Drip. Drip. Drip. The waterclock turned another degree, sending a cup full of water trickling to the bowl. One more round and the hour would strike. The same hour on the same day that a month ago had marked her marriage to the duke.
Melli settled herself in the most comfortable chair in the most comfortable room in the house. Even as she drew her feet from the floor, her thumb found its way to her mouth. With her other hand she cradled her belly and then began to rock back and forth. She was a widow with no black to wear, no body to wrap, no wedding night to remember through the mourning. Not a widow at all by Bren’s reckoning.
Oh, but they were wrong. All of them: from Lord Baralis to her father, from Traff to Tawl, from the Duchess Catherine to the lowliest stableboy. Each and every one of them as wrong as they could be.
Back and forth Melli rocked. Back and forth, back and forth, back, back, back.
Back to the wedding day. Back to the chapel. Back to the one single hour she and the duke spent as man and wife.
The smell of incense and flowers accompanied them as they turned from the altar and walked down the aisle. The duke’s hand was cool, his grip firm. The chapel doors were drawn back and somewhere bells began to ring. One hundred pairs of eyes were focused upon them, , yet Melli saw no one but Tawl. In a church full of people feigning joy, the knight’s face seemed too honest by far. He bowed as they passed, and as his face fell into shadow, he gave everything away. Regret, raw and unmistakable, was marked in each feature that he bent toward the floor.
Quickly, Melli glanced at the duke. He had seen nothing; his eyes looked only ahead.
Through the palace they walked; guards in blue to either side, Tawl’s footfalls sounding from behind. Melli felt as if she were dreaming, everything had happened so fast: the courtship, the proposal, the marriage. Too fast. She felt drunk with the sheer speed of events, dizzy with the importance of it all. This was more than a marriage-this was a strategy for peace. The duke loved her, she did not doubt that, but it was a love prompted by expediency: he needed an heir and a wife to provide him with one. The marriage was as good as a treaty. And the wedding night would be ink for the signing.
Melli knew all this, but as she walked toward the duke’s chamber it began to matter less and less. Her heavy satin gown rubbed against her breasts. She could feel the effects of the ceremonial wine on her cheeks, on the furrow of her tongue and belly deep within. Such strong fare for a fastening, the priests must have distilled it themselves. Melli shifted her fingers within the duke’s grasp, and he turned to look at her. “Not long now, my love,” he whispered.
The richness of his voice made up for the thinness of his lips. His hand now felt a little damp, whether from her sweat or his own no longer mattered. Yes, this was part marriage of convenience, but love and passion were equal partners at the join. Indeed, tonight they would reign supreme.
They arrived at their destination within a matter of minutes. The last quarter league had been almost a race, with the duke speeding along the corridors just short of a sprint. Tawl had matched him step for step. Eight men waited at the entrance to the duke’s chambers, spears crossed in honor, chivalrous in their averted glances. The double doors were opened and the duke bore Melli forward. As he guided her toward the doorway, Melli looked back. Tawl was gone. Her heart fluttered a tiny warning, but the duke’s presence-so solid and reassuring-canceled out her feelings of unease. By the time the door closed behind them, Melli couldn’t even remember what she was worried about. Nothing mattered anymore.
They were in a small vestibule with a short flight of stairs leading up to the chambers. A matching pair of double doors marked the top. As her foot found the first step, Melli felt the duke’s hand on her waist. With a firm grip he guided her round.
“I would kiss my wife on the threshold,” he said. His voice was unfamiliar to her: a stranger’s voice. Low and guttural, it was thick with something that Melli had no name for. His lips were on hers, pressing so hard she could feel the teeth beneath. His tongue followed after. Thin and dry and tough as old leather, it bore the vestiges of his last meal on its length. Melli’s foot hovered above the step a moment longer, and then she brought it to rest against the duke’s leg.
Up came her tongue from the bottom of her mouth, back arching inward, arms rising upward, lips pressing forward jaw to jaw. Half-mad with newly discovered need, Melli leant against the duke for support.
He pulled away. “Come, my love, I will take you to our marriage bed.”
Before the words were out of his mouth, she was pushing them back down with her tongue. The thing inside of her was too strong to be delayed. To be deprived of the duke’s body even for an instant was too long. He fought her at first, arms pushing her forward, hand in the small of her back, but she fought back in her newfound way, biting his ears and breathing moist hot breaths on his neck.
“Damn you, Melliandra,” he murmured as he drew her close. “You’re enough to drive a man insane.”
The words excited Melli more than any kiss. Throwing back her head, she offered him her breasts. A sharp intake of breath, and then she found herself lying back against the stairs. One solitary lantern lit the duke from behind. At first she was surprised by his knowledge of her clothing: it didn’t seem right that a man should deal so deftly with .petticoats and underdrawers. An instant later she was glad of it. Better a man who knew what he was doing than the fumbling youths at court. The duke didn’t bother to unlace her bodice or unfasten the hooks on her skirt; he raised the fabric up around her waist and went to work on the linen below.
The stone steps bit into Melli’s back. Consecrated wine ran heavy in her blood, carrying fragments of memory along for the ride: kisses and caresses and touches from the past. Jack, Edrad-Melli stiffened for an instant and Baralis. A long, crooked finger drawn down a back raised with welts. Despite herself, Melli’s spine arched more.
Pain splintered her thoughts. Her legs had long parted of their own accord, and she felt a tearing between. She wanted to scream, but the duke’s tongue was whip-sharp in her mouth and Baralis’ image was blade-keen in her mind. The pain seemed to fold in on itself, creating a vacuum that demanded to be filled. Melli’s forgers no longer formed fists, they became claws. The comer of the step was a hand upon her spine. The man above no more than a silhouette against the light. Need was the only thing that counted, and everything-wine, pain, and memories-served to heighten the need.
Too soon it came. Too quickly it was over. Too little to justify the means. Melli’s breaths were ragged, irregular. She wanted more.
Something warm and mercury-heavy trickled down the length of her thigh. Her gaze alighted on the ceiling: stone capped with brass. The duke, for he was now himself once more, stood over her and tore off the fabric at his tunic’s cuff.
“Here,” he said, handing her the length of heavily embroidered linen. “Clean yourself up. There is a lot of blood.” His tone was cold, almost disapproving.
Melli turned away from him and did what she was told. She was ashamed, confused, brought down to earth with an unsettling jolt. Had she done something to displease him?
The blood was not easy to wipe clean. It was dark and fast to dry. Melli had to spit on the cloth to bring it off. As she rubbed away the last of it, the duke spoke up from behind.
“Would that we had waited for the marriage bed. This is not the place to show you love’s pleasures.”
Melli stood up. Her legs were weak, her senses slow to rally. A dull pain sounded in her side. “You did not enjoy it?” she asked.
The duke came forward and smoothed down her dress. He did not look at her as he said, “It would have been better for you if you were comfortable.”
Sensing something close to embarrassment in the duke’s voice, Melli stretched out her arm. “Come then, let us try again.”
The duke smiled, his first since the wedding. “You bewitch me,” he said.
Melli began to ascend the stairs. “I’ve never been called a witch before, though I was once called a thief.”
“You steal men’s hearts?”
“No. Their fates.” As Melli spoke, a shudder went down her spine. The words were not her own, they belonged to another woman. A woman from the Far South who was an assistant to a flesh-trader. “Where I come from, we call people like her thieves. Their fates are so strong they bend others into their service. And what they can’t bend they steal. “
Melli’s hand was on the door. The duke was just behind her. She pushed against the brass plate and entered the chambers first. They were in the duke’s study. Melli remembered it well. Two desks were laid out with food. Cold roast beef, ham and venison, sweetmeats, wafers, and pies. The crest of Bren was sculpted in spun sugar.
The duke made his way over to the nearest table and poured them each a cup of wine. For the first time Melli noticed his sword about his waist. Had he worn it through the lovemaking? Surely not.
He held out the cup of wine for her to take… “Let us eat a little to regain our strength,” he said, smiling gently. Melli was by his side in an instant. She took the cup and set it down. With hands shaking, she felt for the hilt of his sword. The duke’s eyes flashed a warning. She igpored it and pulled the sword from its loop. It was heavy, solid, good in the hand. “You won’t be needing this,” she said, laying it flat upon the desk.
“Melli–“
She cut off his protest with a kiss. “Let us eat later. The food is cold, a little longer will do it no harm.” What was started on the stairs needed to be finished-for her at least. It seemed the duke had already taken his pleasure. She clasped at his fingers. “Take me to the bedchamber.”
The duke’s eyes were a match for his blade. He took hold of her arm, not gently. “Very well,” he said. “It seems I cannot keep my lady waiting.” Twisting her arm behind her back, he walked Melli to the bedchamber.
She saw the assassin first. He was at the side of the door, knife up close to his chest. Melli screamed. The duke pushed her forward with one hand and reached for his sword with the other. It wasn’t there. He hesitated for only a halfsecond, but it was more than enough. The assassin was at his throat. His blade was long, his hand was quick. It was over in less than an instant.
Melli screamed and screamed and no one came. Blood soaked the duke’s tunic even before his body fell to the floor. The assassin’s name came to her: Traff, Baralis’ mercenary. After that one last feat of coherence, her mind seemed to give in. She could remember nothing that followed. Except Tawl. The knight came and although nothing was, or ever would be, all right again, at least he made sure she was safe. Tawl would take care of her always-she didn’t need her mind to tell her that. Her heart already knew.
Back and forward Melli rocked. Forward, forward, forward.
The waterclock turned another degree. One month to the minute now. One month a widow, one month in hiding, one month with no blood to show.
