The girl began to snore gently: a wheezing unpleasant noise that seemed almost a plea for pity. It was the smell of her more than the sound that disturbed him. The fetid and cloying smell that accompanied all her sex. The smell of sweat and urine and discharge. Smells telling, more accurately than any book, the true nature of woman. The secret inner nature that women with all their powers of concealment and dissembling strove to keep hidden away from the eyes of men. And of course they succeeded, for men are easily fooled by outward show; a plump bosom, a flash of teeth, a whiff of scented breath.
But the truth was ever there, for women could never quite rid themselves-despite all the powders and perfumes–of the smell of their own decay.
Kylock rose from his bed, seeking to distance himself from the telling candor that was the stench of women. He would have liked to shake the girl awake and bid her go, but that did not suit his plans, and indeed, after all he had put her through this night, he was not entirely sure that a good shaking would waken her. Oh, the girl would recover: physical resilience was yet another trait of her sex. They outdid and then outlived men.
He moved across the room to where a small copper washbasin waited, as it always did, and began to wash his hands. Scrubbing with a small, but coarse boar’s-hair brush, he meticulously cleansed his hands of the taint of woman. Fingers, that a candle length earlier had so eagerly sought out fleshy openings and swellings, were now soaked in the lye-laden water. Kylock took extra care on this occasion. It was a mark of respect for what he would do this night. Not for the person he would do it to, but for the magnitude of what would be done.
He looked at his hands. Pale and long they were; elegant in finger, delicate in shape. Not his father’s hands.
A half smile stole across his lips, and he turned his face to the mirror. Not his father’s face, not his father’s eyes or nose or teeth. With a sudden violent movement he slammed his fist into the mirror. The glass shattered with a satisfying crack and splinter. The girl on the bed momentarily stirred and then, perhaps deciding she was safer in oblivion, settled herself again with a minimum of movement.
The blow had not even drawn blood. Kylock was pleased. It seemed fitting that no blood should be drawn this night. The mirror now presented him with a disjointed array of images. His mother was there as a ghost in the fragments of his features. There was no doubting he was his mother’s son. The plane of cheek, the tilt of brow, the swell of lip: they all spoke of his mother.
He didn’t bother to search for traces of his father: there would be none to find. There never had been. He was not his father’s son. It was as plain as the nose on his face. Indeed, it was the nose that gave everything away: a grim irony, but a truth nonetheless.
Kylock turned from the mirror and readied himself. There were no special requirements. He donned his usual black; so out of place in daylight, so very. appropriate at night. The color of secrets and stealth. The color of death. He needed no mirror to tell how very well it became him, how flattering and suitable the hue. Black would suit his mother, too. Like mother like son.
He was so close to where he needed to be, a mere corridor away, but he would not set foot in that hallowed hall, would not feel the cool touch of the bronze doors upon his palms. He must walk a subtler path.
Kylock left his chambers and made his way to the ladies’ quarters. Any man who spied him on his way would turn a blind but winking eye, thinking to himself that it was only right that the heir to the Four Kingdoms had the audacity to flaunt the rules by visiting a lady in her chambers after dark.
Kylock had no lady on his mind. He knew an entrance to the passageways was to be found in the ladies’ quarters. It was only natural that there be one: where else in the whole castle might a king want to visit more, and yet be seen less doing so?
The king’s chancellor had shown him the ways of the castle. One Winter’s Eve, many years before, he had been caught setting the royal hounds on a newly born foal. As punishment, his mother had confined him to his chambers for a week. Thanks to Baralis, he never had to stay there. By opening a wall with a touch of his disfigured fingers, the man had given him the precious gift of secrecy. Even now he could remember the thrill of revelation, the sense that he had found what he had always searched for amidst the stench and the stealth. It had changed his life. So.much had been revealed to him, nothing escaped his greedy eye. He’d spied noblemen rutting with chamber maids, heard servants plotting against their masters, and discovered marks from the pox concealed beneath many a great lady’s face powder.
Nothing was as it seemed. Corruption and greed lay close to the bone. Flesh masked a world of sins, and by allowing him access to the hidden passages of Castle Harvell, Baralis had shown him the whole tawdry inventory of them.
Kylock located the wall. He imagined he could hear the click of the mechanism as he drew fingers over the stone. An alluring cavity presented itself. Kylock entered and chose his path.
The sudden chill and smell of rot brought visions of his mother. Surely in all eternity there had never been born a greater whore! Queen Arinalda, the beautiful, the aloof; always pretending to be so correct, so impeccable. How far from the truth appearances so often are. The smell was there, though; unmistakable, stronger than in any other woman. She reeked like a whore. Sometimes the smell was so overpowering that he couldn’t bear to be in her presence. How many men had his mother slept with? How many lies had she told? How much treachery had she practiced?
That she had slept with men other than the king was obvious. He, Kylock, was proof of that. There was no Harvell blood in him. No fair hair on his head, no short and stocky limbs attached to his body.
His mother had found her pleasures with other men, and he was a result of her lack of control. Women were the weaker sex, and the source of that weakness was their allconsuming lust. They were disgusting: a thin layer of skin stretched over a foul inner self that boasted the same cravings as a beast. He expected the tavern wenches and street girls to give in to these desires, but a queen? His mother, who should have been above every woman in the realm, was a cheap whore. And he was the son of a whore. He could never look in the mirror without the truth staring back at him.
Almost too soon he was there. The nucleus of the castle, the source from which all else flowed, or should have flowed if things were not as they were. The king’s chamber.
Kylock released the mechanism and stepped in. The smell of the sick room assailed his senses. The smell of a man slowly losing his body to death. Too slowly.
Quietly, for he knew that the Master of the Bath would be in the adjoining chamber, he stole across the room. His heart was pounding wildly, excitement and fear mixing on every beat. He approached the bed. The crimson silk monstrosity had been home for the king for the last five years. Kylock drew back the curtains and looked upon the face of the man who was not his father.
As he gazed at the king he felt pity. Thanks to the physicians, the man had neither hair nor teeth. He was a pathetic figure with hollowed out cheeks and a constant drool.
Kylock saw where the spittle had wetted and stained the pillows, and pity gave way to disgust. This was no king. His mother was king. His whore of a mother had been rewarded for her sins by being made sovereign in all but name. He wouldn’t have put it past her to have caused the king’s illness in the first place. Woman’s middle name was treachery.
Well, tonight all things would change. He would not only be ridding the country of a useless king, but also of a fallacious queen. Tomorrow his mother would find herself devoid of her power. There would be a new king, and she would be a fool to try and rule the kingdoms through the reign of this one, too.
Kylock picked up one of the many pillows. His fastidiousness insisted that it be one untouched by the king’s drool. There he was, the man who was not his father. Would I do this if he were my father? Kylock molded the silken pillow in his hands, smoothing the shape to what he needed. Yes, I would do it anyway.
He leaned over the bed. As the shadow of the pillow crossed the king’s face, his eyes opened. Kylock took a step back in fright as the light blue eyes of the king looked upon him. A fresh gob of drool rolled down his chin as he tried to speak. Kylock couldn’t move. The pillow burned hot in his hands. Eyes of man and boy met. The king’s jaw worked slowly, and the drool fell on his chest.
“Kylock, my son.” The words were barely intelligible; a mixture of rasp and spittle.
Kylock looked upon the face of the king. The light blue eyes were more lucid than any words: they spoke of love and loyalty and forgiveness. The boy shook his head sadly.
“No, sire. No son of yours.” Kylock felt control coming back to his limbs; the pillow was cool once more.
Kylock’s beautiful hands pressed the pillow into the toothless, hairless face of King Lesketh. His fingers spread out against the scarlet silk, as he held the pillow firm against the feeble struggling of the king. Lesketh’s good arm flayed like a gentle bird. His chest rose and fell, rose and fell, and then rose no more.
Kylock took his first breath as the king was denied his last. He was trembling. His knees felt such weakness, and his stomach fluttered and threatened to turn. He willed himself to be strong: now was not the time for weakness. He was king now and he doubted if there would ever be time for weakness again. He lifted the pillow. Death had finally put a stop to Lesketh’s drooling. The man who was not his father looked better, more dignified, more noble. More like a king in death than he ever had in life.
Kylock patted the pillow back into shape and placed it, drool stain up, beneath Lesketh’s chin. The bedclothes were in disarray; twisted and untidy. He straightened the sheets, drawing them up so they graciously adorned the dead king.
Satisfied that all looked as it should, Kylock took his leave. Down he went, his feet finding the path that his eyes did not see. His sight was full of other images; images of a glorious coronation, of comforting his distraught mother, of winning the war with the Halcus. His reign had started well. He had already performed a great service to his country, ridding it of a weak and sickly king. It was a shame that one of his greatest acts was destined to go unlauded by history. Never mind, he thought, he would give the historians plenty of other things to write about in their dull and spineless books.
He found himself back in his chamber. The girl was there, exactly as he’d left her on the bed. He went straight over to the washbasin and once again cleaned his hands. The smell of death was easier to wash off than the smell of woman.
Drying his hands on a soft cloth, he moved over to his desk. A quick look back served to assure him that the girl was still sound asleep. From under the foot of the desk he took a key. Delicately filigreed in gold, it caught and played with the candlelight. A jeweled box opened upon its turning. With hands long and agile he took the tiny portrait from the box. There she was: beautiful and innocent, far above any other of her sex. Her purity of soul clearly marked on each perfect feature: Catherine of Bren. Not for her a woman’s lusts. She was pure and unsullied, the most perfect of women: and she was his.
Just the sight of her likeness threw the girl on the bed into tawdry relief. Catherine would not smell like a whore. She would not be forever damned in hell like other women. Like his mother.
Kylock tenderly replaced the portrait, careful not to scratch its unblemished surface. He was king now. Catherine would be his queen.
Off came his tunic and his fine silk undershirt. His image beckoned him from the shattered mirror, but he paid it no heed. A black desire came upon him, and if he had but looked in the glass he would have seen his eyes glaze over and grow dim. He would not have known himself. There was a hunger within and he had no choice but to feed it, lest it feed itself upon his soul instead. He drew near the bed. The girl moaned and turned away. He stood above her and, with hands that had killed a king, he ripped the linen shift from her back.
Spiraling downward to a place where fear and desire met, Kylock lost himself to his need. The sgound of his mother’s voice was in his ear and the face of Catherine of Bren in his eye.
One
“All this riding is playing havoc with my rhoids, Grift.”
“I know what you mean, Bodger. But it’s good for one thing, though.”
“What’s that, Grift?”
“Regularity, Bodger. There’s nothing like a good gallop to have you running for the nearest bush.”
“You’re a wise man, Grift.” Bodger nodded his head in agreement while trying to keep his mule on track. “Of course, I’m not so sure that you were right about us volunteering for this journey to Bren. I had no idea we’d be assigned the worst duty in the whole crew.”
“Aye, cleaning up after the horses leaves a lot to be desired, Bodger. It was bound to fall to us, though. You and me being the lowest in rank. I still say that we were lucky to be allowed to come on this mission in the first place. They wouldn’t let any old soldiers go along with the royal guard. It’s a distinct honor.”
“So you keep reminding me, Grift.” Bodger looked decidedly skeptical. “I just hope the women in Bren are as willing and comely as you keep saying.”
“They most certainly are, Bodger. Have I ever been wrong about women in the past?”
“I’ve got to give you that, Grift. There’s not much you don’t know about women.”
The two men were bringing up the rear of a large column. They were over eight score in number; five score of royal guard, a score of Maybor’s own, together with various camp attendants and packhorses.
“I think I know what makes the Halcus so mean, Grift. This weather is terrible. A blizzard every day and wind so cold it could freeze the juice from a tallow maker’s molding.”
“Aye, Bodger. Three weeks of this is more than enough for any man. In normal weather we would have been in Bren by now. As it is, we’re barely out of Halcus territory. Of course, the chilliest thing around here ain’t the weather.”
“What d’you mean, Grift?”
“Lord Maybor and Baralis, that’s what I mean, Bodger. Those two make the north wind seem like a cool breeze.”
“You’re right there, Grift. They’ve been flinging each other looks as dark and deadly as an executioner’s hood since the day we started out.” Bodger had to pull hard on his reins, as his mule had its own idea of where it wanted to go, and it wasn’t along with the pack.
“There’s no love lost there, for sure. Have you noticed the way they won’t even pitch their tents within a tourney’s length of each other?”
“That I have, Grift. Not to mention the fact that Maybor rides at the fore all day, fancying himself a king, while Baralis brings up the rear like a wounded soldier.”
“So you think me a wounded soldier, do you?” The two men turned around, startled, as Baralis rode up between them. His face was deathly pale and his eyes glittered harshly with the reflected luster of the snow.
Neither guard spoke: Bodger because he had been almost frightened from his saddle and was trying to right himself, and Grift because he was clever enough to know when it was best not to speak.
The king’s chancellor continued, a smile threatening but not quite forming, around his thin lips. “Come, come now, gentlemen. Why so tongue-tied all of a sudden?” His beautiful voice belied the coldness of his eyes. “You appeared so talkative only a moment ago. Am I to take it that the north wind has suddenly frozen your tongues? Or is it that you are beginning to regret your glib words?”
Grift could see that Bodger was about to reply, and although his every instinct willed him to remain silent, he knew that if he didn’t speak up now, Bodger would get himself into even worse trouble. “My friend here is young, Lord Baralis, and he partook of a little too much ale at breakfast. He meant nothing by his remark. A jest, no more.”
The king’s chancellor reflected a moment before replying. A gloved hand rubbed idly at his chin. “Youth is a poor excuse for stupidity; ale is an even poorer one.” Grift opened his mouth to speak, but Baralis forestalled him with a sudden gesture of the gloved hand. “Nay, man, protest no more. Let the matter rest here, with you in my debt.” He met the eyes of both guards, allowing his meaning time to be fully comprehended. Satisfied, he rode forward, his black cloak spread out over the dock of his mare.
So even the camp attendants were gossiping about him! Still, there was solace to be gained in the fact that both of the sniveling dolts were now beholden to him. Baralis had long since learned the value of having people around who were indebted to him. It was a more valuable coinage than gold in a locked chest. One could never tell when one might need to call upon the services of men such as those. After all, guards usually guarded something of value.
Oh, but it was cold. Baralis felt chilled to his very soul. He longed for the warmth of his chambers and the comfort of his own fire. It was his hands that suffered the worst. Even now, clad in fur-lined gloves, the wind still cut through to the bone. His weak, deformed hands, so beautiful in youth; were now ruined by his own ambition. The scarred and scant flesh was no match for the wind.
