering free beer, after all. The man turned to the barrel, and spoke over his shoulder as he filled the cup. "I'm Thomas."

"I'm Cuan."

"Nice to meet you, Cuan." He turned back, and thrust a brimming cup of beer into Cuan's hand. Cuan looked down at it, and realised he didn't feel at all thirsty. He'd never had beer before, and on a day of firsts it sat heavy and unreal in his hand, another threshold waiting to be passed. Cuan wondered if it would make him sick, or if he would have Ronan's unnatural ability to hold it. One of the grooms made a crack he didn't quite catch, something about being needing to be weaned before he started on beer, and Cuan realised he was standing staring at the drink in his hand and that everyone else was watching him. He could feel the flush of embarrassment climbing hot past his collar and filling his cheeks.

"Is something wrong?" Thomas asked.

"No!" Cuan said, startled, and as he gestured with the cup he spilled some beer over his own hand. There were hisses and tuts from the rest of the men that made Cuan blush even harder. "I mean, um, no. I just thought I was going to sneeze. Didn't want to spill it."

"Ah, I see. Well, drink up, then."

On the other side of the yard the door to the store room banged open, and Ambrose strode out followed closely by Gray. The Commander had his left hand strapped up across his chest, the fingers pointing flat towards his shoulder. Cuan, let off the hook, sighed with relief as all the men turned to see what the noise was about. Ambrose pointed, and raised his voice. "That's him," he said, and the men around the barrel moved still further from where Cuan and Thomas were standing. "Grab him!"

Thomas was fast on his feet, but Cuan was faster. The tall youth turned to run, and met the cup of beer coming in the opposite direction. Momentarily blinded by the liquid, he did nothing to protect himself as Cuan stepped in close, his hands coming up to the other man's shoulders, and kneed him squarely in the groin. Thomas made a noise that was half-yell, half-squeak, and crumpled to the ground. Ambrose and Gray arrived a second later.

"Well done, lad," Gray said. "I couldn't have done it better myself."

"Thanks, I think." Cuan looked at the downed man in disbelief. Where did that come from? "Why did I do it again?"

"He's been killing the horses," Ambrose said, and aimed a savage kick at the fallen man. The blow connected with a crunch and Thomas grunted in pain.

"What's this about?" One of the grooms shouted, his voice cracking with offence. The men started to close in, moving to cut the stable-master off from kicking the man again, and Cuan put his hand on the hilt of his sword. Gray touched him on the arm, stopping him from drawing.

"Not now," he said. "Save it for later." He nodded at the stable-master and spoke to the gathered men. "Get him a drink to cool him down." As the men led Ambrose away, Gray hunkered down and turned Thomas over. The younger man's knees came up as he rolled, his hands still clasped protectively around his crotch. "Where'd you get the oil for the lamps?"

Thomas groaned, wincing in anticipation of another hit, and finally opened his eyes.

"There's no need for the dramatics, lad," Gray said.

Thomas opened his eyes a fraction, looking from Gray to Cuan and back again. His hands stayed where they were. "Who are you?"

"I'm the man who wants to know how much you paid for the lamp oil."

His eyes were wide open now. Cuan could see the surprise in them, and the lie forming straight after. Gray slapped Thomas hard across the face. "Don't you even think of lying to me, son. Where'd you get it?"

"I don't-"

"First rule of the guilty man," Gray said, sounding almost giddy. "If in doubt, deny everything." Another slap, harder than the last. Gray sat up and shook his hand, glancing at Cuan. "Not as young as I used to be," he said. Thomas had his hands off his balls now, bringing them up to shield his face.

"I don't know what you-"

Gray hit him a third time, changing tactics and punching him in the crotch instead. Thomas' hands flew down to protect it, and as his head came up he took a crack in the head that smacked the back of his skull off the flagstones. Gray bent low to the young man's ear, speaking to him in an urgent, direct tone.

"You think this is bad, son, this isn't even the beginning." Gray paused, letting the certainty of his belief sink into the man's ear and the stones beneath them. "You don't tell me what I want to know, I'll lock you in a stall with Ambrose and let him kick all seven kinds of shit out of you."

Thomas was silent.

"The oil that's been going in all these lamps," Gray said. "You got it cheap. Where'd it come from?"

Cuan could see the man's eyes darting left and right, wide with panic. He was still looking for a way out, even as he knew there was no escape. "I bought it off of a widow who lives down by the candlemakers." He spoke quickly, the words falling out of his mouth in their rush to be free. "She said it wasn't good enough quality to sell to them but if I could use it she needed the space. She damn near gave it to me for free."