There had been more than a wedding that day, there was a union as well. The marriage had been consummated, and she was the only person in the Known Lands who knew it. Not for long, though. Melli’s hand cradled her belly. The last time blood had flowed between her legs had been on the stairs leading to the duke’s chamber. Breaching blood, not menses. There had been nothing since.
A child was growing inside: the duke’s child, and if it was a boy, his heir. Melli spread her fingers full-out upon her belly. How would the city of Bren take the news? The answer was quick to come. They would try and discredit her, claim the duke was not the father, or that the child was begotten out of wedlock. Lies and slander would be thrown her way-indeed, by many she was already counted an accomplice to murder. None of it mattered anymore. The only thing that counted was keeping the new life safe.
In eight months time a baby would be born, and everything-her life, her strength, her very soul-would be directed toward its protection. She had taken the duke’s sword and stolen his fate, and this was either penalty or payment.
Melli stood up and put a hand to the waterclock, tipping the liquid from the cone. Prematurely it struck the next hour: Melli wished that all hours would pass so fast. She was impatient for the child to be born.
If it were a girl, then she would take her share of Catherine’s wealth. If it were a boy, he would have it all.
One
“I’m sick of walking the streets day after day looking for work, Grift. My bunions are giving me hell.”
“Exactly how many bunions have you got, Bodger?”
“Four at last count, Grift.”
“You’ll be needing to walk some more then. It’s five bunions that are lucky, not four.”
“What’s so lucky about five bunions, Grift?”
“A man with five bunions will never be impotent, Bodger.”
“Impotent!”
“Aye, Bodger. Impotence. The curse of men who only take short walks.”
“But the chaplain said the only way to cure impotence was a night spent in holy vigil.”
“No, Bodger, the chaplain never said that a night spent in holy vigil was a cure for impotence. What he actually said was a night spent with a horny virgin. Makes quite a difference, you know.” Grift nodded sagely and Bodger nodded back.
The two guards were walking along a street in the south side of Bren. It was midmorning and a light drizzle had just started.
“I suppose we were lucky, Grift. Being thrown out of the guard is a lot better than being flogged and imprisoned.”
“Aye, Bodger. The charge of being drunk on duty is a serious one. We got off lightly.” Grift stopped for a moment to scrape the horse dung from his shoe. “Of course, it would have helped if they’d given us a month’s wages before chucking us out on the streets. As it is now, we can barely afford to buy our next meal, let alone two horses to get us back to the kingdoms.”
“You spent all the money we did have on ale, though, Grift.”
“Ah well, Bodger. Ale is a basic necessity of life. Without ale a man might as well curl up and die.” Grift smiled winningly. “You’ll thank me for it in the end, Bodger. Besides, there’s still a chance we might find work. The wedding of Catherine and Kylock is due to take place in two weeks, and there’s bound to be opportunities for skilled men such as ourselves.”
“No one is going to give us work, Grift. Lord Baralis is all but running the city now, and if he learned that anyone was helping us, he’d have their hides whipped.” Bodger pulled his cloak close. He hated the rain-it made his hair stand up. “We should do what I said: leave the city, cross the mountains, and go join the Highwall army. Ever since Kylock murdered the Halcus king, the Wall have been taking all comers. Anyone who wants to fight for them gets five coppers a week, a newly cast breastplate, and all the goat’s meat they can eat.”
“If we joined with Highwall, Bodger, we’d be on the losing side.” Grift spat with confidence. “The northern cities might be as mad as a peacock in a pie, but Bren and the kingdoms have never looked stronger. Why, in the last three weeks Kylock has captured most of eastern Halcus. The whole country is virtually his. There’s no telling where he’ll stop.”
“I heard that he wanted to present Catherine with Halcus as a wedding gift, Grift.”
“Well, after what happened to King Hirayus, he’s all but done it.”
Bodger shook his head slowly. “Terrible thing that, Grift. The peace tent is supposed to be sacred ground.”
“Nothing’s sacred to Kylock, Bodger.”
As Bodger lifted his head to nod in agreement, he spotted a familiar figure in the crowd ahead. “Hey, Grift, isn’t that young Nabber over there?” Bodger didn’t wait for Grift’s reply. He dashed straight ahead, shouting loudly, “Nabber! Nabber! Over here!”
Nabber looked around. He was on an important mission and was under direct orders not to loiter, but loitering was in his soul and the sound of his own voice was music to his ears. At once he recognized the distinctly mismatched forms of Bodger and Grift. They looked wet, miserable, down on their luck and, most alarmingly to Nabber, sober as a pair of bailiffs. What was the world coming to?
Bodger ran toward him, a huge grin spreading across his face. “How are you, my friend? It’s good to see you. Me and Grift were worried sick about you after the night–“
“The night we parted ways,” interrupted Grift, flashing Bodger a cautionary glance.
Nabber gently disengaged himself from Bodger’s spiderlike grip. He brushed down his tunic and smoothed back his hair. “Always a pleasure, gentlemen,” he said with a small bow.
“Are you still coping with your loss?” asked Bodger in a peculiar meaningful whisper.
“Loss? What loss was that?”
“Your dearly departed mother, of course. You used to spend all your time in the chapel praying for her soul.” Nabber’s whole demeanor changed: his shoulders dropped, his back arched, his lips extended to a pout. “It still grieves me every day, Bodger,” he murmured tragically. The sight of Bodger and Grift’s sympathetic nodding made Nabber feel bad. Swift would not have approved of him taking his mother’s name in vain. Pockets were notoriously sentimental when it came to their mothers. Why, Swift himself had loved his own mother so much that he had named one of his most famous moves after her: the Diddley Delve. A thoroughly sneaky and ingenious move that could deprive any man of valuables he’d concealed about his vitals. Apparently nothing had been safe from Ma Diddley. Nabber hadn’t yet aspired to the dizzy heights of the Diddley Delve, and in fact wasn’t quite sure he ever wanted to.
Feeling a little guilty about stringing the two guards along, and feeling a lot guilty about them being out on the streets with no prospects–after all, he was partly responsible for it–prompted Nabber to make them an offer. “If you are looking for shelter, some hot food, and a chance to protect a certain highborn lady, then I know just the place you can go. ” As he spoke, Nabber shook his head slowly. No doubt about it, there’d be trouble with Tawl for this. Guilt would be the death of him.
“What place?” asked Grift, suddenly interested. It was telling that he never asked what lady.
Nabber crooked his finger and drew both guards close. In his lowest and most furtive whisper, Nabber gave out the address of the hideaway. “Knock three times on the door, and when someone comes tell them you’re there to deliver the snails. Say Nabber sent you.” There, it was done now. Tawl would have to take the two guards in-either that, or murder them. Moving quickly along from that particular unsettling thought, Nabber said, “Anyway, I must be going. I have a message to deliver to the palace.”
He was just about to step away when Grift caught at his arm. “You’re a fool if you go to the palace, Nabber,” he said. “If you’re caught by Baralis, Borc alone can save you.”
Nabber freed himself from the guard’s grip, smoothed down the fabric of his sleeve, and tipped a bow. “Thanks for the advice, Grift. I’ll bear it in mind. See you later.” With that he was off, losing himself in the crowd as only a pocket could. He didn’t look back. It was getting late and Maybor would be anxiously awaiting his return. Nabber shrugged to himself. He could put it down to the rain: a street full of watery sewage on the move could slow a man down quite considerably.
It really was quite a pity he was on a mission, as by far the best time for pocketing was during rain showers. People jostling into each other, cloaks held above their heads, eyes down-it was perfect. A man could round up a lot of coinage in the rain. Maybe he could put in a little pocketin’ later, after the note was delivered. It would certainly be a good idea to keep out of Tawl’s way. The knight would be mad as hell about Bodger and Grift turning up on the doorstep, and even madder about the note.
Nabber felt in his tunic: still there. Dry as an archbishop in a desert, and yet another thing to feel guilty about. The problem was that Tawl didn’t know about the plan. He and Maybor had concocted this between themselves, and Nabber was quite sure that the knight would not like it one little bit. It was a gamble, there were risks-which in fact was why Nabber had agreed to it in the first place: he could never resist a risk-and, at the end of the day, nothing to gain from the whole thing, only a little personal satisfaction on Maybor’s part. Still, Nabber understood the need for personal satisfaction–Swift himself had lived for it. Besides, he liked to be out and about. Being cooped up in the hideaway all day with Tawl, Melli, and Maybor was not his idea of fun. Deals needed to be struck, pockets needed to be lightened, cash needed to circulate, and he was the man to do it.
Before he knew it, Nabber found himself by the storm conduit. Bren had no sewer systems to speak of, but it did have a system of drains and tunnels that prevented the city from becoming waterlogged during the countless storms and rain showers that came down all year round from the mountains. The problem was, as Nabber saw it, that the city lay between the mountains and the lake. Any water that ran off the mountains wanted naturally, as all water did, to join with its larger watery friends, and Bren was stuck right in the middle of the course of least resistance. Hence the network of storm channels and drains that were built to divert the water both around and under the city.
The duke’s palace-or was it the duchess’ palace now? being situated right on the shore of the Great Lake, was naturally well-supplied with such tunnels. And it was to one of these that Nabber had made his way. Of course he hadn’t counted on the rain. He was going to get very wet, might even catch his death. There was one consolation, though: all the spiders would have drowned. Nabber hated spiders.
A quick look left, a quick look right, no one around for the moment, so off with the grille. With speed and agility that would have brought a tear to Swift’s eye, Nabber swung himself down into the drain channel. His feet landed, splash, in a stream of cold, smelly, and fast-rising water. He quickly shunted up the wall, dragged the grille back in place, and then jumped down into the water. Knee-deep now. He had to get a move on; he didn’t want it reaching his neck. No, sir. No dead spiders down his tunic.