Snow two hands deep covered their path. It shifted with crafty precision with every bluster of air. As a result, the way was treacherous. The foreguard had already lost one horse to lameness. The unfortunate creature had misstepped by only an arm’s length, but it was enough for it to find itself in a deep gully masquerading as a benign stretch of snow. They had slaughtered the gelding where it fell.
They were now only a week away from Bren. Yesterday they had crossed the River Emm. There was not a man in the party who hadn’t sighed in relief upon traversing the mighty river. Not only was it a great danger in itself, but more importantly, it marked the end of Halcus territory. The company had thought themselves lucky to have successfully traveled through the lands of the enemy for ten days yet remain undetected and unchallenged. Baralis knew differently.
The idea of using his contacts with the Halcus to sabotage the party and slaughter Maybor had been tempting. There was nothing Baralis wanted more than the death of the vain and swaggering lord. It was just too risky, though. A raid on their party could easily get out of hand. He, himself, might be endangered. No, it was better not to chance his own safety. There were other less hazardous ways to rid himself of Maybor.
The lord of the Eastlands had to be eliminated: it was a fact beyond questioning. Baralis would not tolerate any interference with his plans in Bren. The betrothal negotiations would take subtlety and cunning-two qualities that Maybor was sadly lacking in. More than that, the man was a threat: not just a physical threat-though Baralis did not doubt that his own assassination was never far from the great lord’s thoughts but also a threat to the whole betrothal. Maybor had wanted his daughter to marry Prince Kylock. His failure to secure such a union had embittered him against the new choice for bride.
Baralis scanned the column of men, searching. Near the front, astride a magnificent stallion, he spied the object of his thoughts. Extravagantly robed in scarlet and silver was the lord himself. Even the way Maybor sat his horse told of his over-bloated sense of self-importance. Baralis’ lip curled into well-worn lines of contempt at the very sight of him.
He simply could not allow Maybor to reach Bren alive. As king’s envoy, the man was actually superior to him! The queen had pulled a dirty trick with that particular appointment. He, king’s chancellor, the very person who was instrumental in bringing about the match between Prince Kylock and Catherine, should have had preeminence in Bren. Instead the queen had appointed him prince’s envoy, and in doing so had made him subservient to Maybor.
He could not and would not endure such an indignity. The duke of Bren and his fair daughter were his concern. Maybor had no business bringing his pot to this fire. Baralis was aware of the politics of both appointments, but the queen would find all her cleverness unrewarded when news of Maybor’s demise reached the kingdoms.
There was no doubt about it. Today, this chill and frosty noon, with the north wind blowing like a siren from the abyss, Maybor would meet his death.
Melli knew better than to open the shuttered window. There was a gale coming, and the scant stretch of wood was the only thing between them and its ravages. As it was she wasn’t sure the latch would hold. Still, she suspected it might-she had always been lucky that way. The famous Maybor luck had served her family well through the centuries. Or more accurately, it had served the Maybor men well, as they seemed to drain all the luck from their women.
Not her, though. She was the first female of her family to be endowed with that most capricious of gifts.
Melli put her eye to the knot hole and peered out onto the northern plains of Halcus. Almost dazzled by the brilliance of the snow, it took her a moment before she could discern any details of the land. The wind had picked up since she’d last looked and was carrying the snow in its thrall. There was little to be seen: white land against white sky. The snowy expanse was probably grazing pasture in the spring, but for now it was laid out defenseless for winter to take its toll.
The bite of the cold grew too much for her eyes and Melli withdrew her gaze inward. With a scrap of dirty oilcloth she plugged the knot hole. Turning, she caught Jack looking at her, and for some reason her face flushed. Almost against her will, her hand smoothed her hair. It was foolish, she thought, that after being away from the court and its customs for so long she still had the instincts of a court beauty. The women of Castle Harvell had so many rules to live by: rules of conduct, rules of dress, rules of form. Now that Melli had distanced herself from the great court, she realized all the rules could be summed up in one: a woman must at all times strive to please a man.
Even now, after experiencing things that a court beauty could only guess at, Melli found herself falling into the old habits of femininity, most particularly the habit of wanting to look nice for a man.
She smiled at her own folly. Jack, catching the mood of her smile, grinned in response. His keen and’ handsome face, made all the more appealing by his winter color, caused Melli to feel unaccountably happy. Suddenly she was laughing: bright and high and merry as a tinker. Then Jack joined in. They stood at opposite ends of the small but that had once been a chicken coop and laughed with each other.
She didn’t know why Jack laughed, didn’t even know why she herself laughed, she only knew it felt good to do so. And for so long now there had been so little that felt good.
The weather had been against them from the start. Once they crossed into Halcus territory it had become even worse. They had no knowledge of the land and had quickly lost their bearings. That, together with the necessity of changing their course whenever they spotted another human being, had caused them to lose their way. Melli had read tales in her childhood of people taking long journeys guided only by the sun and the stars, but the reality was much different. What the tales failed to tell was that in winter both the sun and the stars didn’t put in an appearance for weeks on end. In the daytime the sky was pale and filled with cloud, in the nighttime the sky was dark and filled with cloud.
The result was that they had little idea of where they lay in relation to Bren and Annis. The only thing they knew for sure was that they were still somewhere in Halcus. The fact that they were still in the lands of the enemy had been proven only two days back.
The weather had been getting progressively worse, and Melli had noticed that Jack was still having problems with his injured shoulder. Oh, he tried to hide it, men always did things like that, both in tales and reality. He had developed the habit of always slinging his pack over his left shoulder, thereby keeping the strain from his right. Knee-deep in snow they walked, the wind robbing them of what little warmth their clothes could muster. Eventually they came upon a derelict farmhouse. The farmer had long since left, and for good reason: the place had been burnt to the timbers, leaving only a snow-covered ruin.
A storm was threatening. Dark clouds gathered on the horizon and the wind wolfed at their heels. Weary and bonecold, their spirits soared when behind a clump of bushes they discovered the chicken coop. Located some distance from the farmhouse, the coop had stayed clear of any inflammatory sparks.
Melli knew there would be trouble when the door failed to give and the strain of a latch could clearly be heard within. No door latched itself. Someone else had taken refuge in the coop. Jack’s eyes met hers. She could tell he was sizing up just how much she needed shelter. Without cover, the coming storm might be their last. She shook her head slightly: better to walk away. The latched door meant people, and people meant danger. Jack looked at her a second longer, registering her warning, and then turned his gaze to the horizon. The storm lay poised to strike like a predator.
With a sudden, violent gesture, he kicked down the door. The latch gave way. The door collapsed backward, its top hinge failing. In the coop were two men, knives drawn.
The first thing Melli felt was Jack’s arm slamming into her chest, pushing her back out of harm’s way. She looked up from the snow in time to marvel at how quickly he drew his blade. A pig farmer’s blade. Melli could detect the sharp, loamy smell of ale. The two men had been drinking. They moved apart warily, seeking to flank Jack. Jack stepped back from the threshold. Even to Melli’s untutored eye it seemed like a smart move. When the men attacked now, they would be forced to come through the doorway one at a time.
The first man came forward. Knife before him, he slashed wildly at the air. Jack fell upon him. It was the only way to describe it. Melli felt she was seeing him for the first time: he was wild with fury. What he lacked in skill, he made up for in rage. It seemed to Melli that Jack was fighting much more than the man beneath him. In the struggle–which the stranger was destined to lose-Jack was fighting against fate and circumstance and even perhaps himself. Every vicious blow was a strike against something less substantial, yet more threatening than his opponent.
The second man moved forward. Melli screamed a warning. “Jack! Look out! He’s behind you.” He swung around and the man, probably scared at what he saw in Jack’s face, fled. He ran awkwardly through the thick snow, leaving deep pits where his feet had stepped.
The first man was dead: a pig-knife to the gut. Jack stood up. He would not look at her. He’d stumbled into the but and she’d followed, carefully skirting the body and the blood.
Neither had mentioned it since. Melli’s thoughts were another matter. Jack was growing more withdrawn. He was as considerate as ever, yet there was something within him that could quickly turn and show an edge. The Halcus soldier had seen the sharpness of it. In a way, Melli was grateful the man had been killed by a knife; the alternative was worse. Jack had a greater potential for destruction within him than an armory of blades.
Melli was secretly intrigued by the thought of sorcery. Oh, she’d been taught as a child that it was evil, and that it was only practiced by those close with the devil. Her father flatly refused to believe in it, saying it was a thing out of legend like dragons and fairies, but she’d heard tales here and there. Tales that told of how at one time, sorcery was common in the Known Lands, and that people who used it were neither good nor bad. Surely Jack was proof of this?
If anything, since she’d witnessed his power the day they’d escaped from the mercenaries, she found herself more attracted to him. Before he had been almost a boy: unsure of himself and awkward, with long legs and long hair. The power he’d drawn seemed to fill him out, like fluid poured into a waterskin. His presence was more compelling, his body more his own. He was maturing fast, and sorcery, with all its accompanying hearsay and heresy, endowed him with an aura that Melli found hard to resist.
Jack had his weaknesses, though. Melli worried in case the bitterness she had glimpsed in his attack upon the Halcus soldier might settle and form part of the man.
Suddenly Melli didn’t feel like laughing anymore. She resisted the urge to unplug the knot hole and check the horizon one more time. They had paid dearly for this chicken coop, and there might yet be an even higher price to pay.
As if reading her thoughts, Jack spoke to comfort her. “Don’t worry. No one will come,” he said. “The soldier can’t have gone far, and even if he made it to a village, no one is about to go chasing the enemy in this weather.”
It was her fault. If she hadn’t spoken up in warning, the man would never have known where they came from. Yet she had, and the sound of the lilting accent of the Four Kingdoms had been clearly heard. If she had only kept silent, the man might have mistaken them for his own. He would, of course, have been no less pleased about having his shelter and his companion taken from him. But such incidents were all too common in both countries, and it might have gone overlooked. Until she spoke.
Now the man who had escaped across the snowy field knew they were from the kingdoms. If he were to make it to a village, he could bring whatever forces were at hand down upon them with just two words: “The enemy.”
The Halcus hated the Four Kingdoms with the deep hate that only comes with closeness. Neighbors they had been for centuries, but everyone knows it’s one’s neighbors one despises the most. The war had raged bitterly for five years now; the same war over the same river that had been fought countless times before. More blood than water flowed along the River Nestor’s bitterly disputed banks. The kingdoms had the advantage at the moment: a fact that served to make the Halcus hate them all the more.
“He might not have recognized your accent. You only said a few words.” Jack took three strides across the coop and was beside her.
Melli shook her head gently and offered her hand. He took it and they stood side by side, and listened to the sound of the advancing storm. They were trapped here; fleeing under these conditions would surely bring a more certain death than staying put and hoping no one would come. As long as the storm raged, they would be safe. Only fools and the love-sick dared to venture out in a blizzard.
Her hand rested in his. There was no pressure in his touch, but part of her wished that there was. Inexplicably, her thoughts turned toward the king’s chancellor, Lord Baralis.
And then, as she realized the common thread between the past and the present, she withdrew her hand from Jack’s. It was the touch; a touch remembered-many weeks back now -a touch that thrilled and repulsed in one. The memory of Baralis’ hand upon her spine. Curious how the mind weaves its associations, sometimes weaving with unlooked-for irony. Two men, both with more than muscle to lend them strength.
Melli wondered if she had offended Jack by withdrawing her hand. She couldn’t tell. He was so difficult to read, and the time they’d spent together had only made him more so. She couldn’t begin to guess what he thought of her. That he cared for her safety was the only thing she knew for certain. The force with which he had pushed her away from the two men was proof of that.
Still, what did he think of her? A court lady, daughter of Lord Maybor. A noblewoman standing next to a baker’s apprentice.
Sometimes Jack was tormented in his sleep. With eyes closed and face slick with sweat, he would toss restlessly on his bedroll, calling words she seldom caught the meaning of.
Just over two weeks back, within the shelter of an evergreen wood, he’d had his worst night of all.
Melli had awoken, she knew not why. It was one of those rare nights when the wind had ceased and the cold stopped biting. Instinctively she looked over to Jack. She could tell right away he was having a nightmare. His cheeks were hollow and the tendons on his neck were raised and taut. He became agitated, pushing his cloak and blanket from his body. “No!” he murmured. “No.”
Melli sat up, deciding she would go over and wake him. Before she could stand, a chilling sound broke the silence of the wood.
“Stop!” cried Jack.
With that cry, the nature of the night and the universe seemed to change. It became more vivid, more intimate, and then more terrible. The torment and the sense of urgency conveyed in that one word made Melli’s blood run cold. Jack was silent once more and drifted into a more restful sleep. No such sleep for her that night. The moonlight had withdrawn upon Jack’s call and now came the darkness. Melli lay awake through the artificial stillness of the night, afraid that if she fell asleep and then woke in the morning, the world might have changed whilst she slept.
She shuddered and wrapped her cloak closer. Jack was back in his corner, slicing the wet bark from the logs. The but was too small to have a fire, and with the shutters closed there would be no ventilation, but he prepared one anyway. He didn’t like to be idle.
Melli unplugged the knot hole for the tenth time that day. She told herself it was to check on the progress of the storm. But the storm was coming from the east, and Melli’s gaze was to the west. Almost blinded by the whiteness, Melli searched for movement from the direction where the second man had headed.
Tavalisk lifted the cloth from the cheese and inhaled deeply. Perfect. Amateurs might first check the look of the cheese, seeing if the blue veining was substantial but still delicate. He knew better. It was the smell that told one all one needed to know. Blue cheese should have no mincing, milk-maid odor. No, this most regal of cheeses should smell like a king. Preferably a dead one. Unfortunately not everyone appreciated the smell of delicate decay wrought by the millions of spores that burrowed their way through the virgin cheese.
Yes, mused the archbishop, the smell was everything. Sharp, tantalizing, challenging, never subtle. It should rise to one’s nostrils like a whip to the back: unwanted at first, and then, as one grows accustomed to its particular pleasures, welcomed for all the delights it could bestow.
Tavalisk was a surgeon at his table as he cut into the cheese. With his little silver knife he freed himself a sizable wedge. Once its rind was breached the odor from the cheese became even more intense. It was almost dizzying. The archbishop was, at such times, as close to religious ecstasy as he was ever likely to get.
A knock sounded upon the door.
