The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Ten

Larst closed his eyes, rubbing them with the back of his hand. "Cover him," he said. "Please."

Straw nodded and picked up the discarded curtains, shaking them free of dust before covering the body. He smoothed them, making sure there weren't any wrinkles in the heavy fabric, and then tucked in the corners so that it all looked neat.

He left the head until last, as if leaving the face uncovered would put off the realisation that he was truly gone. The boy looked so peaceful, lying there on the bed. His eyes were closed and there was a hint of a smile curling his lips. You could almost convince yourself that he was sleeping. Straw certainly couldn't believe that he was dead.

"He died for the cause," said Straw, surprised that the words caught in his throat.

"He died for stupidity, and we didn't even notice."

Straw's lips pursed into a line. Now was not the time for that kind of talk. Behind him, Hawth sobbed. The sound squeezed his heart.

They'd been close those two. Turnip and Hawth. Always sitting together at the back of carts while they hitched their way down to the capital, jabbering away about people and places he didn't know. They'd come from the same village, and must have known each other since they were children.

He supposed it was Hawth's duty to tell the boy's family now. Poor little thing. He wouldn't wish that fate on anyone. He bowed his head, trying desperately to think of something to say. He couldn't think of anything.

"Aren't you going to say, 'it's not your fault'?" said Larst, looking at him with narrowed eyes.

"Nope."

"Good." Larst sighed. "I don't think I'd of been able to deal with that right now." His face looked pinched. There were dark shadows smudged under each of his eyes, like bruises.

That lad needed to get some sleep. Straw hadn't seen him so much as lie down these past few days. He was always up through the night, muttering to himself and drawing plans in the dirt.

Straw had sometimes stayed up with him, offering to keep watch during the night, and they'd talk. Not about the rebellion, there was enough of that during the day, but about other things. Silly things. Larst talked about the day he nearly drowned in a pond trying to catch a duck and Straw passed on his dirtiest jokes.

"We should send the body home."

"Hawth?" said Larst.

Hawth looked up, eyes red with tears. "Yes, Sir?"

Straw noticed that Larst winced whenever he was given that title. He approved. Can't have a revolution led by a man willing to be called 'Sir'.

"You can take him home with you. We'll organise a cart."

"No, Sir."

Larst frowned. "I don't think a carriage would be suitable given the circumstances."

"No, Sir. I don't want a cart, or a carriage. I ain't going."

"Hawth!" He sounded shocked.

"No, Sir. If it's all the same to you. I want to stay here. I need to stay here, to see the whole thing through. I need to make it worth-while. For him. And for me."

Larst opened his mouth as if preparing to argue, but Straw stepped in. "They'll be a queue a hundred long of men willing to see him home, don't you worry about that. He'll have a damn parade. I'll make sure of it."

Larst's mouth closed again. "Fine," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "And what should we do with his Majesty over there?" he said, changing the subject.

They'd left the King curled up where he fell, surrounded by red-soaked herbs. No one had wanted to touch him. He looked like an obscene offering to the gods.

His skin was white, drained of any colour. He almost looked like a heap of crumpled paper. It was hard to believe that he'd been capable of controlling a goat herd, let alone ruling one of the largest countries in the Western Plains.

"Kick him off the battlements. It's no more than he deserves. Let the crows have their fill," said Straw.

Larst shook his head. "No. The people need to see him. They need to know that it's all over."

"Is it?" asked Hawth.

"We'll make sure it is," said Larst.

"We should chop his head off. Stick it on a spike like all the other poor sods," said Straw, realising too late that he said that with a touch too much relish.

"And the body?"

Straw shrugged.

"We should bury it. In the Royal Chapel," said Hawth, surprising Straw. "He was a King after all."

"You shouldn't think like that. Not any more. There'll be no more Kings," said Larst.

"We should," said Hawth. "If we don't pay him our respects, well then, what does that say about us? He should have a proper grave. One where people can visit, and remember."

"Spit on more like," said Straw.

"At first," agreed Hawth. "But we can't let them forget."

"As if they could."

"They will. One day. People always forget."

They stood in an uncomfortable silence. Straw wished that Larst would just say something. He hated this waiting.

"The sun's rising," said Straw, unable to take it any more. "Start of a new day."

"The first day of a new Serrador," said Hawth. "A new beginning."

"Let's just hope that we're worthy of it," said Larst. He was practically swaying on his feet.

"We will be, because we have to be," said Hawth, smiling for the first time, the tears from earlier making it all the more heartbreaking. Straw had to hold himself back from offering a comforting pair of arms.

On the other side of the wall, something moved. The rebels didn't hear it.

The hidden room was padded with thick layers of dark velvet, and the floor was covered in a dense carpet. It was built so that anyone standing inside it could remain in absolute privacy while keeping an eye on the goings on in the King's private chamber. At only two foot square, any person wanting to remain inside would have to be very single-minded. They'd need to stand perfectly still, perhaps for hours, with no where to sit down or relieve themselves should their bladders catch them short.

The Chancellor was certainly single-minded. A devoted servant of the King since his majesty had come to the throne, the Chancellor liked to ensure he knew who was sharing the King's bed, and offer up words of friendly advice if those persons ever felt tempted to bend the ear of the King. More friendly then his allies in the red tunnels at any rate.

He slid the dark curtain back into place, covering the peep-hole, and brushed the dust off his shoulders before stepping outside and sliding the panel silently back into place.

So, that was done. The Chancellor allowed himself a rare smile. Given the raw materials at his disposal, it had all gone surprising well.

Now would come the real challenge. The Chancellor was almost looking forward to it.