The smell was appalling. The rain brought out the worst in a city, churning up long-dried horse dung and slops, carrying blood from the knacker’s yard, grease from the tallow drums, and bearing a circus full of carcasses along in the swell. By the looks of things, everything had ended up here, down under the palace. Nabber took a last longing look around–there were lots of interesting-looking floaters that were crying out to be investigated-and then entered the full darkness of the tunnels.
This was familiar territory. No one loved the dark as much as pockets. Nabber’s feet found their way with little prompting whilst his eyes searched out lightness in the shade. Up and up he went. Stone staircases wet with slime welcomed him, barrel-ceilings lined with moss echoed his every move, water rushed ahead of him on its way to the lake, and shadows and dead spiders trailed behind.
At last he came to the entrance he needed: the one in the nobles’ quarters. Putting his eye to the breach in the stone, Nabber looked out onto a broad quiet corridor that was lined with old suits of armor. He knew it well. Busy with servants on their way to light fires and warm baths in early morning, it was as still as a chapel by midday. Guards only patrolled here once an hour, and most noblemen were well away by now. Nabber took a deep breath, briefly asked for Swift’s own luck, set in motion the opening mechanism, and then stepped onto the hallowed ground of the palace.
Feeling a peculiar mixture of excitement and fear, the young pocket made his way to Baralis’ quarters. He had a letter to deliver, an answer to be waited upon, and his own skin to be saved at all costs.
“Concentrate, Jack. Concentrate! “
Stillfox’s voice was tiny, immeasurably distant. Outside of time. Still, such was the power of the human voice that Jack found himself obeying it anyway. He had to concentrate. His consciousness plunged to his belly whilst his thoughts focused on the glass.
“Warm it, Jack. Don’t smash it.”
Every muscle tensing, every hair on end, both eyeballs drying for want of a blink, Jack tried to do what Stillfox asked. He sent himself–there was no other word for it, he sent that which made him who he was, what rested in his mind and bounded his thoughts-outside of his body toward the glass. It was terrifying. The terrible vulnerability of forsaking one’s body, combined with the bittersweet lightness of the soul. How could men do this? he wondered. How could Baralis and Stillfox and Borc knows who else ever get used to the shock? “Careful, Jack. You’re wavering.”
Part of him wanted to shout out, “Let me waver, then.” Better half in his body than not at all. Instead, Jack concentrated harder. Through the thin, busy particles of air he traveled, to the hard slick surface of the glass. Only when he got there it wasn’t hard. It was slick, but strangely soft: malleable as lead, running like slow honey or a fine summer cheese. He felt the downward push of the glass and began to understand how false and artificial its current state was. It had been shaped unnaturally by man and was quietly fighting its constraints. It would take centuries, perhaps eons, before it reverted back, but it would eventually succeed. Nothing had a memory as long as glass.
Jack knew all this without as much as a single coherent thought. He just knew it, that was all. He also knew, in something more akin to instinct than intellect, that the glass would welcome the warming. It would not fight him. The warming would bring it that much closer to its goal.
Strangely, it was this knowledge that empowered Jack. No longer a man with a whip, he became a man with a key. Gently, so gently, tiptoeing with his mind, he melded with the elements of the glass. Fear skirted periphery-close, but he paid it no heed; nothing mattered-only the join. If Stillfox spoke now, Jack didn’t hear him.
He became aware of the vibration of the glass: strong, unwavering, almost hypnotic. Jack felt himself falling in time with it. How right it felt, how very right.
“Jack! Be careful! You’re losing yourself.” Stillfox’s words carried more weight than speech alone; they were heavy with sorcery. Jack felt the other man’s power. It was repugnant to him. The glass was his, and he would brook no interference. Then suddenly, something was forcing its way between him and the glass, a sliver of thought turned to light. It acted like a wrench, cleaving apart the join. Jack fought it aggressively. He had been rocked into quiescence by the vibration of the glass, and now he was a giant awakened. No longer warm, the glass grew hot An orange line began to glow around the rim.
“Jack, I command you be gone! “
Jack felt a powerful shearing, saw a bright flash of light, and then he was torn away from the glass. As he sped back to his body, the glass exploded outward, sending chunks of molten glass flying through the air. Even as he settled himself within flesh and blood, the fragments hit him. Scorching, sizzling, cracking like whips, they landed on his chest and on his arms. Jack, dizzy with the shock of returning, shot up from the chair. His tunic was smoldering, the skin burning beneath. Too new in his body to feel pain, Jack could only feel honor. He had to get away from the glass. Pulling at his tunic, he tore it from his shoulders. Gobs of hardening glass tinkled onto the floor.
The moment the pain started, Jack was hit from behind by a wave of coldness. Reflex-quick, he spun round. Stillfox was standing close by; a large empty bucket rested, dripping, in his hand. Water. The herbalist had poured water on him. He took a step forward. “Jack-“
“Leave me alone, Stillfox,” cried Jack, raising his arm in warning. Tired and disorientated, he was shaking from head to foot. “You shouldn’t have interfered. I had it. I was in control.”
Stillfox’s voice rose to a matching anger. “You fool. You were in control of nothing. The glass was controlling you. You nearly lost yourself to it.”
Searing pinpoints of pain goaded Jack into a rage. “I tell you the glass was mine!” He beat his fist against his side. The herbalist shook his head slowly. He let the bucket drop to the floor. When he spoke, he pronounced his words very carefully. “Make an error in judgment like that again, Jack, and I swear it will be your last. I will not step in and save you a second time. I am nobody’s nursemaid.” Abruptly, he turned and made his way toward the door. Without looking round he said, “There is ointment in the rag-stoppered jar above the fireplace. See to your burns.” The door banged shut behind him.
Jack immediately slumped into the chair. The anger, which had fired his blood only moments earlier, left his body with his very next breath. He felt hollow without it … and ashamed. Bringing his head down toward his knees, Jack rubbed both hands against his face. How could he have been so stupid? Stillfox was right; he had lost control, losing himself to the vibration of the glass. It had been so hard to resist, though: a siren’s song. Jack searched his mind and came up with a few choice baking curses, which he hissed with venom. How was he ever going to learn to master the power inside?
Ten weeks now he’d been with Stillfox. Ten weeks since the aging herbalist had found him hiding in the bushes on Annis’ west road and taken him in. Ten weeks of instruction and straining and failure. Every attempt to draw power seemed to end in disaster. Stillfox had been patient at first, slowing his pace, whispering words of encouragement and advice, but by now even Stillfox was losing his patience.
Jack rubbed his temples. He was making so little progress. Sometimes it seemed as if he could only draw power when there were real dangers: real-life situations that stirred the rage within. Here in Stillfox’s quiet cottage, nestled in a sleepy village ten leagues short of Annis and a mountain’s girth west of Bren, all the dangers seemed like insignificant ones. There was no one threatening his safety; he wasn’t being hunted, threatened, or conned. The few people he cared about were in no danger, and judging from what Stillfox had told him about the war, it appeared that things were calming down in the north. With nothing and no one to fight for, it was hard for Jack to summon rage and direct it toward a glass, or whatever else the herbalist set before him. These things weren’t important to him-skill alone wasn’t worth fighting for. There had to be some emotional attachment: someone or something to get angry about. For the first month he had been unable to draw forth anything unless he focused his mind on Tarissa.
Tarissa. The pain in Jack’s arms and chest flared to a blaze as her name skimmed across his thoughts. He stood up, kicking the chair behind him. He would not think of her. She was in the past, long gone, as good as dead. He refused to keep her alive in his thoughts. She had lied and betrayed him, and no amount of tears or pleading would ever make it right. Magra, Rovas, Tarissa–those three deserved each other. And he had been so stupid and gullible that he good as deserved them, too.
Jack walked over to the fireplace and picked up the ragstoppered jar from the mantel. Over the past few months Jack had learned that he needed to be harsh on both Tarissa and himself, it was the only way to put a stop to the pangs of regret. He was a fool and she was a villain, and that was all there was to it. Nothing more.
Taking the rag from the jar, Jack sniffed at the contents. Whatever it was, it smelled bad. Gingerly he dipped a finger downward. The liquid was cold, greasy, and the color of dried blood. Borc only knew what it was! Whenever Stillfox was preparing to use the contents of one of his jars, he would first dab a droplet on his tongue to test that it was still potent. Jack had no intention of tasting this, though. Let it kill him slowly by invading his wounds rather than poison him swiftly on the spot.
Jack began to dab the ointment on his burns, first his arms and then his chest. The process took a lot longer than he’d thought; not only were his hands shaking wildly, making it difficult to target the areas in question, but a natural squeamishness on Jack’s part didn’t help, either. Yes, it was only stinging, he told himself– and since leaving Castle Harvell he’d endured much worse than a handful of glass burns–but it was the idea of causing himself pain that he wasn’t happy with. The burns were throbbing away quite bearably until he put the ointment on them, then the real torment began. The ointment stung like lye in an open wound. It seemed to get under his skin with a thousand tiny barbs, then claw its way back to the surface. Was this Stillfox’s revenge?
“Jack. Don’t use-“The herbalist burst into the cottage. Seeing Jack with the jar in his hand, he stopped himself in midsentence. He shrugged his shoulders rather sheepishly. “Never mind, it won’t kill you.”
“What will it do, then?”
“It was meant to teach you a lesson.” The herbalist’s voice dropped to something close to a mutter. “Only I think it taught me one, instead: there’s little satisfaction to be gained from acting out of spite.” He looked up from the floor. “Never mind. The ointment may pain you for a few days, but it should do you no harm in the long term.”