“Enter, Gamil.” Tavalisk now found that he could tell which of his various aides were awaiting his pleasure just by the sound of their knocking. Needless to say, Gamil had the most annoying knock of all: timid and impatient in one.
“Good day to Your Eminence,” offered Gamil, a little less humbly than usual.
“What news this day, Gamil?” Tavalisk did not deign to turn from his cheese.
“Your Eminence will be most interested in the news I bring. Most interested, indeed.”
“Gamil, your job is merely to keep me informed. My job is to decide what is interesting.” Tavalisk raised the crumbly cheese to his mouth. The sour taste of the mold met his palette. “Come now, Gamil, out with it. Stop sulking like a maiden with no new dress to wear at the dance.”
“Well, Your Eminence, do you remember the knight?”
“What night? Was it moonlit or overcast?” The archbishop was beginning to enjoy himself.
“No, Your Eminence. The knight of Valdis, Tawl.”
“Oh, you mean the knight. Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Of course I remember the knight. Handsome chap. No liking for the whip, though, if I remember correctly.” Tavalisk was contemplating feeding his cat some of the cheese.
“Does Your Eminence remember we were having him followed as he made his way north?”
“Do you think me a toothless dotard? I most certainly remember. There is nothing,” the archbishop showed his teeth, “nothing, you hear, that I ever forget. You would do well to remember that, Gamil.”
“Please accept my apologies, Your Eminence.” Tavalisk could not resist. “I will accept your apologies, but I won’t forget your impertinence.” He cut a portion of cheese and held it out to his cat. The creature took one sniff and then beat a hasty retreat. “Carry on with your news, Gamil.”
“Well, as you suspected, the knight was headed to Bevlin’s cottage.”
“Do we know what transpired in that meeting?” Tavalisk was now crouched down by the base of the couch, trying to tempt his cat to eat the cheese.
“We do now, Your Eminence. One of our spies made haste back to the city just to tell us.”
“He came himself? This is most unusual. Why could he hot send a messenger?” The archbishop had now caught the cat by its neck and was trying to force the cheese into its mouth.
“He deemed the news so monumental, Your Eminence, that he could not risk sharing it with another.”
“Hoping for a promotion, is he?”
“I think when Your Eminence finally hears what I have to say,” a touch of frustration could be heard in Gamil’s voice, “that you might indeed wish to reward the man in some small way.”
“Oh, might I? What news could this possibly be? Has Tyren been struck by lightning? Has Kesmont risen from the dead? Or has the knight himself turned out to be Borc incarnate?”
“No, Your Eminence. Bevlin is dead.”
Tavalisk released his hold on the cat. He stood up slowly, his weight almost too great to bear. In silence he walked to his desk. Selecting the finest brandy that waited there, he poured himself a brimming glass. It did not occur to him to offer Gamil a cup. Only after he had taken a deep draught of the potent liqueur did he speak.
“Are you sure of what you say? How reliable is this man?”
“The spy in question has worked for you for over ten years, Your Eminence. His loyalty and professionalism are beyond repute.”
“How did Bevlin die?”
“Well, our spy turned up at Bevlin’s cottage in the early hours of the morning. He looked in through the window and saw the wiseman dead on the bench. Stabbed in the heart. Anyway, he watched and waited, keeping a low profile, and then our knight came into the room. He found the dead body, and then went over the barrel, as they say.”
“Over the barrel?”
“Lost his senses, Your Eminence. According to our man, the knight crouched there with the dead man in his arms for over four hours–rocking him back and forth like a baby. Our spy was just about to leave, when the young lowlife who was traveling with the knight came in the room. The boy helped him up and so forth, but then, as soon as he left the knight alone for a minute, the knight was off: galloping into the sunset. The next day, having buried the body and secured the cottage, the boy followed him west. Our spy then made haste to Rorn.”
“Who killed the wiseman?”
“That’s the strange thing, Your Eminence. Our spy had been watching the cottage from a distance all night. No one came or went after the knight and his boy arrived.”
“Our man didn’t see the murder?”
“Alas, Your Eminence, even spies must sleep.”
The archbishop rimmed his glass with his finger. The smell of cheese, which was being wafted his way due to an open window, was for the moment distasteful to him. He covered the blue-veined round with the cloth, damping the odor.
“So, Gamil, are you saying it was the knight who did this?”
“Yes and no, Your Eminence.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that his hand might have been upon the blade, but his actions were not his own. His distress when he found the body must attest to the fact that he was an unwilling accomplice.”
“Larn.” Tavalisk spoke quietly, more to himself than Gamil. “Larn. The knight was there less than two months back. The elders of that island have long had their own agendas, and the most ingenious ways for carrying them out.” The archbishop mustered his lips to a plump parody of a smile. “Bevlin has finally paid the price for his interference.”
“Larn bears a long grudge, Your Eminence.”
“Hmm, you’ve got to admire them for that.” Tavalisk settled back in his chair. “Still, it seems a rather vindictive act. I can’t help thinking that there is more to this meal than flavor alone.”
“How so, Your Eminence?”
“Larn knows too much for its own good. Thanks to those damned seers, it has a decidedly unfair advantage when it comes to gleaning intelligence. I think that doddering old fool Bevlin was up to something they didn’t like.”
“If you are right, Your Eminence, then perhaps the knight has some inkling of Bevlin’s intent.”
Tavalisk nodded slowly. “Are we still tracking him?”
“Yes, Your Eminence. I expect to know in a day or two where he was headed. Bren seems the most likely of places at the moment. If he is there, our spies will keep us informed of his actions.”
“Very good. You may go now. I have much to think on.” The archbishop poured himself another glass of brandy. Just as his aide reached the door, he called him back. “Before you dash off, Gamil, could you do me one small favor?”
“Certainly, Your Eminence.”
“Close all the windows and build me a fire. I am chilled despite the sun.” Tavalisk watched as his aide went about piling logs upon the hearth. “No, no, Gamil. That won’t do. You must first strip the logs of their bark. I know it will be time-consuming, but there’s no point doing a task if you’re not prepared to do it properly.”
Baralis was among the last to crest the rise. What little protection the slope of the hill had afforded was snatched away, and the north wind cut deeply once more. Absently, he massaged the gloved fingers that held the reins. This journey was yet another toll upon them. The frost had worked its insidious trade upon his joints, robbing him of precious mobility. It seemed that his hands always paid the highest price for his actions.
His position on top of the bluff did offer some consolation for the discomfort of the wind. It gave him a clear view down upon the whole of the column. He spied Maybor immediately. No drab traveler’s clothes for him. Even on a long and hazardous journey like this, the portly lord still insisted on being decked out like a peacock. Baralis tasted bile in his mouth. He was not one to spit it out, so he let it run its course upon his tongue, burning the tender flesh. How he hated that man!
He sgcanned the lay of the land. There were rocks beneath the snow; their jagged edges biting through the white. The downslope was more treacherous than the rise. The path twisted and dipped to accommodate the disorder of the rocks. Baralis could see that the men ahead were picking their paths carefully.
The time was right. Maybor was still only halfway down the slope. A fall from his horse at such a place, amongst a setting of rocks and sudden drops, would surely lead to death. The man’s thick and hoary neck would snap like tinderwood when it hit the cold hard earth.
Baralis checked his own path There would be a short time when he would be in danger, too. Such a drawing as he would perform required great concentration, and so_ he might need some extra guidance for his horse.
He looked to his flank. Crope was there; sitting miserably on a huge warhorse, hood pulled forward for concealment, not warmth. Baralis knew his servant was hating every minute of this journey. He was shy of people, a natural wariness springing from the way he was usually treated by them. People were afraid of him when alone or in small groups. Once they had a safe number, however, they began to despise him. Even on this trip, the taunting had begun. They called him “the stupid giant” and “scar features.” Baralis would have enjoyed burning the skin from their cowardly backs-no one demeaned anything of his-but now was not the time to use indiscreet force.
Now was the time for discreet force. He beckoned Crope forth and the huge man drew close. Baralis motioned to his reins and his servant took them. Not a word was said, not a question asked. They were at the rear with only the packhorses to tell of what transpired.
Once confident that Crope was in charge of his mount, Baralis felt safe to work his drawing. His sight found Maybor and then dropped lower to the man’s horse: a beautiful stallion in its prime.
Baralis reached deep within himself. The power, so familiar, yet so intoxicating, flared up to meet him. He felt a wave of nausea followed by the unbearable sense of loss as he forsook himself and entered the beast. The sour tang of horse sweat met his nostrils. Gone at last was the chill of the wind. He knew only warmth.
Pulsing, all-enclosing warmth. Through hair and skin and fat, through muscle and grizzle and bone. Speed was of the essence: danger awaited those who lingered too long in a beast. Quickly he bypassed the belly and all its beguiling intricacies. Up toward the core. He felt the mighty press of the lungs and fought against their powerful suction. The heart beckoned him forth, using its rhythm as a lure. The rest of the body danced to its beat.
Bounded by muscle, snarled with tubes, terrifying in its strength: the heart.
He fell into the pulse of its contractions, became one with the ebb and the flow. Into the hollow he went. A frightening rush of blood and pressure rose to meet him. Through the caverns he traveled, along the channels he sped, until he eventually reached the last. The beginning of the cycle. He found what he came for: a stretch of sinew as tough as old leather, yet thinner, so much thinner, than silk. The valve. He reached out, encircling it with his will. And then rent forth.
Back he snapped like a sapling in a gale. It was so cold and pale, and finally so dark. He tasted the bitter residue of sorcery in his mouth, and then he knew no more.
Maybor was well satisfied with the way things were progressing. He was at the head of eight score of men, counting the attendants, and if he did say so himself, their loyalty-bar only two-was unquestioningly with him.
He saw the respect in the men’s eyes and noted their deference to him in all matters. It was just how it should be; after all, he did hold superior rank. He noticed the way the men admired everything from his judgment to his fineness of dress. Not for him a dull traveler’s gray. No. He was a great lord and it was fitting that he look the part at all times. Who could guess when they might chance upon someone in this white wilderness whom he might need to impress?
Traveling had definite drawbacks, though. The wind was a devil, and he was quite sure it was blowing the very hair from his scalp. He’d awoken on several mornings to find hair on his pillow. The thought of going bald terrified Maybor, and deciding that it was indeed the fault of the wind, he had taken to wearing a large, furry bearskin hat as protection. At first he had been a little worried about how he might look to his men in such a girlish thing as a hat. But now he’d decided that he looked like a legendary invader from beyond the Northern Ranges and fancied that it added to his mystique.
Borc, but he needed a woman! Three weeks celibate! It was enough to drive a lesser man to perversion. Not him, though. If he couldn’t have a woman, then he preferred to drink himself into oblivion each night. Unfortunately oblivion had its price. His head felt dull and heavy from too much ale, and he. had to concentrate to sit his stallion in the manner that befitted a lord.
To add to his troubles, the path they were traveling was steep and treacherous. He hated riding downward. He preferred not to see the perils, just take them blindly. However the way was so twisting and precarious that he was forced to bend all his concentration to the task in hand.
They had just come upon a particularly hazardous trail, and were forced to ride one man at a time, when Maybor felt his horse grow skittish. He pulled hard on the reins. This was not the time for the creature to misbehave. He advanced a few feet farther and then he felt the stallion tremble and lurch. The creature tossed its head and tried to buck the lord from his back. Maybor was having none of this and pulled on the reins with all his might. The horse became frantic and broke into a gallop. Maybor could feel the wild pounding of its heart beneath his thighs. Down the path it sprinted, forcing two other riders out of its way. Maybor was becoming scared. He held on as the horse picked up speed.
Then, suddenly, in a scintilla of an instant, the horse dropped beneath him. Maybor was flung forward by the force of his own momentum. He flew through the air and then down the hillside. His body was thrown against rocks and stones. Pain burst into his leg and back. Downward he careened toward a sheer drop.
He saw it coming and knew what it meant. He sped toward his end with a prayer on his lips. Then he hit a rounded boulder. The rock bounced him like a ball and altered his course. Instead of taking the drop, he landed, crash, in the middle of a growth of thorny bushes.
His head was reeling, his leg splitting with pain. Thorns bit into his flesh, perilously close to his vitals.
Then the men were upon him, helping him up and fussing and squawking. “Lord Maybor are you all right?” said one sap-faced boy.
“Of course I’m not all right, you fool! I’ve just been hurled down a hillside!” And then, as two others tried to pull him up, “Careful, you idiots. I am not a wishbone to be pulled.”
“Is anything broken, my lord?” ventured one of his captains.
“How in Borc’s name would I know if anything is broken? Get me the surgeon.”
The captain conferred with a junior for a moment. “The surgeon is awaiting your pleasure where the ground is more stable.”
“You mean he is too lily-livered to risk his neck by coming down here.” Maybor slapped hard at the man who was trying to free his leg from the bush. “Tell the good surgeon that if he doesn’t get down here this instant, I will personally perform on him the only operation I know how to: castration!” Maybor made sure his last word had enough strength to carry up the hillside.
Eventually he was freed from the bush and placed on a litter. Two soldiers carried him back to the path. The party had halted and tents were being raised. The first tent up was the surgeon’s and Maybor was duly ushered in.
“So tell me, physician. Are there any bones a’broken?” Maybor was in considerable pain, but was not about to betray that fact to anyone else.
“Well, my lord, these things are hard to ascertain-“
“All you damned physicians are the same,” interrupted Maybor. “Mincing around the facts. Never committing yourselves to anything more than a maybe. Aagh!” The last syllable was uttered as the surgeon removed a long spiky thorn from the lord’s posterior. Maybor looked around in time to see a smug expression quickly concealed. “Are they all out, then?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Are you quite sure you wouldn’t like a conference to confirm that? It sounded suspiciously like a straight answer to me.”
The surgeon was impervious to Maybor’s sarcasm. “Perhaps my lord might like to try and stand?” He helped Maybor to his feet, where, to the lord’s astonishment, he found he could walk.
“It is as I thought,” said the physician. “No bones broken.” Maybor was about to point out to the man that he had thought no such thing, when the physician thrust a cup of foul-smelling liquid into his hand.
“Here, drink this,” he said.
Maybor downed the concoction in one gulp. It tasted just like his first wife’s holk: fishy and lacking the sting of a decent drink. He yawned. “What’s this foul brew good for?”
“It’s a sleeping draft. It’ll make you drowsy in no time.” Maybor felt his lids growing heavy. Suddenly worried, he hobbled back to the stretcher. Laying himself down he said, “Am I that bad that I need to sleep like an old man on his deathbed?” Maybor’s eyes began to close of their own accord. Just as he fell into a warm dark trance, he could have sworn he heard the physician reply:
“No, you’ll survive either way. But with this method I’ll get some peace.”
