‘I’ve been convicted! What more do you
want ?’
‘I want to know why.’
I turned away for a moment, guiding the jailer aside, speaking quietly
enough that I knew Carrasco couldn’t hear me. The man nodded and
left.
Turning back, I found Ramiro Carrasco with a face that stress and
helplessness made white and drawn.
I held his gaze.
‘Are you a man who can kill because he’s promised money? I talk to
my father about that. When he has peasant levies to train . . . it takes time
to make a man kill another man. You have to brutalise him. Convince
him that the man he’s killing isn’t human. You can make professional
soldiers out of some men. Most of them still vomit their stomachs empty,
after a battle. But . . . some men have no knowledge here ,’ I put my palm
against my abdomen, ‘that any other man is real. So they can kill without
thinking about it. Sometimes they look like kind grandfathers.’
I didn’t look to see if the jailer had returned. And was quietly glad that
Onorata’s grandfather has never become inured enough to the sight of a
battlefield that he doesn’t, even now, spend some nights not daring to go
back to sleep.
Ramiro Carrasco stared away from me, into the darker corners of the
cell. I reached out and turned his head towards me. He appeared
surprised at the force I could exert.
I said, ‘ You haven’t that capacity. Which, for an assassin, is perhaps unfortunate.’
He only shivered. I thought he might protest against ‘assassin’, but he
merely gave me a look as full of hot hate and rage as any I’ve seen.
Behind me, Tottola stretched himself in unsubtle warning.
59
I asked, ‘Why did you do what Videric told you?’
At the name of my father – my mother’s husband – he first flinched
and then laughed.
‘Get out of here.’ His voice had a harsh undertone in its whisper.
‘You’ll get nothing out of me.’
‘I don’t need to. I know Videric wants me dead. I know why . I know it
was Videric who sent you with Federico so that you could get close to
me. I know there was more than one man with you, and I know they
didn’t get further than Genoa. I know Videric will send other men, now
you’re out of it, because he really does need me dead. No, I don’t need you to tell me any of that.’
Ramiro Carrasco de Luis blinked in the light of the torches. He wiped
his wrist across his mouth. Sweat, smeared away, left whiter skin
displayed. A waft of unwashed body smell came to me when he lifted his
arm.
‘I don’t understand.’ He was careful not to phrase anything as
agreement with me. ‘If you don’t want to know anything, why are you
asking me? What are you asking me?’
‘Why you’d try to do it. Try to kill me. Why you feel you have to.’
I saw decision on his face.
He spoke again, in a dialect common in the hill close to the Pyrenees,
which was unlikely to be understood much outside of Taraconensis, and
his bright eyes watched me to see that I comprehended:
‘It was a choice between you and my family.’
The simplicity of his statement was at odds with the ferocious
contained emotion behind his eyes.
‘I’m the first of my family to go to university.’ He spread his hands,
mocking himself. ‘I have a lawyer’s degree! My mother and father, my
brothers, my cousins and their parents, they’ll all serfs, still. Tied to the land. Owned by the man who owns the estates.’
No need to ask his name.
‘You will think it very little of an excuse.’ Ramiro Carrasco spoke
sardonically. ‘Nor would I, in your place – what are twenty people you
don’t know, compared to your own life? But I know. I know my mother
Acibella de Luis Gatonez; Berig Carrasco Pelayo, my father; my brothers
Aoric and Gaton, and my sister Muniadomna . . . my uncle Thorismund
. . . my grandmother Sancha . . . And I don’t know you. Why should I
care about some freak ?’
He spat the last word. I looked at him.
The hatred comes from
want ?’
‘I want to know why.’
I turned away for a moment, guiding the jailer aside, speaking quietly
enough that I knew Carrasco couldn’t hear me. The man nodded and
left.
Turning back, I found Ramiro Carrasco with a face that stress and
helplessness made white and drawn.
I held his gaze.
‘Are you a man who can kill because he’s promised money? I talk to
my father about that. When he has peasant levies to train . . . it takes time
to make a man kill another man. You have to brutalise him. Convince
him that the man he’s killing isn’t human. You can make professional
soldiers out of some men. Most of them still vomit their stomachs empty,
after a battle. But . . . some men have no knowledge here ,’ I put my palm
against my abdomen, ‘that any other man is real. So they can kill without
thinking about it. Sometimes they look like kind grandfathers.’
I didn’t look to see if the jailer had returned. And was quietly glad that
Onorata’s grandfather has never become inured enough to the sight of a
battlefield that he doesn’t, even now, spend some nights not daring to go
back to sleep.
Ramiro Carrasco stared away from me, into the darker corners of the
cell. I reached out and turned his head towards me. He appeared
surprised at the force I could exert.
I said, ‘ You haven’t that capacity. Which, for an assassin, is perhaps unfortunate.’
He only shivered. I thought he might protest against ‘assassin’, but he
merely gave me a look as full of hot hate and rage as any I’ve seen.
Behind me, Tottola stretched himself in unsubtle warning.
59
I asked, ‘Why did you do what Videric told you?’
At the name of my father – my mother’s husband – he first flinched
and then laughed.
‘Get out of here.’ His voice had a harsh undertone in its whisper.
‘You’ll get nothing out of me.’
‘I don’t need to. I know Videric wants me dead. I know why . I know it
was Videric who sent you with Federico so that you could get close to
me. I know there was more than one man with you, and I know they
didn’t get further than Genoa. I know Videric will send other men, now
you’re out of it, because he really does need me dead. No, I don’t need you to tell me any of that.’
Ramiro Carrasco de Luis blinked in the light of the torches. He wiped
his wrist across his mouth. Sweat, smeared away, left whiter skin
displayed. A waft of unwashed body smell came to me when he lifted his
arm.
‘I don’t understand.’ He was careful not to phrase anything as
agreement with me. ‘If you don’t want to know anything, why are you
asking me? What are you asking me?’
‘Why you’d try to do it. Try to kill me. Why you feel you have to.’
I saw decision on his face.
He spoke again, in a dialect common in the hill close to the Pyrenees,
which was unlikely to be understood much outside of Taraconensis, and
his bright eyes watched me to see that I comprehended:
‘It was a choice between you and my family.’
The simplicity of his statement was at odds with the ferocious
contained emotion behind his eyes.
‘I’m the first of my family to go to university.’ He spread his hands,
mocking himself. ‘I have a lawyer’s degree! My mother and father, my
brothers, my cousins and their parents, they’ll all serfs, still. Tied to the land. Owned by the man who owns the estates.’
No need to ask his name.
‘You will think it very little of an excuse.’ Ramiro Carrasco spoke
sardonically. ‘Nor would I, in your place – what are twenty people you
don’t know, compared to your own life? But I know. I know my mother
Acibella de Luis Gatonez; Berig Carrasco Pelayo, my father; my brothers
Aoric and Gaton, and my sister Muniadomna . . . my uncle Thorismund
. . . my grandmother Sancha . . . And I don’t know you. Why should I
care about some freak ?’
He spat the last word. I looked at him.
The hatred comes from
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