Jack was too surprised to speak. He threw an accusatory glance at Stillfox, but really, in the bottom of his heart, he knew he’d deserved it. He had endangered both himself and Stillfox, and when the herbalist had tried to help him, he had fought him off. Jack threw the jar onto the fire. “Let’s call it quits,” he said. Stillfox smiled, the lines around his eyes and on his cheeks instantly multiplying. Jack noticed for the first time how very old and tired he looked. “Here,” Jack said, pulling the chair near the fire. “Come and sit down, I’ll warm you some holk.”
The herbalist waved his arm dismissively. “If I had needed someone to look after me in my dotage, Jack, I would have picked someone a lot comelier than you.”
Jack nodded in acknowledgment of the reprimand. “I’m sorry, Stillfox. I don’t know what’s got into me. I’m just so tired of failing all the time.”
Stillfox pulled a second chair close to the fire, bidding Jack to sit. He brought a blanket and laid it over Jack’s bare shoulders. Finally, when he had settled himself in his seat, he spoke. “I won’t lie to you, Jack. Things have not been going well with your training. I think part of the problem is that you’re just plain too old. You should have been taught earlier, when your mind was still open and your thought process not so . . . ” the herbalist searched for the right word ” . . . rigid.”
“But I only felt the power for the first time a year ago.” A year ago, it hardly seemed possible. His life had been so chaotic for so long now that it was hard to believe there had ever been a time when things had been normal. He didn’t even know what normal meant anymore.
“You might have only been aware of this power during the last year, but it has been with you all your life.” Stillfox leant forward. “Sorcery doesn’t come to anyone in a burst of blinding light. It’s real, visceral, as ingrained as instinct and as compelling as a beating heart. You were born with it, Jack, and someone should have taken pains to discover it sooner. If they had, you wouldn’t be here today: a fugitive hiding in a foreign land, leaving nothing but destruction in your wake.”
Harsh words, but true enough. “Is it too late, then? Is there nothing I can do?”
Stillfox sighed heavily. “You must keep trying, you have no choice. Power will keep building up inside you, and unless you learn to either focus or curb it, it will ultimately destroy you.”
“But there are risks even in learning. The glass-“
“Everything is a risk, Jack. Everything.” The herbalist’s voice had lost all of its country accent. “Walk to market and there’s a risk you will be robbed, run over, or stabbed. Marry a girl and there’s a risk she’ll die in childbirth. Believe in a god and there’s a risk you’ll find nothing but darkness on the other side.”
“Trust someone and there’s a risk they might betray you,” said Jack softly, almost to himself.
“Jack, your power is very great. So great it frightens me. The few times when you have managed to focus successfully left me speechless. You have been given a gift, and it would be a terrible tragedy if you never learned to master it.”
Jack eased his chair back from the fire. The heat was burning his already tender arms. “Perhaps if I move on to live creatures, not inanimate objects, l-“
“There is even worse danger there,” interrupted Stillfox. “Animals can and will fight back. Speed is of the essence in such drawings. You must master the technique of entering before we go any further.” The herbalist gave Jack a searching look and then stood up. “Now, I think it’s time you had some rest. You’ve had quite a shock and those burns do not look good. A little lacus will help.”
Jack was glad of the change of subject. He’d had enough of sorcery for one day. Possibly enough to last a lifetime. He didn’t bother to wish he was normal: wishing was something he’d given up long ago.
Baralis rubbed idly at his fingers. It was summer now, but still they pained him. It was the all-pervasive dampness that did it. Tomorrow he would see Catherine about changing his quarters; he was tired of living like a mosquito suspended above the lake.
On his desk lay the various maps and charts. Once the duke’s, they were now his. Maps and so many other things: a whole library of ancient books, rooms filled with antiquities and arcane devices, cellars full of secrets, and strong rooms full of gold. The duke’s palace was a huge unopened treasure chest, and the duke’s death had given him the key.
Oh, but he had so little time, though. Hardly a moment to himself since the funeral. There was so much to do, and so much to be done. Just managing Catherine alone took a quarter of his day. She was child–demanding, prone to temper tantrums, constantly craving attention–and he was part father, part nursemaid, part suitor. She would summon him to her chambers at all hours of the day, and he never knew what he would find once he got there: tears, anger, or joy. When there wasn’t a problem she would invent one, and she was never satisfied until she had exerted her will over him in some small way. It was all a game to Catherine, and it suited Baralis to let her think that he was just another piece on the board.
Baralis stood up and walked over to the fire. He was master of the game, his will was the power behind all of Catherine’s moves. The new duchess was just a beginner when it came to the art of manipulation. She might learn fast, though. After all, she was being taught by an expert. Just how great an expert he was could be judged by the events of the past five weeks. First, he had shifted the blame of the duke’s death onto Tawl, Melli’s protector; second, he had persuaded Catherine to go ahead with the marriage to Kylock; and last, despite Kylock’s heinous act of regicide in Halcus, he had persuaded both the court and the common people of Bren to support the marriage.
Well, more accurately, Catherine had persuaded them. Three days after the news of King Hirayus’ death had reached the city, Catherine had, on his instructions, gathered her court around her. In no uncertain terms she told them that she fully intended to marry King Kylock, and anyone who objected to the match should come forward now and let their misgivings be heard. One man made the mistake of coming forward: Lord Carhill, one-time advisor to the duke and a man whose only daughter was married to a well-to-do lord in Highwall. The minute he stepped from the ranks, he was seized by the ducal guard. He was executed, then and there, before the court. That night his sons were hunted down and beheaded, and the following day his land was seized in the name of the duchess.
The sting was taken from the whole affair by one single calculated act of compassion. Catherine had taken Lord Carhill’s wife into the palace, publicly proclaiming that the poor widow would never want for food nor shelter. This little performance was for the benefit of the people, not the court. Catherine might be firm, they said, but at least she is not without charity. Baralis pursed his lips in distaste. The common folk were easily swayed by such showy acts of mercy.
In fact, public opinion was the least of his problems. Catherine was seen to be a tragic figure: her father murdered, a heavy responsibility newly fallen upon her shoulders, alone in a world drawing perilously close to war. Of course, it helped that she was young and beautiful. Beauty was yet another thing that swayed the common folk. Baralis shook his head slowly. No, his problems were not with Catherine and the people of Bren. His problem was with Kylock. What would the new king do next? Maybor’s eldest brat, Kedrac, was finishing off Halcus for him, yet would he stop there? Was Annis next in line? And if it was, when did he plan to take it? Baralis only hoped he left it till after the wedding. Bren might support the marriage at the moment, but it was an uneasy, suspicious support, easily shaken by unfavorable news. And never would there be news so unfavorable as Kylock’s overwhelming greed.
There was such a delicate balance to be maintained: Annis and Highwall were now certain to move against Bren. The question was would they leave it until after the wedding, or would they move before? Baralis received daily reports from the two mountain cities, and there was no mistaking their intent: mercenaries, armaments, siege engines, and chemicals were flooding into both cities. Tavalisk was underwriter to them all. The chubby, interfering archbishop was seeing to it that Annis and Highwall had unlimited funds with which to purchase the necessities of war. It seemed the south was willing to pay a high price to keep trouble away from its prosperous shores.
Baralis sighed, not deeply. All would have to be dealt with as it came.
Then there was his second problem: Maybor and his wayward daughter. Where were they? What did they know or guess about the assassination? And what did they plan on doing next? Would they quietly leave the city, content that they were at least alive? Or would they try and make some claim upon Catherine’s inheritance? Knowing Maybor, it would most likely be the latter of the two; the lord of the Eastlands had never styled himself a shrinking violet.
Just then, Baralis was distracted from his thoughts by the sound of a commotion at his door. A few minutes earlier he had been aware of a knock, but had paid it no heedCrope was ordered to send everyone away except Catherine.
A shrill scream pierced the rain-clear air, and Baralis rushed across to the reception room.
Crope was in the doorway. Huge arms stretched out in front of him; he had a boy dangling by the scruff of his neck. The boy was squirming and kicking with venomous gusto, but Crope had him firmly in hand.
“You kicked Big Tom,” accused the hulking servant. “Leave it out, Crope. It’s only a rat!” cried the boy. “You should count yourself lucky old Thornypurse hasn’t set eyes upon it. She would have had it squeezed and bottled by now.”
“No one’s gonna bottle Big Tom,” said Crope, lifting the boy higher into the air.
“If you don’t put me down this instant, Crope, I’ll personally see to it that old Thornypurse is rubbing Big Tom’s oily remains into her wrinkles before the day is through.”
“Put him down, Crope,” ordered Baralis. “But master-“
“Down, Crope. ” The tone of Baralis’ voice killed all protest instantly and Crope lowered the boy to the ground. “Leave us now,” said Baralis.
Crope flashed Nabber an evil look, muttered something comforting to the large and rat-shaped bulge in his tunic, and then backed away.
Baralis turned to the boy. “So, Nabber, what brings you here? Come to turn your friend the knight in?” He stretched a smile designed only to show the sharpness of tooth. “He’s wanted for murder, you know.”
The boy looked a lot more scared now than he did when he was in Crope’s clutches. He was trying to cover it, though, smoothing down his collar with a nonchalant air, and then raising his fingernails to the light to check for dirt. Baralis was extremely pleased by this surprise visit. If one waited in one’s web long enough, the prey would always come. “You’ve been wading, I take it?” Baralis indicated the boy’s britches, which were soaked to the knee. “I must say, it’s just the day for it.”
The boy looked most indignant. “What about you, Baralis? Attracted any new crawling insects lately?”
“Come inside,” hissed Baralis, annoyed at himself for stooping to trade insults with a mere boy.
Nabber looked quickly to his left and right. “I’m not sure that I want to.”
“Aah,” Baralis said slowly, in the manner of one about to draw a logical conclusion. “Then you’re afraid.”