Two
Bren, the fortress city. The rock of the north. Set between the mountains and the great lake, Bren was built only for war. The mountains flanked the west and south, the lake lay to the north. The only clear approach to the city was from the eastern plains. And never was there a more carefully constructed site than Bren’s eastern wall. It was designed with one basic function: to promote fear in the eyes of all who approached. Its granite towers pierced the clouds, issuing an unspoken challenge to God in his heavens. The mountains, from their position behind the city, seemed to back up this challenge like sentinels.
The outer wall was as smooth as a blade; the individual stones almost undetectable. The mason’s art had reached its highest pinnacle in Bren. The walls gleamed with arrogance.
They mocked all who approached, saying “scale me if you dare.” Cleverly designed recesses caught shadows in the morning sun. A sharp eye could detect their presence, but a keen mind only guess at their uses.
Probably for pouring hot oil and the like, thought Nabber. Or to conceal a well-placed archer. He whistled in appreciation. They had no such fancy stuff in Rom.
The boy joined the throng of people lining up to enter the city. He took off his cloak, reversed it so that the scarlet lining was on the inside once more, and put it back on. He had need of some coinage, and at such times it was best not to be too conspicuous.
He did a quick scan of the people waiting to walk through the gate. Not much prospecting here, that was sure. A distinctly mottled and poor-looking lot; farmers and beggars and worse. Not a plump and well-fed merchant among them. Just his luck, he’d picked the wrong gate.
“Here you,” he cried to the tall, lanky guard who was on his side of the gate. “Yes, you, string-o-beans.”
“What d’you think you’re doing addressing the duke’s guard in that manner?”
“Sorry, my friend. I meant no offense. Where I come from, calling a man string-o-beans is considered a compliment.” Nabber beamed brightly at the guard and waited for the inevitable question.
“Where d’you come from then?”
“Rom. The finest city in the east. A place where men who are as unusually tall and lanky as yourself are in great demand with the women.”
The guard’s face registered interest and disbelief in equal measure. He sighed heavily. “What d’you want?”
“Information, my good friend.”
“Not a spy, are you?”
“Of course I am. Been sent by the archbishop of Rorn himself.”
“All right, all right. None of that lip, or I won’t let you pass.”
Nabber smiled his winning smile. “Where do all the merchants enter the city?”
“What’s that to you?”
“I lost my gaffer, that’s what.” Nabber was never caught short of a quick story. “Fur merchant, he is. I wondered where the best place to look for him is.”
“The northeast gate is where all the merchants pass. Two courtyards south is the traders’ market. You might find him there.”
“I’m in your debt, my friend,” said Nabber. “Though I wonder if I might impose upon your extensive knowledge of the city for a moment longer.”
The guard fell for the flattery. “Go on.”
“Well, situated as you are, in a most important post, you must see a lot of the people who enter the city?”
“That I do.”
“Well, there’s an acquaintance of mine, whom I have good reason to believe may have come this way. I wonder if you might have seen him.”
The guard’s face hardened. “I’m not supposed to give out information like that to foreigners. Who passes these gates is Bren’s business, not yours.”
“Suppose I was to tell you that this man has robbed a great deal of money from my gaffer? We both know that there ain’t anyone more wealthy or generous than a fur merchant.” Nabber resisted the urge to speak further and allowed the guard to come to his own conclusions. Which he did. “Reward, is there?”
“Ssh, my friend. Speak that word any louder and half the city will be after it.”
“How big is this reward?”
“I don’t like to mention exact figures, if you know what I mean.” Nabber waited until the guard nodded. “But suffice to say, there’d be enough to set you up real nice for your retirement. Even go to Rom, you could. A man as handsome as yourself is wasted in this city.”
“How do I know you’re speaking the truth?”
“Do I look clever enough to fool you?”
The only answer the guard could possibly give was “No.”
“Right,” said Nabber. “This man I’m looking for is taller than you, but not as lanky. Broad, he is, and well muscled. Blond hair, blue eyes, handsome, if you like that kind of thing. Wearing a cloak like myself, he would be.”
“What would he be doing wearing a cloak like yours?” The guard was suspicious.
“He stole it from my gaffer, of course. My gaffer always likes to dress me like himself, says it makes for better business recognition.” Nabber sent a silent prayer of thanks to the fictional fur merchant who was turning out to be so useful.
The guard took a step back, scratched his chin, looked at Nabber, looked at the ground, looked toward the east. Finally he spoke. “There was a man fitting your description. Entered the city on horseback about five days ago. Tall and blond, he was. Right mean-looking, too.” He thought a moment longer. “And come to think of it, he did have a cloak like yours. I remember the bright red lining.”
It took all of Nabber’s considerable powers of selfcontrol to stop himself from heaving a massive sigh of relief. The memory of Swift’s voice echoed in his ear: “Nonchalance, boy, never show interest. Let them think you’re a fool, rather than know you’re a rogue. “
Nabber shrugged. “Could be our man. Do you happen to know which part of the city he headed for?”
The guard looked a little disappointed at Nabber’s casualness. “There’s no way of knowing that, boy. In a city the size of Bren, a man might go unseen for a lifetime.”
“Five days ago, you say? Is there anywhere in the city where a man with a strong arm and a skill for using weapons might head?”
“In my experience, men like that blond no-hope end up in one of two places: the brothel or the fight pit.”
“Where might I find either of those establishments?”
“On any street corner in the west of the city.”
Nabber was itching to be on his way. “So, my friend, give me your name so I can let my gaffer know who it was who gave me the tip-off.”
“Longtoad.”
“My, my. I see you have a name as handsome as your figure. Well, Longtoad, I’ll be sure to pass on the good word.” Nabber sketched a hasty bow and was about to retreat when the guard laid a hand upon his shoulder, gripping his flesh through the cloak.
“Not so fast, you little devil. I want to know the name of your gaffer the fur merchant-and your own name, for that matter.”
“Steady on the fabric, Longtoad. This cloak cost a fortune.” The guard relaxed his hold. “Now then, my gaffer’s name is Master Beaverpelt, and me, I’m known as Wooly-hair. Just ask any fur trader; the name Beaverpelt is a byword for quality throughout the Known Lands.”
The guard released his grip on the boy. “Beaverpelt. Ain’t never heard a name like that before. You mark my words, boy, if I find you’ve been oiling my rag, I’ll hunt you down, then string you up. Now move along sharpish.”
Nabber saluted the guard and then slipped into the crowd. He crossed the threshold of the east gate and entered the city of Bren. The first thing he did was sniff the air.
Nothing. Where was the smell? Rorn reeked of filth and the sea-where was Bren’s smell? He took another deep breath, drawing the air into his nostrils like a connoisseur. There was no smell. How could Bren call itself a city and yet have no odor of its own? Nabber had been to Toolay, Ness, and Rainhill: they all had their own unique smells. He was disappointed. The stench of a city was its signature; a way to tell the nature of the place and its people. To Nabber’s mind, there was something decidedly furtive about a city that had no smell.
A man jostled against him, muttering curses and wamings. He was tall and dark, his tunic stretching tautly across a finely muscled chest. Nabber couldn’t help himself. With one fast and fluid motion, he reached inside the man’s tunic. His hands closed around a bundle. He snatched his arm back and then turned into the crowd. He didn’t look back. Swift had warned him many times about the dangers of looking back. He didn’t speed his pace, either, once again heeding Swift’s advice: “Be a professional at all times, boy. The moment you break into a run is the moment you admit your guilt. “
Nabber went with the crowd as far as it suited him and then slipped into a timely alleyway. Bren might have no smell, but at least it boasted some decently dark and fiendish passages. Nabber began to feel more at his ease as he walked through the gaps between buildings: this was familiar territory.
He trod paths that had been trodden many times before by people more desperate than himself, and fell under shadows that had cloaked those with more need for concealment than a simple pocket from Rorn. Nabber was right at home. He came across other people lurking in the alleyways and either tipped them a nod if they looked friendly, or averted his eyes if they looked dangerous.
Finally he came upon a suitably isolated recess. Crouching down, he reached in his sack and pulled out the bundle. This was the best part, right before the unraveling, when anticipation met need. With practiced hands he undressed the package. The cold glint of silver met his eye. He was disappointed; better the warm glow of gold. Still, coinage was coinage. Pity about the mark, though, for he had the look of one who held gold somewhere on his person. Probably strapped to his thigh, close to his vitals. Few pockets were ever desperate enough to venture there.
Nabber sighed with the regret and rummaged through the contents of the sack. A lot could be learned about a man from the bundle he carried. This one would have eaten a cold-and Nabber discovered rather tasteless-game pie for dinner. However, the man was used to good things, for the bundle was lined with silk. He’d also been hoping to get lucky, for there was a sheep’s bladder beneath the pie, oiled and ready to use. The man either had an aversion for fatherhood or a fear of the ghones.
Nabber pulled absently on the bladder, deciding its worth. There was no resale value, but he was loath to throw anything away, so he tucked it into his pack. Perhaps he could give it to Tawl when he found him. A handsome man like his friend always had women a’queing. Unfortunately the women who were the most willing were usually the most catching. A man had need of a sheath with girls like that.
Nabber was just about to discard the bundle when something blue and shiny caught his eye. Closer inspection revealed a tiny miniature tucked away in the corner. He freed it from its hiding place and brought it into the light. He whistled in appreciation. The girl in the painting was quite a beauty: golden hair, blue eyes, lips as soft as freshly hung tripe. The dark man with the muscles had a fine taste in ladies, if not food. Flipping the miniature over revealed writing on the other side. Nabber was no scholar, so the text remained unread, but he could recognize crosses that marked kisses as quick as the next man. With a shrug, he pocketed the portrait and turned his eyes to the pie.
Nabber finished it off and wondered what his next move should be. He had need of more money, as his contingency had been sadly depleted due to his stay in Rainhill. Dicing had ever been his downfall, that together with his tendency to order extravagant meals at even more extravagant inns, had rendered him penniless. He’d even had to sell his pony. Though, granted that wasn’t a great sacrifice. Never had there been a more mutually agreeable parting than the one between Nabber and his horse.
So, he needed coinage. And a few well-worn silvers just weren’t enough for a boy with expensive tastes like himself. He also needed to find the knight.
Tawl was somewhere in the city, he was almost certain of it. The guard at the gate had merely confirmed his suspicions. Nabber had followed the knight’s trail for over three weeks now, visiting villages that Tawl had passed through, following paths that Tawl had ridden on. Nabber had talked to countless strangers about the knight, and if they’d seen him pass they remembered a man with golden hair and dangerously blank eyes.
Tawl needed him. It wasn’t in the boy’s nature to ask too many questions, so he didn’t dwell on the reason why. He just knew that the knight was in trouble and required rescuing. Nabber was the one who would step in and do the job. He knew that Tawl had been on some heroic quest, the sort that knights were always on, and he feared that his friend might have given up his duty. Nabber considered it his responsibility to put the knight back on track. It was different for him: once a lowlife, always a lowlife. He had no desire to be anything other than a pocket, unless of course it was to be a rich pocket. But Tawl, well, he was noble and honorable, and it just wasn’t right that he should go astray. Who could tell? By helping his friend, he might be helping himself. Quests were notorious money spinners.
He looked up past the darkened buildings to the sky above. It was already past midday; time to get a move on. In his experience, it was at about this time that merchants, with a full morning of trading behind them and before they’d had a chance to spend their profits in the taverns, had the fullest pockets. Nabber struck a path toward the northeast gate, where, if memory served him, the traders’ market was held. Opportunity beckoned and he was never one to ignore the call.
“I’m just going out for a minute. I need to stretch my legs.” Jack knew Melli would protest.
“But the blizzard’s still raging. You’ll catch your death,” she said. “Can’t you wait and see if it clears up a little first?” She was worried about him, he could tell from the set of her mouth: soft lips drawn to a hard line. Well, she would just have to worry; he needed some air. Four days holed up in a chicken coop had taken their toll. He had to be outside, see the expanse of the land rather than the enclosure of the walls. He needed to be by himself.
He didn’t want to hurt Melli by telling her that, so he said, “Nature calls.”
A flush came to her cheeks, but even her embarrassment at the mention of such an indelicate subject was not enough to forestall a warning. “Don’t venture far.”
Jack couldn’t help but smile-a man could love a woman like that. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I won’t be gone long.” Their eyes met and, as if something in her gaze compelled him, he stretched out his hand. It hung in the air between them until her hand stretched out to meet it. Her fingers were cool and her touch light, but it was enough for Jack, who knew little of such things. He resisted the urge to squeeze and enfold her hand: he didn’t want to risk rejection. So he withdrew quickly and, he knew, awkwardly from her touch.
They had been together many months now, and although shared danger had brought them closer, there would always be a distance between them. She was a noblewoman and he was a baker’s boy, and they could travel hand in hand for a lifetime and still end up a world apart.
Night after night they had spent huddled close with only a stretch of blanket between them. Jack knew how she smelled in the morning; he’d seen her laugh and shout, but never cry. He knew just enough about her to realize that she would never be for him. There would be no future in a relationship between them; love, there might be, but that wouldn’t be enough for either of them. He needed a girl who he could hug and kiss and fight with. A girl with spirit, like Melli, but one who didn’t make him feel as if he were a clumsy country boy.
Jack turned to the door and began to force it back against the wind. A flurry of snow gusted forth into the chicken coop. Jack looked back at Melli before stepping out into the blizzard. She didn’t smile. She stood rigid with the gale blowing at her dark hair. Too beautiful by far for him. The door closed with the cut of the wind the moment he let it go. Biting, terrible cold assaulted him, rife and sparring snow blinded him. He’d only walked a few steps when his foot kicked something hard. He crouched down and felt what it was. The body of the man he’d killed four days ago. It had to be moved. For Melli. He wouldn’t let the first thing she saw once the storm passed be a dead man.
Hands already graying with cold sought out the collar of the dead man’s tunic. The body was embedded deep within the snow and took all of Jack’s strength to free it. With grim determination, he began to drag the body along the ground. The snow was nearly two feet deep and the corpse cleaved through it like a plow.
Another man dead. How many more would he kill? At least this had been a clean death. No taint of sorcery had marked this man’s end. He’d killed with a blade and there was more dignity in the death because of it. Or was he fooling himself? Did it make any difference to the Halcus soldier? Sorcery or blade, he was still dead. The mourning would be the same.
Jack’s arms began to ache. His back felt like it would break. His hands had passed through gray to blue, and he knew enough about the cold to realize that frostbite would soon follow. Dragging the man’s body through the snow was his penance. Master Frallit had told him many times that a man should pay for his mistakes. If he cut too much butter into the dough and it baked closer to a cake than a loaf, the master baker would allow him nothing to eat for a week except the ruined bread. Jack had resented Frallit’s hard ways at the time, but now he grasped on to the idea of atonement with an eagerness born of self-reproach.
He was a baker’s boy, not a murderer. Everything was so different from what he was used to. It was as if his life was no longer under his control. Ever since the morning when he’d burned the loaves, he found himself doing things out of character. He had killed someone for shelter. What gave him the right to put his needs above someone else’s? There was Melli, of course: he would have killed a hundred men to give her safe haven. But if he were honest, it was more than just Melli. Four days back, when he’d forced the door of the chicken coop and found two men poised with knives drawn, he’d discovered something very hard and unemotional inside of himself: the will to survive.
It was what had driven him through the freezing plains of Halcus, and what would make him continue on no matter what he faced. Perhaps the incident with the loaves hadn’t changed him in any way, merely brought something out in him that was already there. His mother was strong. Even toward the end, when her body failed, her strength of will was breathtaking. She refused the help of the physicians and would not take anything to dull the pain that might dull her wits as well.
Only in her case it seemed as if she didn’t want to survive.
Jack’s fingers were frozen to the dead man’s collar, but it was not the cold that chilled to the bone. A fragment of memory, more tenuous than a wisp of snow, filtered down through the accumulated recollections of eight years past. A snatch of conversation, not meant for his ears:
“She’s a tough one, that’s for sure. “
“Aye, but if she won’t let them slice her she’ll be a gonna just the same. “
“Not a chance of that, friend. She won’t even take a poultice to stay the growth, let alone take a knife to cut it out. “
He hadn’t even understood it at the time, and the years had conspired to make him forget, but today, dragging a body to a place fit for the dead, he realized what it meant: his mother had wanted to die. Her will, so much more than a match for his own, had been directed toward death not survival.
The wind keened sharp and relentless. The dead man pulled at his back. He was so weary; there was too much he didn’t understand. If he looked for answers, he found heartache instead. Why had she wanted to die? Was her life in the castle so bad? Or was he just a worthless son? He missed her so much. She was the only person who was truly his, only now it seemed she’d forsaken him. Just as his father had done.
It would be so easy to give everything up, to lie down in the snow beside the dead man and keep him company in the world beyond. Jack stopped for a moment, watching the cool cheek of the horizon, as he tried to swallow the lump in his throat. There was no question, really; he had to continue. Fate was at his heels and it guided his feet forward to the dance.
On Jack walked, the dead man in his wake, back doubled up with the burden.
The wind was with him, bearing him along from the coop. It blustered and howled, hamming up its part in the drama, and the snow formed a backdrop with its silent display. Jack looked back. He was now a fair distance from the little wooden shack. It wasn’t far enough. He couldn’t leave the body within sight of the coop. He owed it to the dead man.
Finally he came upon a copse of trees that were camouflaging a slight depression in the land. He drew close, breath short and ragged from the strain of dragging the body, and saw that a frozen pond formed the center of the dip. This was where he would leave his burden.
He slid down the slope and the dead man followed. The ice was as hard as stone. Jack pushed the body toward the middle of the surface and folded the dead man’s arms across his chest. He stood above him and watched as snow gathered once more upon the cold flesh. The body began to take on the look of a stone carving. The snow shone upon the flesh like silver filings: adorning, ennobling. Satisfied that he had managed to give the man at least a semblance of dignity, Jack turned and scaled the slope.
Only when he reached the top did he allow his hands the shelter of his cloak. As he emerged from the tangle of bush and tree, he spied the coop in the distance. Something dark moving from the west caught his eye. He couldn’t gain perspective for a moment and thought it was a flock of birds, or even a herd of cattle. His vision crystallized, and in that instant his heart missed a beat. The sensation was nothing like the dreamy descriptions given by love poets. It was hard, jolting, throwing his whole body out of kilter, unsettling his very core.
The dark mass was mounted men, the Halcus, and they were heading toward the chicken coop. Toward Melli.
One step forward and then Jack felt the sliver of a blade upon his throat.
“Take another step and you’re dead.”
Melli was beginning to feel worried. Jack had been gone too long. There had been something odd about him when he left, and for one horrible moment she’d had the feeling that she wouldn’t be seeing him again. Such fancies were pure foolishness, she told herself as she paced the meager length of the coop.
The past weeks had been the most strenuous in her life, taking their toll not only from her body but her mind as well. She dreaded to think what the rigors of winter had done to her face and was glad there was no mirror to confirm her suspicions. More important than that, though, was the loss of her peace of mind. Such an overused and undervalued phrase. Peace of mind was as simple as falling asleep and knowing there would be a hot drink waiting when you awoke, and as precious as seeing your worth in the eyes of the ones that you loved. It was, when one got down to the root of it, the assurance of stability. The comfort of knowing things would always be the same. Now, for her, there were no such assurances.
She unplugged the knot hole and looked out onto the blank snow, looking north and then west. She didn’t believe her eyes at first. Although she had looked to the west for the past four days with the sole intent of spotting the enemy, now that she actually saw them coming, they seemed to be an appalling trick of fate. Like a child, she had supposed that watching for them would keep them away. She did not have time to mourn the loss of yet another stolen assurance.
Judging from their distance, she had a minute or two to make ready. Melli could not allow herself to think of Jack, she must think only of herself. She was the measure of her own worth now, and the subtle and unbendable arrogance that only comes to those who are born into a world of high privilege enabled her to value herself highly.
Rummaging through her scant possessions, she found the small food knife that the old woman pig farmer had given her. It was half the size of the pig-gutting knife and not nearly as sharp. There was no sense in her challenging a whole group of men with such a weapon. She decided to conceal the knife and use it later when the odds against her lessened. That was if the odds were given a chance to lessen.
Melli wouldn’t allow herself to think like that. She would not give in to fear. She would meet the enemy with head held high. Let them know that the women of the Four Kingdoms were a force to be reckoned with, just like the men.
She hid the knife in her bodice, thinking luck was once again with her. She was still wearing the old-fashioned dress that the pig farmer had given her. Unlike her own stylish court dresses, this had an out-of-date boned corset. So stiff and dense was the area between waist and breast that the hardness of a small knife might go undetected among the bones.
The noise of the riders could now be heard and Melli grew afraid. Her hands fluttered nervously to her face and then her bodice. Her cloak! She would put on her cloak. She could barely tie the fastening, so violently were her hands shaking. Her stomach was an empty hollow and it pulled at her nerves like hunger.
The door burst open. Two men stood in the threshold and more behind them. “Where is the bastard?” demanded the first, the tallest.
Melli clasped her hands tightly together, tilted her chin, and said with all the bravado she could muster, “Which bastard?”
The man’s face momentarily registered confusion. He was quick to recover his equilibrium. “Don’t trade words with me, girl, lest you’ll speak yourself into the grave.” He dropped his voice an octave lower and Melli recognized the modulated tones of unquestioned authority. “Now then. Tell me where the boy is who killed one of my men.” An abrupt hand gesture brought the second man forward. He was wielding a leather-bound club.
“Why, gentlemen, I was hoping you’d be able to tell me where he is, for I’m damned if I know.” Melli could see surprise on the men’s faces. She seized her advantage and continued. “Walked out on me, he did, just this morning. Stole all my money. When you eventually find him, I’d be glad if you could give him a few extra blows just for me.”
Another man forced his way in-the place was getting decidedly crowded-and Melli recognized him as the one who had escaped from the coop four days back. Her heart sunk as he said, “Don’t believe a word of it, Captain. She cried a warning to the mad devil. She’s in league with him.” A trace of contempt could be seen in the face of the captain as his man spoke.
“Well, girl,” he said. “What have you to say to that?” Melli got the distinct impression he knew she was lying and was merely amusing himself at her expense. She soldiered on regardless. “What is there to say, sir? Have you never disliked a man yet pulled him from the path of a horse anyway?”
The leader grunted. “I see the women of the kingdoms are as slick-tongued as the men are thick-headed.”
“I can’t speak for the men of my country,” said Melli. “But on behalf of the women, I thank you. It must be a nice change for you to talk to a woman who does not whine like a goat.”
The leader burst out laughing at this allusion to the complaining nature usually ascribed to the women of Halcus. He was about to speak when a voice called from behind:
“Captain! There’s tracks in the snow. Looks as if something’s been dragged away.”
“The villain robbed my supplies,” said Melli quickly. “Took a whole winter’s worth of cheeses.” She guessed Jack had done away with the body and knew that now was not a good time to mention it.
The captain ignored her comments. “How old are the tracks?”
“Fresh, I would say, sir. No more than an hour or two old.”
“Well, follow them, you blasted fool! Take an extra five men.” He turned to Melli. “I’ll wait here with this little vixen. The rest of you outside.”
Jack moved his head a fraction to look at his assailant. As he did so, he felt something press against the side of his throat. Only when a warm trickle of blood rolled down his neck did he realize he’d been cut. He was too numb from the cold to feel pain, so he had no way of telling how deep the wound was. A second knife pressed against his back.
“Don’t move, or I’ll kill you.” The voice that spoke had an edge as hard as a blade. Jack stood perfectly still. The only thing he could see of the man was the white of his breath in the cool air.
Jack watched the riders approaching the coop. There were a full score of them. The wind, which had whipped and cut all morning, beating the snow into a frenzy, seemed to take a malicious delight in suddenly calming, allowing him a clear view of the little shack. He held his breath as the riders slowed and dismounted, and then one man kicked the wooden door open. Jack felt a pressure growing within: familiar, loathsome, yet strangely compelling. The taste was in his mouth, like copper, like blood: sorcery. It had been many weeks since he’d last felt its swell. He would not give in to it. As if seconding his unspoken resolution, his attacker jabbed the knife into his back. The press of the blade against his spine halted its flow.
Although he could not see the face of the man, he sensed a tension from him, perhaps in the increasing pressure of the knife. It ocurred to Jack that although he spoke with the harsh tones of the Halcus, the man was not one of the group below and, in fact, did not want to be spotted by them.
Jack looked on as three men entered the coop. He could almost picture the scene. He had no doubt that Melli would meet the Halcus with dignity. She was, above all else, proud. But for all his confidence in her bearing, he knew it would mean nothing to hardened soldiers. They would do whatever they wanted.
At that moment the chicken coop, which was no more than a spot on Jack’s vision, formed the center of his universe. If only he knew what was happening. If only he hadn’t left. The tension became unbearable. He had to go to her. Or at least try.
He sprang forward. Free from the knife for only an instant, his attacker sprang with him. Before Jack knew it, the blade was against his body once more. Strange how the metal was warm despite the cold.
“Don’t think you can run from me.” The voice again, low and hard. “Is the girl in the shack worth losing your life over?”
Jack was just comprehending the threat behind the man’s words when the scene below changed. Six men had mounted their horses and were beginning to follow the dead man’s trail in the snow.
“Come.” The man pushed Jack before him, forcing him in the opposite direction from the approaching riders. Jack caught a glimpse of one of his blades: it was curved and blackened, combining deadliness with show.
The pressure of sorcery which had been so overwhelming only minutes before had now dissipated, leaving a sick feeling in Jack’s stomach. Strangely, he drew courage from its absence; it was better to meet his fate with his body as his sole weapon. Not entirely true. He remembered the piggutting knife tucked into the front of his belt. He would have a weapon after all. With stealth that would make a pickpocket proud, Jack drew his knife. He felt the lick of the blade upon his belly: the edge was still keen.
His attacker was quickening the pace. Hooves could now be heard plowing their way through the virgin snow. They emerged from the cover of the trees and two horses awaited.
“Get on the mare.” The man accompanied this order with a push of his knife. Jack turned, blade in hand, and slashed at him. He was surprised to find a large but portly red-haired man as his foe. “You waste my time, boy,” the man said, a trace of annoyance mixed with something suspiciously like amusement. “Well, come at me if you must, but make it fast. There’s men approaching.”
Jack suddenly felt rather foolish. He had no skill with the blade, and the man before him, although heavyset, seemed to have all the confidence and skill of a master. He moved his substantial weight from foot to foot with the grace of a dancer. Both short knife and curved sword drew subtle shapes- of encouragement in the air. “Come, boy, don’t prolong the inevitable.”
Jack lunged forward, pig-gutting knife at what he hoped to be a threatening angle. The curved blade knocked the knife from his hand with a bone-shattering jolt. In that instant the short knife was upon his throat.
The man shook his head. “You shouldn’t have been distracted by the sword, boy. It’s the short knife that will always find you.” He turned his head, intent on listening for the advancing riders. They were close now. “Well, I’m afraid I’m going to have to take drastic measures.” With a flip of his wrist, the curved blade jumped into the air, spun around, and then landed blade in palm. Jack watched as the short knife was drawn back. Then unexpectedly, he felt a powerful blow to the back of his head. His skull cracked loudly, and the world began to fade away. The last thing he heard before he passed out was the man saying: “Of course, you should never have been fooled by the short knife. It’s the sword that will always get you.”
“So,” said the captain, “now that we’re alone, perhaps you can tell me what a Four Kingdom’s noblewoman is doing roaming around Halcus.” He permitted his mouth the curve of smugness, while his fingers traced the line of his mustache, reworking the grease and making it gleam once more.
Melli was beginning to regret her flippant manner; all her clever words had led to this. If she hadn’t piqued his interest, she would probably be outside being gagged and bound, and judging from her previous experiences with men, that would most definitely be preferable.
The coop now seemed unbearably small. The captain, leathers creaking with every breath, filled the room with the force of his presence rather than the fact of his body.
“Your tongue appears to have lost its speed,” he said. “Am I to take it that you can’t put on a performance without an audience?”
Melli knew the danger in being thought a noblewoman of the enemy. She would be tortured and raped, then when there was little of her left, she would be ransomed. Every day the enemy waited on the payment would mean one less finger. Two years ago the Lady Varella had been kidnapped from her husband’s estates along the River Nestor. When she had finally been returned, she had only two fingers left. Three months later the woman had taken her life. Unable to grasp a dagger or measure poison, she had thrown herself into the bullpen and had been gored on the homs of her husband’s mightiest bull. Melli shuddered at the remembrance. She would not be returned home fingerless.