“I am not! Let me past.” The boy stomped into the room. Baralis smiled behind his back.
The boy made a quick survey of the room. Once satisfied that they were alone, he pulled a sheet of sealed and folded paper from his tunic. Before he handed it to Baralis, he said, “I’ll be wanting an answer straightaway.”
Baralis snatched it from him. The bloodred seal was Maybor’s: the swan and the double-edged sword. Like the man himself, it took quite a breaking. Quickly, Baralis read the spidery, uncultivated script. Once finished he turned to the boy. “Why does he want to meet me?”
Nabber shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I’m just the messenger.” Baralis took a thinking breath. The boy was a liar-and not a bad one at that. “Am I to understand that I am to come with you now?”
“Yes. Here and now. No henchmen, no weapons, no chance to warn the guard.”
“How do I know this is not a trap?”
Nabber smiled sweetly. “Who’s afraid now, Baralis?” Baralis curbed his desire to strike the boy. “And what if I refuse and send for the guard anyway? I could have your secrets out of you on your very first scream.” As he spoke, Baralis noticed that Nabber was edging, none too discreetly, toward the door.
“Ah well, my friend,” said Nabber, hand upon the latch, “you’d have to catch me first.”
The boy was young and therefore could be excused his stupidity. “Do you really think I would let you out the door?” The latch was up, but Baralis’ hand was faster. “Nay, boy. Leave it be! I will agree to come with you.” Baralis found himself breathless. There had been a brief instant when he had considered drawing power against the boy, but curiosity overcame caution. He wanted to see Maybor. He wanted to hear what the great lord had to say. Maybor had taken quite a risk sending a boy who could disclose his own whereabouts, and presumably his daughter’s, straight into the heart of the palace. There must be a good reason behind it. Oh, Baralis knew he could seize the boy and scrape the truth right off his plump, youthful tongue, but his love of intrigue had been sparked. There was a game to be played here, and after all, what good was power without the thrill of power games? “Take me to him,” he said.
Maybor ordered a second mug of ale, then settled back in his chair. He was not exactly drunk, but he was definitely pleasantly potted. It was good to be out. A fine tavern, a blazing fire, and a buxom serving girl to flirt with; why, he hadn’t enjoyed himself so much in a long time. For the past nine weeks he’d been holed up like a squirrel in ajar, and now, having managed to escape for a short while, he was determined to enjoy himself.
Still, enjoyment took many forms and the best was yet to come.
The ale arrived, its fine head frothing over the brim. The girl who brought it took great pains to place it carefully on the table. Her bodice was cut modestly enough, but additional cleavage was revealed during the process of the slow bend. Maybor liked women who played coy.
“So, my beauty,” he said to the girl. “Does the tavernkeeper here have strong-arms in the crowd?” He had intended to ask this question of the tavern-keeper himself, but he rather liked appearing mysterious to the young and comely girl.
The girl giggled foolishly. “Oh aye, he does that, sir. You can never be too careful when it comes to the riffraff.” Maybor ran his fingers down the plump arm of the girl. When he reached her hand, he pressed a single gold coin into the waiting palm. “A man in black will soon be coming here to visit me. Ask the tavern-keeper to set a watch on the door, and if he is escorted by anyone other than a young boy, I would appreciate it if they were held there, until I make my escape.” Maybor allowed his leather pouch to gape open. It was loaded to the drawstring with the duke’s own gold. “I trust this place has another way out?”
Greed improved the girl’s looks, brightening her eyes and bringing a flush to her cheeks. “Oh yes, sir. There’s more than one way to leave the Brimming Bucket.”
Well pleased, Maybor nodded. “I trust I can count ‘on you to let my wishes be known?”
The girl hesitated a moment. “Well, sir, naturally I’d be glad to help such a fine gentleman as yourself, but–“
“You’ll need some extra coinage to ensure the word is well spread.”
“Well, I hate to ask, sir, but you know what men are like. They hate to do anything on just the promise of gold.” Maybor handed her a fistful of coinage. He knew exactly what men were like. “And when you’ve done that,” he said, “bring me a footstool for my feet. The floor is running with ale, and I want to give my shoes chance to dry.”
As the girl cut across the tavern to its keeper, Maybor’s eyes flicked toward the candle on the sill. Down a notch since he’d last looked. Damn! Where was the boy? What was keeping him? Had Baralis decided to hold him in the palace and torture the truth out of him? Maybor brought the second mug of ale to his lips. Somehow he doubted that. He knew his enemy well, and Baralis would come, not just because he was curious, but also because he was compelled to do so.
Maybor downed a throatful of the golden brew. He wasn’t a superstitious man, indeed, hated any mention of mystics and magic, but he and Baralis were connected in some way: their fates were intertwined. They fed off each other. And it had been a long time for both of them since their last meal.
Nabber wasn’t at all sure that he liked being Baralis’ escort. The man’s presence had a distinct effect on those around him: people scattered like rats in torchlight whenever he walked by. Nabber shook his head grimly-the man would never make a pocket. He had the feet for it, though. He and Baralis had been walking for quarter of an hour now, and not once had Nabber heard a single footfall from his black-robed companion. Swift would die for feet like that. The rain had stopped the moment Baralis passed under the palace gate. The streets were damp, steaming, fragrant with a variety of rainy smells. As they walked south the district changed: fine stone buildings gave way to precarious wooden structures that leant against each other for support. The fair offered by the street hawkers changed accordingly. Near the palace they had sold fresh lampreys, artichokes, and saffron. Here they sold meat pies, pease pudding, and bread. As they turned onto the street that boasted the Brimming Bucket, Nabber risked a quick glance sideways. Baralis did not look happy. In fact, he looked rather venomous, his features no more than a pale insignificance when compared to the darkness of his eyes. Nabber sniffed solemnly. He hoped Maybor knew what he was doing.
The Brimming Bucket was lit up in anticipation of the night. Smoke and candlelight escaped from the shutters and the boldly painted sign creaked brightly in the wind. Nabber noticed a man standing by the door; his right hand was resting inside his tunic and, after one quick scope of the two of them, he directed his gaze toward the floor. A lookout, no doubt set to watch by Maybor. Well, he certainly could have been more discreet about it. Nabber doubted very much that the man’s purpose had gone unnoticed by Baralis.
“Here we are,” said Nabber, hoping to distract Baralis’ thoughts away from the lookout. “Maybor is waiting for you inside.”
Baralis nodded once. “I know.”
Inside he went. Poorly rendered tallow gave off smoke that stung his eyes. He was all senses, a being purely of perception: if there was danger he would search it out. Even before his eyes grew accustomed to the smoke he had eliminated sorcery as a threat. He was the only one in the room with power beyond flesh. The knowledge brought confidence in its wake. No matter what happened now, he would be able to deal with it.
Baralis looked around the room. Thirty pairs of eyes were gazing upon him. The floor was awash with slowly souring ale: the tavern reeked of it. Maybor was sitting at a lower level in front of the fire, and Baralis didn’t spot him at first. Silhouetted against the light, Maybor stood up and beckoned him forth. Baralis crossed the room and stepped down into the enclosed space of the fire-well. Two other men sat there: old men who drew in their chairs when Baralis entered their domain. Unlike the rest of the tavern floor, which was raised off the ground and paved, the floor in the fire-well consisted purely of packed-down earth. It was even wetter than above, and the old men sat crosslegged, one foot apiece resting in the pool of ale.
“Aah, Baralis,” said Maybor, with an expansive sweep of his arm. “I’m so pleased you could come.”
“Cut to the meat, Maybor,” hissed Baralis.
“As charming as ever, I see.” Maybor sat down. When Baralis made no motion to sit, he said, “Stay where you are and you give me no choice but to shout my news all over the tavern.”
“News!” Baralis’ voice was scathing. “The petty intelligences of a fugitive on the run do not count as news to me.” Maybor was not in the least affected by this tirade. Calmly he drummed his fingertips against the wood. “If you didn’t come here to listen to what I have to say, then I am forced to conclude that you came to see my handsome face, instead.”
“As ugly as your face is, Maybor, it still might be the greatest of your charms.”
Maybor beamed. “I’m glad you think so, as I’m hoping to pass my features down in the blood.”
Baralis felt the skin on his cheeks flush. He had a sudden, overpowering sensation of foreboding. As his stomach constricted, the world shifted and refocused. The Brimming Bucket turned from tavern to snake pit. Maybor changed from drunken fool to fiend. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, my dear Baralis, that in less than seven months time I shall be a grandfather. Melliandra is with child and-“
“No!”
“Oh, yes. The child is the duke’s. The marriage was consummated.”
“You are lying.”
“Why, Baralis, you’re trembling. I thought you would be pleased.”
Baralis, annoyed at showing weakness, drew breath before moving close to Maybor. “Your daughter is a whore who has rutted with every man who crossed her path. Don’t expect either me or the good people of Bren to believe a single word of what you say.”
Maybor reached out and grabbed Baralis’ robe close to the throat. “My daughter was a virgin when she married the duke.”
Baralis was aware that the noise in the tavern had died down. He was also aware that two well-built men had moved from their position at the bar to the top stair leading down to the fire-well. The only movement was from a sicklooking cat padding through the ale toward the fire.
“I wouldn’t be so sure that Melliandra was a virgin if I were you, Maybor,” Baralis said slowly. “She certainly showed me a few new tricks when I had her.”
Baralis saw the knife flash. By the time it raked against his cheek, a drawing was on his lips. He let it build on his tongue while he pulled away from the table. The two men behind had moved to the second stair. Maybor remained seated; he seemed content to have drawn blood.
“Your lies will not win in the end, Baralis,” he said. “Melliandra’s son will have Bren to himself.”