She smiled coquettishly and thrust forward her bosom. “Why, sir, you do me an honor thinking me nobly born. Though of course my grandfather’s uncle on my mother’s side was said to be nephew of a squire.” Melli judged a simpering giggle was in order and acted accordingly. “So, as you can see, I do have some claims on the blood.”
“You expect me to believe this?” The captain’s handsome face grew dangerous. “You think me foolish enough not to know when I’m in the presence of a woman of the blood? You need to work on your acting, my lady. Your voice gives everything away.” He moved toward Melli and grasped her arm. The smell of leather and sweat surrounded her. “Give me the truth now, or pay the price for your lies.”
Melli took shallow breaths. She didn’t want to draw in his scent: such a personal thing, the smell of another. “You are a clever man, sir.” Melli stretched a slow smile, giving herself time to think. “I am indeed a noblewoman … of sorts.” She knew she had to devalue herself, to become a less alluring prize. The Lady Varella’s husband had been a wealthy man, with an even wealthier family. “I am the daughter of Erin, Lord of Luff.” Melli picked a well-known, poverty-stricken lord as her father. Besides his poverty, Luff was famous for his promiscuity and had fathered many bastards. “I am not of his wife’s issue,” she said, bowing her head.
“Luff’s bastard, eh?” The captain squeezed her arm tighter. “Then what are you doing in Halcus?”
“I’m on my way to Annis. My father has a cousin there who is a dressmaker, and I am to be apprenticed.”
“If your father thinks so little of you to send you to a trade, why then would he bother to have you versed in courtly manners?”
“We are not barbarians in the kingdoms.”
The captain raised his hand and slapped her. Although she’d been expecting it, the blow still sent her reeling. She fell back against the wall of the coop and landed awkwardly in the matted straw. Her cheek was bright with pain, and when blood flowed to her skin it stung like vinegar.
“Watch your tongue, bitch.” The captain stood over her, his elegant mustache framing his cruel mouth. “Seems you are of little worth, I best take my rewards where I find them.”
He leaned over her, his leathers straining and creaking, his mouth wet with saliva and mustache grease.
Melli was cornered. The walls were a prison, and the scratch of the dry straw was a torture. His mouth was on hers and tooth knocked against tooth. His lean tongue was in her mouth; its presence revolted her and she bit down upon it. The captain’s free arm whipped back. Pain exploded in her abdomen. He punched her again, lower this time, in the vulnerable flesh between her hips.
“Don’t act like a coy virgin with me,” he said. “A daughter of a bastard has no business with shows of virtue. You’ve had men aplenty before.” His hands were running down her bodice, searching for the ties.
The knife! She couldn’t let him find the knife. She had to distract him.
“I am a virgin,” she cried. To her own ears, this, the first truth that she had uttered in his presence, had the clear ring of conviction about it.
The captain backed away, almost imperceptibly. He reached out and took her chin in his hand, tilting her face to meet his. “Look at me and say that again.”
“I am a virgin.” Melli could not understand the man’s sudden change of demeanor.
“I believe you speak the truth.” He stood up and smoothed down his leather tunic. “So not all the women of the kingdoms rut like beasts, eh?” His eyes sharpened from the dullness of lust to the brightness of greed. Melli had lived long enough with her father to know when a man’s face showed the knowledge of profit to be made. She was suddenly nervous, fearing that she had made a terrible error. “What’s it to you that I am a virgin?”
“I’m not about to answer questions from a bastard’s daughter.” A banging at the door diverted his attention. “Come.”
The man who wielded the leather-bound club entered the coop. He spied Melli on the floor and smirked.
“Get up, bitch!” commanded the captain. He then turned his attention back to his second. “Have you picked up the murderer?”
“No. He got away.”
“What d’you mean, got away?” The captain’s voice was chilling in its calmness. “How can someone on foot outrun six mounted men?”
“He had some help. A red-haired man had two horses waiting. They rode like the devil.”
“Red-haired, you say?” The captain’s hand was back smoothing his mustache.
The second nodded. “There was something strange about the whole business. The boy was slumped over his horse.”
“Was he wounded?”
“It’s hard to say.”
“You mean you never got close enough to get a good look.” The captain shot a glance at Melli. “I suppose it would be useless to ask you about this red-haired man?”
Melli was experiencing a whirl of emotions: wonder at Jack escaping, worry that he might be hurt, curiosity over who the red-haired man might be, and fear about what bearing the incident might have on her own circumstances. To make things worse, the pain in her stomach and lower abdomen was excruciating. “I know nothing of a red-haired man.”
“Mm.” The captain appeared to make a decision. “Very well. For now we’ll head back to the village. We’ll mount a proper search for the boy once the storm gives.”
“Why the rush, Captain?” said the second. “Why not finish your business here?” He looked pointedly at Melli. “And then maybe you’ll be generous enough to share your fortune.”
“No one will touch the girl. Understand, no one.” The captain eyed the puzzled face of his second. “She is a virgin, Jared.”
The second nodded with comprehension. “A mighty fine-looking one, at that.”
“She’s been court trained, too.”
The second whistled. “Quite a prize.”
The captain turned his attention back to Melli. “Can I trust you to ride on your own, or will I have to bind you like a thief?”
The exchange between the two men had filled Melli with apprehension. The combination of worry and punches made her feel sick. She was determined to show neither fear nor pain. “I will ride alone,” she said.
Three
“I tell you, Grift, being at the back is the worst thing. All we do all day is walk through piles of horse dung.”
“Aye, Bodger. I know what you mean, but horse dung has its uses.”
“What uses are those, Grift?”
“It can stop a woman from getting with child, Bodger.”
“How does it work, Grift? Does it stop your seed from hitting the mark?”
“No, Bodger. Once it’s up there, it smells so bad that it puts a man right off.” Grift chuckled merrily. “Ain’t nothing like not doing it for ensuring you won’t become an unwilling father.”
Bodger tried out his new skeptical look: raising his left eyebrow, while keeping his right one level.
“What’s the matter, Bodger? You look like you’re in the throes of painful indigestion.”
Bodger quickly changed to an expression he was more comfortable with. “Mighty queer thing-Maybor’s horse dropping dead the other day.”
“Aye, but that wasn’t the strangest thing to happen that morning, Bodger. Did you notice the way that Baralis near fell off his horse right about the time that Maybor’s stallion hit the deck?”
“Aye. I saw that hooded giant Crope lift him right up and lay him on the ground. It was just as well that the captain decided to make camp then and there, for Lord Baralis was one man who wasn’t fit for a full day’s ride.”
The attention of both men was diverted by the sound of swift horses approaching from behind.
“It’s the two rear watches, Grift. Looks like they’re bringing someone in.”
“Damn! I hope it’s not trouble with the Halcus.”
“No, Grift. The third man’s no Halcus.” Bodger twisted in his saddle to get a better look at the approaching riders. “He’s royal guard.”
“Are you sure, Bodger?”
“Blue and gold under his cloak, Grift.”
“I tell you, Bodger, if a lone member of the guard has been sent to catch up with us, it means trouble.”
“What sort of trouble, Grift?”
“The worst sort, Bodger.”
The two men fell into silence as the three riders passed them. The face of the newcomer was grim and unreadable in the thin light of morning. Grift saw a black cloaked man break off from the column and make his way to the fore, where the riders were headed. “I see Lord Baralis is anxious to be let in on the news, Bodger,” he murmured.
The column, abuzz with the arrival of the messenger, slowed to a halt. Grift looked on as the riders approached the front, where Maybor and his captains rode. The riders came to a halt. The messenger saluted. Words were spoken. Lord Baralis approached, and he and Lord Maybor were drawn aside by the messenger. Grift had a clear view of all three men, but could not hear what words were exchanged. Both lords looked tense and drawn. After hearing the man speak, Maybor nodded. The messenger drew closer to the column. In a loud and ringing voice, he proclaimed:
“The king is dead. Long live the king. Long live Kylock.”
Jack was handed a chicken leg. “Eat,” commanded the red-haired man, who he now knew to be called Rovas.
Jack had just awakened to find himself in a small threeroomed cottage. A fire burned brightly in the hearth and there were pots on the boil. From the light stealing in through the cracks in the shutters, Jack could tell it was midmorning. The collar of his tunic was rubbing against the cut on his neck, and his head was splitting with pain.
He looked at the leg of chicken. It seemed a strange breakfast, but he knew little of the ways of the Halcus. Most people in the kingdoms thought the . Halcus were foul mouthed barbarians. He took a bite of the chicken: it was tender and sharply spiced.
“Good, eh?” prompted Rovas, who was salting his own portion with an admirable lack of restraint. Salt was obviously not as expensive here as it was in the kingdoms. The red-haired man noticed Jack’s gaze. “Not much salt in the kingdoms these days, eh?” he said. “What with those damned knights of Valdis controlling the supply, and then the war. . .” He shook his head. “There’s not enough salt around to keep a powderer in business.”
Jack, noting a certain smugness to the man’s words, said, “You appear to be faring well.”
“Isn’t that always the way, though? A war means different things to different people. Take me: never had so much salt on my table since the war began. It’s one of the perks. Here.” Rovas pushed the salt bowl toward Jack. “By rights you should take some, seeing’s this comes from a shipment that was bound for the kingdoms.”
“So you’re a thief?”
The man laughed: a robust and glorious sound. “Yes, you could say that. You could also say I’m a brigand, a bandit, a smuggler, a black-marketeer. Take your pick. I prefer to be called a beneficiary, though.”
“Beneficiary?”
“Of the war.” Rovas smiled, showing large, white teeth. “This war is one big wheat field ripe for the harvest. It would be a shame to let all the grain go rotten on the stalk, so I farm off the excess.”
Jack knew self-serving rhetoric when he heard it. “Stealing other people’s grain is the work of a weasel, not a farmer.”
Rovas laughed again. “A weasel, eh? Just one more name to add to my list.”
The red-haired man settled back to enjoy his breakfast. Despite his good humor, Jack could detect a certain nervousness in his bearing. His eyes kept flicking to the door as if he were expecting somebody. And, indeed, a few minutes later the door opened. A woman walked in. She was mature in years, but tall and finely featured. Disappointment flashed across Rovas’ face.
“Have you seen any sign of her?” he asked the woman. “No.” They exchanged a tense look. The woman’s face held accusation. Her hand twisted the fabric .of her dress.
“I shouldn’t have left her there,” Rovas said.
“Doing things you should not is quite a habit with you,” retorted the woman.
Jack tried to grasp what was familiar in the woman’s voice. She didn’t sound like Rovas, she sounded more like … Melli! That was it. She had the same kind of voice as the women at court. An accent like his own, but with the clipped and modulated tones of a noblewoman. He wondered how a woman of the kingdoms had come to live in the lap of the enemy.
“I begged her to ride at my back.” said Rovas, “but she insisted I go alone.”
“It was a close call?”
“Not so close that my horse couldn’t have borne two.” The woman’s knuckles were white as she grasped her skirts. “How many were there?”
“A score turned up at the coop. Six came after me and the boy.” Rovas had apparently lost his appetite; he dropped the half-eaten chicken leg on the platter. “The last I saw of her, she was hiding in the gorse. It was freezing out there, Magra. If the soldiers didn’t find her, the frost certainly did.” He stood up and made his way to the fire.
“Do you think she will do anything foolish?” The woman looked quickly toward Jack.
Rovas’ eyes followed her gaze. “I hope not. Someone else can do the job now.”
Jack saw the look the two exchanged: it was loaded with silent messages. A conspirator’s glance. He was beginning to feel wary. He wanted to be back with Melli again, to be on his way.
The woman called Magra poured herself a cup of steaming holk. She warmed her hands on its curves. Turning toward Jack, she said, “So this is the murderer?”
She looked at him closely, even to the point of drawing a candle nearer. Jack felt uncomfortable under her scrutiny, but made a point of meeting her gaze. After a moment she spoke up. “You have a look about you, boy, that is familiar to me.”
Jack dreaded the coming question. In his experience remarks like that always led to inquiries about a person’s family. He had no intention of sharing the shame of his parentage with the aloof and self-possessed woman standing next to him. He was saved the task of evasion by Rovas. “Come, Magra,” he said. “Sit down. You won’t make your daughter come any faster by bothering the boy.”
The woman gave him one final look. Despite the coldness of her eyes, Jack found himself feeling sorry for her. She was worried about her daughter, and he was merely providing a distraction. Sighing heavily, the woman lost a measure of her rigid poise; instantly appearing older and smaller. Drawing close to the fire, she sat upon a three-legged stool. Rovas crossed over to her and laid his huge hand upon her shoulder. Magra drew away from the touch, and Rovas was left standing awkwardly with his arm held out. He turned and rested his weight against the fireplace. As he did so, the woman’s hand flitted up for an instant in a tiny gesture of reconciliation that went unseen. The two stayed that way for some time, the candle burning down a notch, the fire blazing on.
The door latch broke the spell. It rattled, then lifted, and a girl stepped into the room. No, once in the light, she was more than a girl. She was a woman. Jack looked on as Rovas and Magra rushed over to her. Rovas reached her first, his arms reaching out to envelop her in a bear hug. She was so slight, easily mistakable for a young girl, but Jack saw that she was older than he, probably by three or four years. She turned to her mother. There was a formality between the two women that was absent between her and Rovas. Still, there was a moistness to the mother’s eyes. “I have been too long at the fire,” she said when her daughter noticed.
“So,” said Rovas, beaming brightly. “What kept you?” All three broke into an uneasy laugh. To Jack, it was as if he were not in the room. He felt as if he was intruding; these were not his friends, these were not his joys to share. If anything, the arrival of the girl had made him angry. They were all right. The girl had made it back safely, their lives were unchanged. What about Melli?
“So, you see,” the girl was saying, “I had to wait it out overnight, or the guard set to watch the chicken coop might have spotted me.”
The girl had been within sight of the chicken coop! Things were beginning to fall into place: Rovas had brought him here on her horse, so she had been forced to hide from the soldiers, and then make it back on foot. Questions jumped to Jack’s lips. Why had they taken him? Why had they acted against their own countrymen? And what did they want with him? More important than all that was the fact that the girl who just walked in had spent the night near the chicken coop.
“What happened to the girl in the coop?” he demanded, surprised at the venom in his voice.
All three turned to look at him. Jack caught the quick exchange of glances between Rovas and the girl-a warning given and received.
“She is dead,” said the girl. “The captain ordered her to be clubbed to death, as befits an accomplice to murder.”
Melliandra. His daughter would have been queen this day. What a fool she had been to run away. What a fool he had been to let her get away. She was a jewel, cut for royalty, polished for power, a fitting adornment for a king. He had not seen her in so long; how he missed her quick wit and sparkling eyes.
Feeling old and saddened, Maybor drew his cloak close. The snow had turned to sleet and was driving into his face. He was waiting for the tents to be erected. The tidings that the messenger brought were of such import that it was decided to set up camp then and there, and travel no more this day. This arrangement suited Maybor nicely; not only did he want to question the messenger further about the circumstances leading to the king’s death, but also, since the fall from his horse and his subsequent painful landing in a thorn bush, riding had become rather painful. He was quite sure the physician hadn’t pulled out all the thorns from his backside. It would be just like their kind. If they couldn’t kill you outright with their cures, they always had other ways to make you suffer.
As for his horse dropping dead under him, well, just wait till he returned to Harvell. The horse dealer who’d sold him the stallion would find himself in line for a flogging if he didn’t return the two hundred golds. Maybor grunted, sending whitened breath into the air. He would see to it that the dealer was flogged even after the money was returned; someone had to pay for his humiliation.
Maybor glanced toward Baralis. The black-cloaked lord was hovering like a vulture. It was obvious that he wanted to be the first to question the messenger. He probably supposed that as king’s chancellor he had that right, but he, Maybor, was head of this party and he would decide the rules.
The steward came forward and informed him his tent was ready. Maybor instructed the man to fetch the messenger as soon as he was refreshed and out of his riding clothes.
“But, sir,” said the steward, “Lord Baralis has requested his presence first.”
Maybor pulled a gold coin from his doublet and pressed it into the soft flesh of the man’s palm. “Here. See to it that the messenger comes to me first.” The steward nodded and dashed off. Loyalty was one means of ensuring one’s orders were carried out. Gold was another.
He stepped into his tent and set about stripping off his outer clothes. Just as he was struggling with the awkward back fastenings of his tunic, Baralis entered.
“Should I call a servant to help you?” he said, moving forward, his lips parting to show a rare glimpse of tooth. “I can see you’re having trouble with those laces. I must say, I find it quite admirable the way you endure being laced into a garment like a girl.” Baralis crossed over to the low table that had been set with food and drink, and poured himself a glass of wine.
Maybor was furious, but he had enough presence of mind to realize that he would look quite ridiculous getting angry while only half-dressed. He settled for an indignant snort and hurriedly donned one of his fur-lined robes.
In the wake of restored dignity came anger. “What in Borc’s name are you doing here?” he demanded. “Leave my tent this instant.”
“Or else?” Baralis didn’t bother to look up. He was intent upon choosing a piece of dried fruit.
Maybor hated the cool arrogance of the man. “Come, now, Baralis. Is your memory so short that you can’t recall how handy I am with a sword?”
“My memory is faultless, Maybor. However I don’t perceive an old man with a sword to be much of a threat.”
Old man! Maybor was prevented from issuing a scathing reply by the arrival of the messenger. The young man had changed his clothes and shaven his beard.
“I am pleased to find you both here,” he said tactfully. “Yes, it was good of Lord Maybor to offer his tent for this meeting,” said Baralis. “Would you care for some refreshment?”
Maybor did not like this one bit. Baralis was acting like a benevolent host, and by doing so was giving the messenger the idea that he was in charge. Maybor decided to play the king’s chancellor at his own game.
“Seeing as you are playing mother, Baralis, pour me a glass of wine and slice me some venison.” He watched with glee as Baralis was obliged to comply with his request.
“Such thin slices. I can see you have no taste for red meat.” Baralis handed the platter to him. The meat was tough, but the look of indignation on Baralis’ face was tenderizer enough.
“So, tell me, young man. What are you called?” Maybor was not going to allow Baralis to take the lead again.
“My name is Durvil, sir.” The young man looked nervous. The undercurrent of hostility in the tent had not gone unnoticed.
“Well, Durvil. Tell me the exact manner of the king’s death.”
“He died in his sleep, my lord. A most peaceful death by all accounts. He was found by the Master of the Bath in the morning. He was already stiff and cold.”
“Was the Master of the Bath present in the king’s chamber all through the night?” asked Baralis.
“The Master of the Bath sleeps in a room just off the king’s chamber, my lord.”
“Foul play wasn’t suspected?”
“No, Lord Baralis. No one could gain access to the king’s chamber without being spotted by the royal guard.”
“But still, the Master of the Bath was asleep all night?”
“Yes.”
Maybor wondered why Baralis was so concerned with the possibility of foul play. The king had been a doddering, slavering invalid for over five years now; it was no surprise that he had finally done the decent thing and dropped dead. “Exactly how many days ago did this happen?” he asked. “A week after you left, sir.”
“So the king has been dead almost three weeks, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How did the queen take the news?” asked Baralis. Maybor was rankled; the king’s chancellor was asking better questions than he.
“The queen was most distressed. She locked herself up with the body and would not let anyone tend to it for over a day. In the end, the king had to order that she be taken away by force.”
The king. It was a shock to hear it: Kylock now a king. “Is the queen well? She is not being held?” Baralis again, always rooting deeper.
“No, sir. The king would not do such a thing to his mother.” There was indignation in the messenger’s words. “already the new king was commanding a measure of loyalty. The day I left, His Majesty was bidding her a fond farewell.”
“Farewell?”
“Yes. The queen elected to leave the court and retire to her castle in the Northlands.”
“Does it not strike you as strange that a woman, no longer young, would risk her health by embarking on such a long journey in the frozen grip of winter?”
Maybor had to admit that Baralis had a point there.
“No, sir. Kylock assured the court that it was what she wanted. He sent a handsome detachment of the royal guard to escort her.”
“Hmm.” Baralis allowed this skeptical syllable to hang in the air a moment before saying, “And’ what of Kylock? Does he still wish the proposed betrothal between himself. and Catherine of Bren to go ahead?”
“Yes, indeed, my lord. He is most anxious for the union.”
The look of relief on Baralis’ face was fleeting but unmistakable.
“Surely now that Kylock is king, he has no need for two envoys?” An idea was beginning to form in Maybor’s mind. “His Majesty expressly bid me state that he still wanted both of you to serve as his envoys.”
“_I am king’s envoy,” said Maybor, feeling rather pleased with himself. “Lord Baralis is prince’s envoy. Only there is no longer any prince.”
“I beg your pardon, Lord Maybor,” said Baralis, “but I believe I was appointed Kylock’s envoy.”
“Did the king express any wishes on the matter of who between us would take precedence?” Maybor was thinking that if Kylock had said nothing on the matter, that would mean things would go on as they were, with him as the superior envoy.
“King Kylock expressed the wish that you sort out such matters amicably between yourselves. He is confident in both your abilities to strike a favorable contract.”
Maybor was not entirely happy with this reply, and he expected Baralis felt the same way. His confidence was still high, though. He was, after all, king’s envoy. He took a deep draught of wine and settled back amidst the silken cushions. He was surprised by Baralis’ next question. “What were Kylock’s first actions upon becoming king?”
“The king did everything expected of him, my lord. He kept vigil in the great hall and prayed for God’s guidance.”
“I don’t want to know about all the ceremonies he was obliged to perform for show. Has he passed any laws? Taken any actions? Ordered any executions?” Maybor detected a certain anxiety behind Baralis’ words.
“I was sent out two days after the king’s death.” The messenger’s tone was one of subtle reprimand. “Kylock had not taken any actions. He was deep in mourning for his father.”
“What of the war?” persisted Baralis.
“I believe the king did express the wish that the war finally be won.”
Baralis, having squeezed this information out of the messenger, seemed to withdraw into himself. Maybor couldn’t figure out what was so important about the statement. Surely it was only fitting that Kylock state his commitment to winning the war with the Halcus. If things had turned out differently, and he had been Kylock’s father-inlaw, he would have urged the new king to win the war as quickly as possible. In fact, it was high time the Halcus were sent back to their filth-ridden hovels once and for all. He had missed too many apple-growing seasons because of them.
“If you will excuse me, my lords, I will retire,” said the messenger. “I have ridden a long journey and am weary to the bone.”
Maybor nodded his assent, and the messenger bowed and then left.
Baralis stood up, smoothing his robes with his crooked hands. “I bid you good day, Lord Maybor,” he said with a thin show of courtesy. As he passed by Maybor, he forced something cool and smooth into the lord’s hands. “I believe you dropped this earlier.”
After he’d left, Maybor opened his palm. In it was a gold coin. He did not need to look at it closely to know it was the same one he had given to the steward outside the tent an hour before.
Tavalisk was eating blood pudding. True, it was a peasant dish and therefore low on his list of culinary favorites, but every now and then he felt the need to delve into the fare of his childhood. His servants knew nothing about this, of course. He told them he occasionally ate such things as blood pudding and tripe to feel empathy for the peasants who were forced to live on such foods. He made sure this excuse was well publicized, and what had been a liability-his occasional yearning for foods from his impoverished youth-had now turned into an asset. The people of Rom admired his attempts to eat as they ate; it added to his reputation as a man of the people. And Rom was a city that was at the mercy of its people.
Tavalisk cut himself a portion of the pudding, marveling in its rich, black color. Blood, when dripped from a carcass, usually a freshly slaughtered lamb, was stirred over a flame until it thickened and turned black. Chunks of fat and seasonings were added, and the ingredients were then stuffed into a casing and boiled. When prepared correctly, the pudding should have a dense grainy texture that spoke of the grave.
Tavalisk spit out a chunk of fat. He was only interested in the blood.
The archbishop knew he should be a happy man; the interfering old fool Bevlin was finally out of the way. The wiseman had been a thom in his side for years. Only now he found himself feeling rather apprehensive about the future: Bevlin was gone, events in Bren were moving swiftly, and the Knights of Valdis were a constant thom in his side. Trouble that had been simmering for months, even years, seemed close to coming to the boil.
More and more, Tavalisk found his thoughts heading north toward Bren. The coming drama would be staged in that most deadly of cities. If Marod was right, he would have a leading part in what was to come. A tiny smile pulled at the corner of the archbishop’s mouth. If Marod was wrong, then damn him! He’d still steal the show anyway.
A knock sounded and Gamil entered carrying Tavalisk’s cat. Gamil’s face was sporting ag vicious and still bleeding scratch.
“I finally located your cat, Your Eminence.”
“What took you so long? You’ve been gone for hours.”
“The cat was hiding on the compost heap at the far end of the gardens, Your Eminence. It was most reluctant to be brought back.”
The archbishop tempted the cat forward with a morsel of pudding. “Really, Gamil, it’s most inconsiderate of you to bleed on my best silk rug.”
Gamil hastily daubed the blood from his face with the corner of his robe. “I apologize for bleeding, Your Eminence.”
“Good. Now, what news have you?”
“Well, our spies have tracked the knight as far as Bren. Apparently the young man is not acting like himself.”
“Who, pray tell, is he acting like, then?” Bren again: its very name was enough to make the archbishop’s heart beat faster. He reluctantly pushed the dish of pudding to one side; his physician had told him he was slightly overweight and should consider eating less. Advised him to take up music instead. Music, indeed!
“He’s acting like a scoundrel, Your Eminence. Womanizing, drinking, brawling: causing trouble with every step.”
“So he’s actually having some fun for a change. He needed to loosen up a little, if you ask me. He was a little too noble for his own good.” Tavalisk lifted a pudgy arm to the light. The porcelain-pale flesh wobbled like aspic.
“You don’t think me fat, do you, Gamil?”
“No, Your Eminence. You have a most. . .” Gamil paused as he searched for the right phrase, “. . . a most magnitudinous bearing.”
“Magnitudinous.” The archbishop liked the sound of the word on his lips. “I think you’re right, Gamil. I’m a long way from fat, I’m magnitudinous.” He favored his aide with a smile. “So, back to other matters. What else have you for me this day?”
“Not much, Your Eminence. The young boy is still following the knight, and we still don’t know why Larn arranged the assassination of Bevlin.”
“Really, Gamil, sometimes I think you have the mental capacity of that pudding over there. It’s obvious to me why Lam had Bevlin bumped off. Bevlin had been trying to put an end to the practices on the island for years now. The old fool was never happy unless he was imposing his moral values upon others. Personally, I think there is nothing wrong with being bound to a rock. I hear they get fed regular meals.”
“Your Eminence is a great humanitarian.”
“Alas, Gamil, it is a weight I have to bear.” Tavalisk took a swing at the cat, sending it flying into the air. If he couldn’t have any more pudding, then neither could his cat. “Any news of the knights?”
“Tyren is said to be fuming over the expulsions, Your Eminence. He may not take things as passively as we thought.” –
“We thought, Gamil. We thought no such thing. I thought they would be likely to treat the expulsions as a gauntlet thrown in their face, and it seems I was right. They will rise to the challenge.”
“That could mean war, Your Eminence.”
“Perhaps. We will have to wait and see how the north reacts.” The archbishop smiled. “Anyway, I fear the whole thing may have been fated from the start.”
“What gives Your Eminence cause for such thought?” Tavalisk looked at Gamil a moment, considering. His fingers strayed to the book on his desk. These days Marod was never far from his reach. His aide looked a little too eager for Tavalisk’s liking, so he shrugged negligently.” ‘Tis nothing, merely a hunch,” he said. “You must never forget that I am archbishop, Gamil, and therefore blessed with divine insight from time to time.” He was not ready to share his revelation just yet. “Be sure to keep a careful eye on Valdis and Bren in the coming months, Gamil.”
“Certainly, Your Eminence. If there is nothing further, I will take my leave.”
“Just a quick word of advice before you go, Gamil. I’d get that cut seen to, if I were you. With a face such as yours, you can ill afford yet another disfigurement.”
The door opened, and something was thrown at her. Melli panicked for a moment, thinking it a knife or a club. The object missed and landed on the ground beside her. It was a loaf of bread. Her captors were being most generous with their food. She had already been served three meals that day. Melli got the distinct impression she was being fattened like a feast-day goose. The way they were going, she’d be served buttermilk and pig fat next, to promote a shiny coat.
Melli was in a small, dark root cellar. She was alone and bitterly cold. She had been brought here the day before. The company had ridden up to a large garrison, and the captain had led her beneath the innermost building. He left strict orders with the guards to keep her well fed and not to come near her. The guards had complied. She had only seen their shadowy forms in the doorway as they pushed platters of food into the cellar.
She had spent a cold and lonely night huddled in a corner for warmth. Her one comfort was that at least Jack was free. Melli had noticed how little he liked being holed up in the chicken coop for a few days. To be stuck here, with no power to open the door, might have been too much for him.