Baralis didn’t even acknowledge the words. He stepped upon the first stair of the fire-well, and then let the sorcery out. Beneath his palms the air shimmered. It crackled with a blue light: a charged streak of lightning aimed straight at the beer-covered floor. With his back to the room only Maybor, the two old men, and the cat saw it flash. Baralis spun round as the ale began to sizzle.
One of the old men screamed first. Then everyone began to scream–one voice indistinguishable from another. The smell of hops was carried on the warm ripple of air that hit Baralis’ back. The two men who had moved from the bar made no attempt to stop him. Baralis felt the familiar wave of weakness. People rushed past him toward the fire-well, shock on their faces, eyes cast downward to avoid his gaze. He had to get away from here, to get back to the palace. There was one thing he must do, however. Weary though he was, he formed a second drawing as he walked across the room.
A compulsion weaved its way through the air, fine as sea spray yet wide enough to cover thirty people. It settled like dust and was drawn into the lungs like a fragrance. The very air itself became a message, and it was quickly translated by the blood. After Baralis left, no one would remember his passing. He would be a mysterious man in black, nothing more. Every person in the tavern would give a different description of him and no two tellings would be the same. He could not risk his identity becoming known.
By the time he reached the door, he could barely walk. Outside he stumbled, legs buckling under him, heart racing ahead. A man with a mule loaded with cabbages stood in the street watching him.
“Take me to the palace,” he murmured. “And I will make you a rich man.” Even then, when nothing seemed left, he squeezed forth enough to put a compulsion behind the words. It nearly killed him.
The last thing Baralis saw before he fell into darkness were two baskets full of cabbages being thrown onto the road.
Maybor wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened. In the small area of the fire-well all hell had been let loose, yet he had remained untouched by it. The two old men lay slumped against their table, hair on end, feet and ankles blackened as if burned. The cat lay dead on the ale-washed floor. Its paws were still smoking. All around him people were fussing and panicking and muttering about a man in black. It was time to get out of here. Swinging his feet from the footstool to the floor, Maybor stood up and pushed his way toward the door.
Two
Jack was beginning to hate herbs-particularly the smelly ones.
He was waiting in the darkened storeroom, barely moving, barely breathing, while Stillfox dealt with his unexpected visitor on the other side of the door. Bunches of mint and rosemary hung above Jack’s head, tangling in his hair and tempting him to sneeze. He’d been here for quite a while now, and his left leg was beginning to cramp. He couldn’t risk stretching it out, though, so with teeth firmly gritted, his mind searched out diversions.
Frallit used to say that the best way to stop cramp was to strike the offending limb with a good-sized plank of wood. Jack had once been the unlucky recipient of this “cure” and had quickly learned never to claim cramp in Frallit’s hearing again. Jack smiled at the memory. They were good days.
Or were they? The smile left his face: could he honestly say he’d been happy at Castle Harvell? He had a bed to sleep in every night, food to eat, and a measure of security about his future, but was he happy? People whispered behind his back, naming him a bastard and his mother a whore. As a mere apprentice he was treated badly by everyone around him, and Frallit was not the kindly father- figure that his memory seemed intent on creating. He was nothing more than a sadistic vengeful bully. And Jack bore the scars to prove it.
No, Castle Harvell wasn’t some wonderful peaceful haven where worries and heartache simply didn’t exist. It was filled with people who allowed him no freedom, who beat the will from his mind and drained the strength from his body. And he should never have allowed himself to look back at it through a romantic haze of longing. The past was all it was good for.
Jack was strangely exhilarated by these thoughts; there was power in them. Why hadn’t he seen all this before? Then, from the kitchen, he heard a word that stopped all thoughts dead:
“Melliandra.”
Jack was sure the name was hers-he heard it often enough in his dreams. Without moving as much as a finger’s breadth, Jack trained every sense and focused every cell upon the wood-paneled door separating him from Stillfox and his uninvited guest.
Stillfox was speaking: “Who can say what Catherine will do to-” The scrape of iron poker against grate cut off the end of the sentence.
Jack cursed all things metal.
“Well, I wouldn’t like to be in her shoes,” said the stranger.
Did he mean Catherine or Melli?
“Ah, well,” Stillfox said, “we have our own troubles to worry about. I hear our generals travel to the Wall today . . . ” Jack got the feeling that Stillfox was deliberately changing the subject.
A week after he’d fast come to stay with the herbalist, Jack had told him a shortened version of his life since leaving Castle Harvell. He had been very selective with the details-no one would ever know about Tarissa’s betrayalbut he had confided to Stillfox about Melli. He had told him who she was, how they had met, and how they had come to be separated in Helch.
Even before the story was free from his lips, Stillfox had told him the news. “Maybor’s daughter is to marry the duke of Bren.”
On hearing those words, Jack felt a confusion of emotions: relief that she was safe, wonder at how she had come to end up with the duke and, if he were honest, disappointment that she had finally succumbed to convention and married a man with position and wealth. He was jealous, too. Melli had been his to protect, his dream had been to save her. All gone now. A duchess in a fine palace needed saving from nothing except false flattery.
There had been no word of her since.
Until now. Stillfox’s uninvited guest had brought news of Melli’s marriage and, judging from the few snatches of conversation that Jack had managed to hear, things did not sound good.
Jack willed the stranger to leave. He needed to talk to Stillfox, to find out if Melli was all right. The ointment on his glass burns itched with gleeful intent. The storeroom began to seem impossibly small and confining. Herb dust choked in his throat, and the darkness fueled his fears. The idea that Melli could be in danger worked upon his brain like a poison. The longer he waited, the wilder his thoughts became. Had the duke decided to rid himself of his new bride? Had Baralis somehow discredited Melli? Or had Kylock abducted her in a fit of jealous rage?
At last the kitchen door banged shut. Jack was in the kitchen before the shutters stopped rattling. The light stung his eyes. Stillfox was leaning against the fireplace. He looked a little stiff, as if his position were posed.
“Sorry to keep you in the storeroom for so long, Jack. There’s no getting rid of Garfus.”
“What did he say about Melli?” Jack hardly recognized his own voice. It was cold, commanding.
“Why, Jack, give me a minute to get settled and I’ll tell you all he said.”
“Tell me now.”
Stillfox made time for himself by raking through the ashes then pulling up chair. Finally he spoke. “Nine of Annis’ best generals are heading to Highwall to assist in coordinating the invasion.”
Despite his determination to learn about Melli, Jack couldn’t help but ask, “Invasion of what?”
The herbalist shrugged. “Bren, of course.”
“Why `of course’? Why not invade the kingdoms, or try and rout Kylock’s forces on the Halcus field?”
“Because Bren will soon belong to Kylock.”
Jack felt a single tremor pass down his spine. “I thought the duke’s marriage had put an end to that.”
Stillfox tried to backtrack. “Ah well, when he marries Catherine it’s as good as his. And Highwall isn’t the sort of city to split hairs in matters of war.”
He was lying. Self-righteous anger-so briefly tasted earlier while he thought of Castle Harvell-began to build within Jack. Stillfox was keeping something from him. He was playing him for a fool. “What happened between Melli and the duke?”
Stillfox looked nervous. “Jack, I have my reasons for keeping things from you-“
“Reasons! I don’t want to hear your reasons. I want to hear the truth.”
“You’re not ready to run away to Bren yet. Your training has barely started.” Stillfox took a step forward.
Jack stepped toward the door. “You are not my keeper, Stillfox. My life is my own responsibility, and I’ll have no one deciding what is and isn’t right for me to hear.” Jack was trembling. Anger was flowing through him and he made no effort to control it. “Now either tell me what happened to Melli, or as Borc is my witness I will walk out this door and find out for myself.”
Stillfox raised his arm. “Jack, you don’t understand-” Jack’s hand was on the latch. “No. You’re the one who doesn’t understand, Stillfox. I’ve had a bellyful of lies, they’ve destroyed everything I ever had-I’m sick to the death of them. And today I’ve finally heard one too many.” As Jack spoke he thought of Tarissa, Rovas, and Magra: they were all liars. Even his mother had practiced deceit. Who was worse, he wondered: people who lied outright like Rovas and Tarissa, or people who kept the truth to themselves like his mother and Stillfox?
Jack brought down the latch with his fist. He couldn’t really see the difference.
“Jack! Don’t go,” cried the herbalist, rushing forward. “I’ll tell you everything.”
Opening the door, Jack said, “Too late now, Stillfox. I doubt if I’d believe you anyway.” Stepping out into the warm summer rain, he slammed the door behind him. He set a course to meet with the high road. If he was lucky, he’d reach Annis by dusk.
Tavalisk had just come from his counting house where he’d been counting out his money. Such a trip always served to reassure him. Gold was the ultimate feather pillowwhenever one had to fall back on it, one could be sure of a cushioned blow. The archbishop’s stockpile of gold was the nearest thing he had to a family; it was always there to comfort him, it asked no questions and told no lies, and it would never ever die and leave him helpless.
Tavalisk did not remember his real family fondly. His mother might have indeed brought him into the world, but she chose both the place and the circumstance badly.
Born in a beggar’s hospice in Silbur, his earliest memory was watching his mother’s pig die of swine fever. It just lay in the rushes amidst its own filth and willed itself to death. Tavalisk remembered scraping around in the dirt to bring it acorns, but the creature refused to eat them. It simply stayed in its comer and never made a sound. Tavalisk had loved that pig, but when it let itself die, making no effort to save itself, he turned against it. He beat the last breath out of it with a warming brick he’d snatched from the hearth.
Even at such a tender age, when he was still breaking his milk teeth, Tavalisk knew that self-preservation and selfpromotion were the only things that counted. And the pig, like his mother, had been sorely lacking in both.
Once the pig died, they had no choice but to eat the tainted flesh. He and his mother were the lowest amongst the low, the poorest amongst the poor. The only things they owned were the clothes on their backs, a sackful of turnips, and two tin spoons. They had no knife, so his mother was forced to drag the pig’s carcass to the meat market to be butchered. The butcher had taken everything but the head in payment. Tavalisk could still remember the butcher now, rubbing pig blood into his mustache to make it stiffen whilst offering to take less pork if his mother agreed to bed him. Tavalisk would never forgive her for turning the man down: it would have meant cutlets, not tongue.
Such self-indulgent sacrifice had haunted his early childhood. His mother had taken a position as a church cleaner for no other reason than she didn’t like to live off charity. Tavalisk quickly learned that priests were more miserly than moneylenders. Generous gifts of food were kept under lock and key, the level of blessed wine was marked against the bottle each night, and every holy sweetmeat was counted after mass.
Oh, but the ceremony was breathtaking, though. Priests were part magician, part actor, part king. They performed miracles, granted forgiveness, and held congregations of thousands in their thrall. They wielded power in this world and the next. Tavalisk watched them from his hideout behind the choir stall. He saw the glamour of it all: the gold and crimson tapestries, the snowy-white wax candles, the jewel-encrusted reliquaries, and the silver-robed choirboys who sang with angels’ voices. It was a world of gaudy enchantments, and Tavalisk vowed he would be part of it.
One year later his mother died and he was thrown out on the street, penniless. His love for the Church, quite understandably, diminished, and it was many years and half a continent later before he felt its lure again. When the call finally came, however, it didn’t take Tavalisk long to realize that in the politically sensitive hierarchy of the Church, there was more than one way to reach the top.
Smiling gently, the archbishop moved across his study to his desk, where a splendid meal awaited him. His remembrances had acted like a fine white wine, honing an edge to his appetite, wetting his tongue for more. But, as with wine, Tavalisk was careful never to overindulge his memorieshe wasn’t about to end up a quivering, sentimental fool.
He brought the duck thigh to his lips, and all thoughts of the past vanished as the oil-rich flesh met his tongue. By the time he’d swallowed the meat his mind was firmly in the present.
Gamil chose this moment to knock upon the door. “Enter, Gamil. Enter,” called Tavalisk, rather pleased that his aide had arrived. There were matters he needed to discuss.
“How is Your Eminence this day?” asked Gamil entering the room.
“Never better, Gamil. The duck is crispy, the wine is tart, and war draws nearer by the hour.”
“It is the war that brings me here, Your Eminence.”
“Aah, a meeting of the minds.” Tavalisk was genial. “How very fortuitous. Tell me your news.” He grabbed another thigh from the platter, dipped it into the pepper dish, and set about tearing flesh from the bone.
“Well, Your Eminence, nine Annis generals are set to meet with their Highwall equivalents in three days time.”
“And like a romantic couple they hope to set a date, eh, Gamil?”
“Yes, Your Eminence. They mean to discuss invasion plans.”
“Hmm . . . ” Tavalisk toyed with the remains of the duck. “When do you think they’ll head for Bren?”
“It’s hard to say, Your Eminence. I think it’s wise to assume they won’t do anything until the wedding has taken place. After all, their grievances are with Kylock, not Bren.”
“That will take us into high summer, then. If they have any sense they will make their move while the wedding bed is still warm.”
“They may move into position before then, Your Eminence. It could take the Wall nearly two weeks to bring its foot soldiers and siege engines through the passes. If they were to wait until the wedding, the delay might prove crucial.”
Tavalisk dislodged the wishbone on the duck. He always liked to pull both ends himself-that way he was sure to receive all the luck. Oddly enough, this one snapped right down the middle. “Can’t be done, Gamil. You must send a fast messenger out to represent the southern cities in the talks.”
“But, Your Eminence, Annis and Highwall won’t listen to us.”
“Of course they will, Gamil. Who do you think is financing the damn war for them in the first place? The northern cities might be strong and well-peopled, but they are woefully short on cash. Why, Annis couldn’t even finance a pleasant mountain hike, let alone a full-blown siege.” Tavalisk threw the offending pieces of wishbone on the fire: something about their matching length and symmetry sent shivers down his spine. “At the end of the day, Gamil, they will listen to us because they have no choice.”
“What message would Your Eminence have me convey?”
“In no shape or form should Annis or Highwall make a move against Bren-and that includes taking up positionsuntil the marriage has been legally consummated.”
“May I be permitted to know Your Eminence’s reasons for this?”
“Gamil, if I were to throw you into a pond you would surely sink straight to the bottom.”
“Why, Your Eminence?”
“Because you’re about as dense as a piece of lead!” Tavalisk snorted with good humor. He always enjoyed pointing out how much cleverer he was than anyone else. “Really, Gamil. Don’t you see? If Annis and Highwall make any move before the wedding is legally fixed, then there’s a chance the whole thing might fall through. Do you really think the good people of Bren are going to cheer their favorite daughter down the aisle when an army, the size of which has not been seen in over a century, is poised in the passes ready to invade?” The archbishop finished his speech with a chorus of disappointed tut-tutting.
“But surely if an army were in place, and the wedding was canceled, then all our problems would be solved?”
“The only time our problems will be solved, Gamil, is when Tyren and the knighthood have been sent crying back to Valdis, and when that demon Baralis lies cold in his grave. Neither of which is likely to happen, I hasten to add, unless the whole northern crisis comes firmly to a head.” But —2′
“Say that word once more, Gamil, and I swear I will have you excommunicated on the spot!” The archbishop brandished the bare drumstick like a weapon. “Think, man. Think. Just suppose the wedding didn’t go ahead, where would that leave us?” Tavalisk didn’t wait for an answer. “It would leave us with Kylock still ruling a third of the north, and very liable, with the knights’ help, to conquer more. Baralis would still be behind it all, scheming and maneuvering, and Tyren–Borc rot his greasy little soul-would eventually be set to gain control of the Church in the north The only thing the wedding changes is the time scale. The marriage of Catherine and Kylock will only serve to accelerate events that have already been set in motion.”
Gamil looked suitably contrite. “I see Your Eminence’s point.”
“There was never any question that you wouldn’t,” said the archbishop, flashing his aide a distinctly cool glance. “Now. What I need you to do, Gamil, is scribe a persuasive letter to the duke of Highwall. Tell him that the south still stands beside him, and more money is on the way, and so forth. Then inform him, in no uncertain terms, that we will completely withdraw our resources if he moves so much as a single soldier eastward before the marriage is in place.”
“Very well, Your Eminence. Is there anything more?”
“Just one more thing, Gamil. Would you mind going down to the market district and buying me a fish?”
“What sort of fish, Your Eminence?”
“One in a bowl, Gamil. Ever since my cat had that unfortunate accident with the tapestry, I’ve been missing having a friendly creature around. I fancy a fish this time.”
“As you wish.” Gamil bowed and made his way toward the door. Just as he stepped from the room, the archbishop called out:
“Oh, and Gamil, I’m sure you will want to pay for it yourself. The Feast of Borc’s First Miracle is coming up, and I feel a fish would be an appropriate gift, don’t you?” Tavalisk smiled sweetly. “No cheap one, mind.”
Tawl sat in the sun-drenched windowseat and whittled at a piece of wood. The cushion, which had rested invitingly atop the stone, lay discarded on the floor. Comfort was something that he just couldn’t get used to.
Every so often, when a splinter of wood fell to the floor or his knife sliced into a knot, Tawl would look up through the open window and search for any sign of Nabber in the street below. The boy had been gone four days now and Tawl was worried sick about him. Oh, he knew why the boy had gone missing-he was keeping a low profile after what had happened at the Brimming Bucket the other afternoonbut bad deeds done with dubious intentions were Nabber’s trademark, and Tawl could neither curse him or condemn him. He’d done much worse himself.
Maybor had returned to the hideout in early evening the day before last. The man was a little shaken and confused and had finally admitted that he had a meeting with Baralis, and that Nabber had acted as go-between. Maybor was unrepentant. He railed on most indignantly about his right, as an expectant grandfather, to inform anyone he wished of Melli’s delicate condition. When Tawl questioned him about the details of the meeting, Maybor was unusually reticent; a blank look came over his face, and he mumbled something to the effect that he wasn’t about to be questioned like a prisoner in the stocks. Tawl suspected the great lord simply couldn’t remember. Which could only mean one thing: sorcery. Tawl shook his head, quickly glanced down to the street, and resumed his whittling. Maybor had no idea how lucky he was. He had been a fly who thought that just because the spider was out of its web, somehow it was rendered less deadly.
Two days back Tawl had gone down to the Brimming Bucket to find out for himself what had gone down. The patrons, besides being blind-drunk to the last man, were united in their confusion about the events of the day before. A mysterious black-robed figure had shot lightning onto the floor, said one man. Another disagreed with him entirely, stating that the very ale on the floorboards had begun to sizzle of its own accord. One thing they all seemed to know, however, was the fact that Melliandra claimed to be with child by the duke.
The word was out now. All the city knew that Melli was pregnant. Just this morning, Cravin had visited the townhouse, bearing tales of people’s reactions. “Most say Melliandra is a brazen liar and a whore,” he had said. “But given time I should be able to whip up some support.” Tawl felt like murdering Maybor. With one single act of bravado, the man had endangered not only his own life, but his daughter’s, too. Now that her pregnancy was common knowledge, Melli was more vulnerable than ever. At this very minute Baralis would be having the city searched door to door. Posters offering rewards for details about Melli’s whereabouts could be found on every street corner. The net was closing fast, and Maybor’s little rendezvous had ensured that Baralis would pull it in all the way.
“I’ve got the pies, Tawl,” came a voice from the bottom of the stairs. “Should I take one to the lady?”