Not for her, though. She was getting quite used to captivity. One way or another, she had been a captive all her life.
Melli knew she was lucky. She had talked herself out of the fate of Lady Varella. Whatever happened next, she could take comfort in the fact that she would have all ten fingers left to deal with it. Melli tore open the loaf and began to chew on the rubbery and over-yeasted bread. For the first time it occurred to her that what happened to Lady Varella was as much the fault of the kingdoms as the Halcus. If her husband had welcomed her back lovingly, instead of making her feel like a useless, hideous invalid, then she wouldn’t have been driven to suicide. A woman in the kingdoms was only as valuable as her appearance, and a woman with two fingers couldn’t even make herself useful at the spinning wheel-as was expected of those with no claim to beauty. So Varella had no value, and she knew it, and did the only decent thing she could do: remove the burden from her husband and family.
Melli heard the scuttle of a cockroach. As a child she’d been afraid of them. It was considered becoming for a lady to make a pretty show of terror whenever an insect was spotted.
Young girls even went so far as to choose a specific insect that they simply could not bear the sight of. The smaller and more pathetic the insect, the more refined the lady. Melli stomped on the creature with her foot. Judging from the substantial cracking noise, it must have been a big one.
The door opened again. What next, she thought, a five-course dinner? A man stepped into the doorway; he was haloed by the light. The creaking of leathers told her what her eyes could not see: it was the captain.
“I hope my men are treating you well,” he said. “About as well as a farmer treats his prize heifer.”
The captain laughed and stepped into the room. “Borc, ’tis cold in here. Have they refused you blankets?”
“I never asked.”
“By my leave, you are a proud wench! It will prove your downfall if you do not stay the flow.”
“If you have come here to exchange character flaws with me,” said Melli, “then I suggest arrogance as one of yours.”
The captain laughed once more. His hand stole to his gleaming mustache, which Melli was beginning to suspect served to hide less than perfect teeth.
She was desperate to know what was going to happen to her, but didn’t want to betray her anxiety to the captain. Instead, she said, “I hope you don’t plan to keep me here long, as the dark robs me of my appetite and good looks. I’m sure you wouldn’t like an ugly, scrawny stray on your hands.”
“My dear lady, you do yourself an injustice. I would say your beauty is enhanced by the dark, like a wine in a cellar.”
“Some wines turn to vinegar if left too long.”
“You will not be left too long. By the morrow you will be on your way.”
“Which way is that?”
“Eastward is the usual route.” The captain shrugged. “Whatever way, it is no concern of yours.”
“How so?” Melli was beginning to feel anger at his smugness.
“Spoils of war, my dear. You’re mine to do with how I please.” With that the captain executed a singularly contemptuous bow and walked over to the door. “And it pleases me to make a healthy profit.” He stepped from the room and closed and locked the door behind him.
Melli’s hand stole toward her side. She felt the fabric of her dress and then the hardness of the boned corset. Just above her waist, her fingers found what they’d been searching for: the knife. It was still there, pressed against her rib cage. Blood-warm and metal-smooth, it was now her only comfort; whatever happened next, at least she had a blade.
Four
“Rotten lamb! Rotten pork! Bring your rotten meat here!” Nabber was intrigued by this call and pushed through the crowds toward the man who was shouting. “What d’you want with rotten meat?” he asked. Nabber was always open to the possibility of a new ploy.
“Have you got any?”
“No.”
“Well, don’t stand around wasting my time then.”
“I could get some, though, if you make it worth my while.”
“Don’t be stupid, boy. There’s no money in rotten meat., It’s charity. For the lepers.”
“You give your lepers rotten meat?” The man nodded and Nabber continued, admiringly, “You treat your lepers well in Bren, we give ’em nothing in Rom.”
“The duke is famous for his good works.” The man smiled the smile of the morally superior and urged Nabber along.
Nabber was beginning to like Bren. At first it had seemed like a cold fish of a city when compared to his beloved Rom, but it was beginning to grow on him. Now that he’d been in the city for a few days, he realized he had been wrong about there being no smell. Bren did have an odor: a subtle festering. Once his young nostrils finally picked up on this he began to feel decidedly more at home. In fact, he was now starting to think that there was really little difference between the two cities. Bren was just cleverer when it came to hiding its flaws.
Of course the cold was an entirely different matter. He just wasn’t bom for the snow. True, a man could wear a most handsome cloak in the cold, but it just wasn’t enough.
Thanks to a well-to-do but unsuspecting salt merchant, he had managed to procure some rather fine pigskin gloves. They were far too big, however, and hung limply on his hands like just-milked cow’s udders. So he didn’t wear them. He prided himself on being well turned out: Swift would have expected no less.
He had the beginnings of a healthy contingency once more. Bren was an affluent city. The traders’ market was proving to be fertile ground. Oh, Bren had pockets of its own, but from what he’d seen, they were sadly lacking in finesse. A quick snatch and grab. What skill was there in that? Swift, had he been dead-which was quite possible, given his risky line of business-would have turned in his grave.
Nabber forced his way through the crowds. Due to his diminutive size and the great clamor of people, he couldn’t see where he was going. This was only a problem when he bumped his shin painfully against a stone fountain. “Borc’s breath!” he muttered, rubbing his leg. “What’s the use of all these fountains?” Since he’d been here, he’d noticed that there was hardly a street corner that didn’t boast a fountain or a decorative pool. Only they didn’t look very decorative with their dark, bird-dropping-stained stone. In fact, they looked rather depressing. Doubtless the man who’d built the city had a great love of water, either that or he took a fiendish delight in placing fountains just where they’d cause the most inconvenience. Like here.
Nabber was beginning to feel a little annoyed; his shin was throbbing and he was having no luck locating Tawl.
The trouble was that tall, golden-haired men just weren’t as rare here as they were in Rorn. He’d asked people if they’d seen a golden-haired stranger and had been sent on various forays to all four corners of the city. So far he’d found a sheepherder from Ness, a fortune-teller from Lanholt, and a pimp from Dourhaven. But no Tawl. The pimp had been most accommodating, though, even offered to help him look. But the man hinted at the time-honored tradition of a favor for a favor, and Nabber didn’t think he’d be willing to oblige with what might be asked.
So that left him nowhere. Well, more exactly, it left him at the foot of an inconvenient and ugly fountain.
It was early morning, and the day offered thin light and sharp breezes. Bren was yet another city of early risers, and the streets were already crowded with people going about their business. Commerce was the great and invisible bond that held the city together. Nabber could feel its pull, and it was like a caress to him. He hurried on his way to the traders’ market.
The pickpocket’s art lay in its subtlety. The secret was in the touch, and the trick was to make your victim believe that it was purely accidental. The touch could range from a gentle brushing of an arm to a plunderous fall into the crowd. Body contact was what counted. Nabber could turn a pat on the shoulder into a delve into a tunic, an arm outstretched to steady himself into an exploration of a purse. The art of the pocket was similar to that of the magician: it was all sleight of hand. A magician had his flick of the wrist, a pocket had his furtive fingerings.
The most important skill to those who valued their artand Nabber, having been taught by an expert, counted himself among their number-was the lift. If a man had a goodly weight of coins nestled in his tunic, he would feel their loss as keenly as a missing tooth if the lift wasn’t done right. The pocket must withdraw swiftly, but also carefully. He mustn’t lift the package too quickly away from the body. The pressure should be gradually. diminished, lest the body detect the sudden change.
Of course, a distraction round about this time helped, and Nabber made a point of picking a mark who was either engrossed in conversation, in a hurry to be on his way, or watching a spectacle. Pretty young ladies were the most reliable spectacle. A man will forget what time of day it is when a shapely figure walks past.
There were other techniques: ways of slipping rings from fingers and bracelets from wrists, ways of taking knives from scabbards and fur from collars. There was more than one way to rob a mark.
The best thing about pocketing to Nabber was the way no one was hurt. It was not a violent or threatening crime. It didn’t even deprive a man of all his worldly goods, like robbing his house would. It just left a man short of coinage and trinkets. And to Nabber, it was a matter of honor that he always picked people who could well afford to replace both.
By midmorning his tunic was sporting some unusual but profitable bulges. Nabber could tell from the soft clink of metals against his belly that gold had been acquired. Gold had a sound all of its own, and music could be heard in its janglings.
Once he’d confirmed this supposition-a quick trip down a long alleyway-he decided a fine breakfast was in order. He had a fancy for nice surroundings and a blazing fire. He spied a group of rich-looking merchants, one of whom was familiar and would doubtless find himself short later in the day, and decided to follow them. The plump ones always knew where the best eating was.
He was led to a well-kept inn name of Cobb’s Cranny. A rosy-cheeked man came forward to greet the merchants. He was all welcomes and solicitudes, bringing warm blankets and hot toddies, ordering the fire to be bellowed and the tables to be laid. His air of genial supervision led Nabber to conclude that the host was none other than Cobb himself.
Once the merchants were settled to his satisfaction, the innkeeper turned his attention to Nabber. “Servants round the back, boy.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, sir,” said Nabber. “I am no servant. But I will gladly take my business elsewhere, though I’ve heard the name of Cobb’s Cranny on many a well-fed man’s lips and was hoping to try your famous special.” Nabber knew he was on a safe bet with the famous special. There was not an inn or hostelry in the whole of the Known Lands that did not boast a famous special.
The innkeeper relented. “I must ask to see your money first, young man.” Nabber pulled out one gold coin. The innkeeper nodded. “Now would you care for the special boiled or fried?”
“I’ve been told fried is best.”
Nabber settled himself in a comfortable upholstered chair that was as close to the fire as he could manage, since the merchants had formed a barricade around it. He poured himself a glass of bitter and foamy ale and settled down to enjoy himself.
Now, quite apart from his skills as a pocket, Nabber had another accomplishment he was proud of. He had what was known in Rom as “big ears.” That is to say, he had the hearing of a fox. His time as a lookout had honed this skill to a fine art. Everyone knew lookouts should be more accurately termed listenouts. Down in the darkened streets of Rorn, under the mantle of the night, you heard a man before you saw him.
Nabber could never pass up an opportunity to practice this skill and had been an uninvited party to countless conversations in taverns too numerous to mention. You could never tell when a casual remark between two companions might prove profitable. Not that profit was his only motive, though it was the only honorable one. The truth was that Nabber was just plain curious.
He sat back in his comfortable chair and listened to the conversation between the merchants. They were talking about the proposed marriage of the duke’s daughter.
“I tell you, Fengott,” said the fat one, “I’m not so sure about the whole thing. What do we want with a prince from the Four Kingdoms coming here and ruling our city? Bren ‘s doing just fine without him.”
“The duke seems set on it, though. I must say, I don’t think he’s got any intention of letting Prince Kylock come here and take his place. As I see it, the duke intends to use the kingdoms as his personal stockpile. Grain and timber we’ll have aplenty.”
“Aye,” said the third one. “A marriage for the duke’s convenience, that’s all.”
“From what I’ve heard that prince will be getting quite a handful.” The fat man looked around and then lowered his voice. “‘Tis rumored that Catherine’s no blushing virgin.”
“I wouldn’t say that in the duke’s hearing, if I were you, Pulrod,” said the one named Fengott. “A man would be sent to the gallows for such talk.”
“Aye, but not before he’d been tortured first,” chipped in the third one.
Nabber lost track of the conversation as the innkeeper brought him a huge steaming bowl of fried goose feet. Goose feet! His stomach turned at the sight of them. All that talk in Rorn about northerners being barbarians was obviously true. “Eat up,” said the man who could be Cobb. “There’s plenty more where they came from.”
Nabber wasn’t generally a fussy eater, but he drew the line at trotters, tongues, and feet. The innkeeper hovered over him, anxiously awaiting his first taste. Nabber took a deep breath and buried his face in his hands.
“What’s the matter, my boy?” The innkeeper was instantly concerned.
“It’s the goose feet,” said Nabber, shoulders shaking. “I thought I’d be able to face them after all this time, but the sight of them reminds me too much of my dead mother.”
“She had feet like a goose?”
Nabber buried his head deeper. “No, she used to cook them for me just like this. They were my favorites. The sight of them is more than I can bear.”
The innkeeper ordered the bowl to be removed. He placed a comforting hand on Nabber’s shoulder. “I understand, my boy. I’ll have something else prepared, no extra cost.”
“Thank you, kind sir. I’m most grateful. Could you make sure it’s pork or lamb?”
Goose feet! What sort of place has goose feet as its special? Nabber took a draught of ale and waited upon his second course. His ears strayed back to the merchants.
“The pits have been dead this season,” said the one named Fengott. “It’s hardly worth placing a bet. I haven’t seen a good fight all month.”
“You’re right. There’s been no decent challengers to the duke’s champion for half a year now. They’re all fighting like women who don’t want their dresses creased.”
“I did see someone who might be promising,” said the fat one.
“When?”
“Just last night. Big golden-haired fellow, not from round here by all accounts. He fought like a madman. Tore his opponent’s arm off right before my very eyes.”
“What’s his name?”
“No one knows. Some say he’s a knight. He keeps a rag bound to his forearm. You know, the place where knights are branded with their circles.”
“He can’t be a knight,” said the third one. “They’re not allowed to fight for profit.” The other men grunted in agreement.
“Where was he fighting?” asked Fengott. “I wouldn’t mind taking a look at him.”
“Chapel Lane is where I saw him, but I think he’s a free lance, so can fight where he pleases.”
“Well, I’ll keep an eye out for him. I’m always looking for a fair wager.”
“Here, have you seen that new road they’re building … “
Nabber withdrew his hearing and sat very still. Before him a dish of spiced lamb went unnoticed. The fighter was Tawl. He was sure of it. But where there should have been gladness, there was despair instead. What had become of his friend? The man he knew would never fight in a pit like a mercenary. Nabber knew it was time he faced the truth. Tawl had murdered Bevlin. He had stowed this fact in the deepest recess of his mind, hoping it would eventually be forgotten. But truths, particularly ugly ones, burrowed like worms and eventually found their way to the surface.
Still, Tawl was his friend, and friendship was sacred. At the tenderest spot in his still young heart, Nabber could not believe Tawl had acted willingly.
He laid a gold coin on the table–more than enough to cover the cost of the geese feet as well as the spiced lamband took his leave. He asked a passerby the way to Chapel Lane and set his path accordingly.
Jack sat alone on the straw-filled pallet that was now his bed. They had given him a room of his own; judging from the furnishings it was normally the women’s bedchamber.