“Make sure she gets the finest, Bodger,” Tawl replied. “And test the milk before she drinks any-it must be fresh and cool.”
“Grift’s already done that, Tawl. Ain’t nobody like him for telling when the milk has turned. He has the nose of a dairyman and the hands of a milkmaid.”
Groaning, Tawl said, “Just take it to her, Bodger.”
“It’s as good as done, Tawl. Grift always says that. . . ” The words padded into the distance along with the footsteps. The two chapel guards had turned up on the doorstep the other day, looking decidedly sheepish and reeling off Nabber’s secret entry phrase. Tawl had no choice-as Nabber was well aware-but to take them in. They were a risk; they knew the address of the hideout. The only other alternative would have been to kill them-and he hadn’t felt like murder that day. Despite everything Tawl couldn’t help but smile. Those two guards were quite a pair.
And Melli owed them her life.
He only wished the duke had a similar debt.
Tawl stabbed at the windowframe with his knife. Why was he destined always to fail? Why did he fail those he was sworn to protect? Again and again the knife came down. Why, whenever he felt as if he was getting ahead, did something always happen to pull him back? The knife hovered in the air an instant, then Tawl let it fall to his lap. Now was not the time for self-reproach. Melli was here, and keeping her safe was what counted. His oath as the duke’s champion was to protect the duke and his heirs. The duke might be dead, but his widow and his unborn child were still served by that oath and Tawl was bound to guard them with his life. The whole of Bren had heard him swear it.
A quick look out the window-still no sign of Nabber. They needed to leave the city. Baralis was tracking them, and Nabber and Maybor with their secret meetings and nighttime forays were practically asking to be caught. Of course, they both thought they were as clever as could be. But Baralis was cleverer by far. It would only be a matter of time before they were caught. Unless they got clean away. Sighing heavily, Tawl took up his piece of wood and began to whittle once more. His hands seemed intent on making something, but they hadn’t yet informed his brain what it was.
There were two problems with leaving the city. First, every gate, every road, every dip in the wall was being watched by enough guards to take a fort. Baralis knew they would try to leave at some point, and he was taking no chances. The passes were being monitored, the walls were patrolled by archers, even the lake boasted a ring of troops around its shore. There was going to be no easy way out. Secondly, even if there were an easy way out, Melli might be too sick to take it.
The pregnancy was not going well. Melli was losing weight. She was now so thin that it tore at Tawl’s heart to look at her. For two weeks after the duke’s death, she had simply refused to eat. She was in shock, unable to eat, talk, or even cry. Then slowly she began to come round, taking bread with her milk, washing her face and hair, and even smiling at Nabber’s antics. Thinking back on it now, Tawl guessed that Melli began to look after herself about the same time she began to suspect she was pregnant. Still, even now, when her appetite had all but returned, she could barely keep her food down. No sooner had she eaten something then it could be seen, as Nabber put it, “returning like an ugly sister.”
Everyone spoiled her. Nothing was too good, or too much trouble. Pies were baked fresh each day, Maybor had purchased a hen so she would have newly laid eggs, and Nabber brought her flowers and fruit. Despite all this attention, however, Melli’s health was not improving.
Tawl had lost loved ones. He knew what it was to grieve. Daily he wrestled with the soul-destroying what ifs. Melli had watched an assassin cut her husband’s throat, and she would have to deal with her own set of regrets. What if she had entered the bedchamber first? What if she had only screamed louder? What if she had never married the duke at all?
No, Tawl shook his head softly, it was hardly strange that Melli was not well. That she got through each day was miracle enough.
Tawl checked the street as a matter of course. No Nabber, no strangers, no guards.
What was he going to do about Melli? Should he place her unborn child at risk by taking her from the city? Or should he place the child’s health first and stay put? If they left the city, there would be many days of hard traveling, mountains to cross, soldiers to evade; they would have to live rough and be light on their feet in case they were chased. If they stayed in Bren they risked capture, but at least Melli’s pregnancy would run smoothly.
Tawl looked down at his hands, and saw for the first time what he was sculpting: it was a child’s doll.
Was his first loyalty to Melli or the baby?
Jack’s feet felt as if they had been run over by a loaded cart. The rest of his body wasn’t doing too well, either-particularly the glass burns. Stillfox certainly knew how to turn an ointment into a weapon. For two days now his arms and chest had been throbbing, but over the past four hours his feet had stolen the show.
He had finally made it to Annis. The city lay ahead of him, its gray walls gleaming in the moonlight. The road to either side was lined with houses and taverns, their shutters and lintels painted many shades of blue. People were everywhere, driving cattle home from pasture, bringing unsold goods from market, walking slowly to evening mass, or briskly to well-lit taverns. The wind was cool and smelled of wood smoke. Stars glinted high above the mountains, and somewhere water skipped noisily over a quarry’s worth of rocks.
The road consisted of crushed stones that crunched with every step. Jack could feel their sharp edges cutting through his shoes. He was nervous. Surely people were staring at him. Yet he looked no different from anyone else. His clothes, which had been provided by Stillfox, were much the same as any man’s. True, his hair was long, but it was tied at the back of his neck with a length of Wadwell rope. Jack’s hand stole up to check it-a gesture he caught himself doing more and more these days-and he found the rope was still in place. Nothing made by the Wadwells was likely to wear out, drop off, or break. In fact, Jack was pretty certain that the rope would have to be buried with him.
Smiling, Jack looked up. A young girl was staring straight at him. As soon as their glances met she looked away. Jack moved on. He made a point of walking where the light from the houses couldn’t catch him.
It had been ten weeks since he first met Stillfox and over three months since the garrison burned. Could the Halcus still be looking for him? With the war all but lost and an invasion of Bren planned, did they really have time or resources to search out one man?
All thoughts vanished from Jack’s head as he reached the outer wall of Annis. The gate was being drawn closed for the night. The portcullis was being lowered, the overhead timbers creaking with the strain. Jack ran toward it.
“Watch out, boy!” came a gruff warning. “Or the spikes will have your shoulders for mincemeat.”
Jack took a step back. “I must enter the city tonight.” As he spoke, Jack attempted to mimic Stillfox’s way of speaking-his kingdoms accent would give him away.
A second man, situated high atop the wall, shouted down. “Slip us a few golds and I’ll hold the gate while you pass.”
“I don’t have any gold.”
“Then I don’t have the strength to hold the gate.” The portcullis plunged toward the ground. Jack contemplated making a run for it, decided it wasn’t a good idea, so hissed a few choice curses instead. The spikes fell straight into the waiting pits and the city was closed off for the night.
“Try us in the morning, boy,” said the gatekeeper pleasantly. “My strength might have returned by then.”
Jack smiled up at the man, while calling him a smug devil under his breath. How was he going to get into the city now?
With nothing else to do and nowhere to go, Jack began to walk around the walls. Made of light gray granite, they had been finely polished and then chiseled with a diamond’s edge. Demons and angels had been carved side by side, the sun shared the sky with the stars, and Borc and the devil walked hand in hand.
“Annis is a city of intellectuals,” Grift had once said. “They’re not happy unless they’re confusing, confounding, and acting as devil’s advocate.” Jack remembered that Grift’s first wife had come from Annis, so that probably explained a lot.
The temperature was dropping sharply and the wind from the mountains was picking up speed. Jack knew the wise thing to do would be to turn around and head back to Stillfox’s cottage. Wearing only a light wool tunic and britches, he was not dressed for the night. His limbs were aching and his feet were sore and chafed. The herbalist would take him in, feed him, give him medicine and brandy, and now, after their argument this morning, very probably tell all he wanted to know about Melli.
Yes, Jack thought, the wise thing would definitely be to go back. Only pride wouldn’t let him. He had left swearing to Stillfox that he would find out the truth on his own, and so by Borc he would! Even if it killed him.
Annis was turning out to be quite large. The walls towered so high above him and stretched out so far ahead that they disappeared into their own dark shadows, merging into the night. Jack had to constantly watch his step; water pipes, sewer ducts, and rain channels all led away from the wall. Once out of the city, these carefully constructed conduits simply ended in pools of stinking slop. Jack grimaced as he was forced to jump over one. It seemed even intellectuals were capable of embracing the idea of out of sight out of mind.
An owl called shrill and close. Jack was so startled, he stepped right back into the puddle he’d just safely jumped. “Borc’s blood, ” he hissed, scraping the soles of his shoes against a rock. Owls weren’t supposed to live by mountains! Just then he heard a soft whisper carried on the wind. Jack froze in mid-scrape. A second whisper chased after the first: a man’s voice beckoning. Looking ahead, Jack tried to make out the details in the shadow. A row of high bushes cut straight across his line of view. Strange, the bushes led directly to the wall. A man’s head appeared above the leaf tops, then another, and another. Where were they coming from? As far as Jack could make out, the bushes sloped away from the city and then curved into darkness down the hillside.
Very slowly Jack placed his foot on the ground. There were no twigs or dry leaves to give him away. He began to creep toward the bushes. More heads bobbed over the top, all heading for the wall. As he drew near, Jack could feel his heart banging against his chest. Saliva had all but abandoned his mouth, leaving it as rough as a dog’s snout.
Suddenly a hand slapped over Jack’s mouth. Pudgy, moist, and broad, it cut off the air to his lungs. Jack whipped around, elbow out like a club. The man the hand belonged to was massive; rolls of fat quivered in the moonlight. Just before Jack slammed his elbow into him, he let out a mighty roar:
“Miller!”
The word was a battle cry, and even as its caller went down, a score of men rallied to the cause. The bushes opened up and an army of fat men dressed in baker’s white came out brandishing sticks and knives. Jack knew when he was outnumbered. He raised his hands in submission.
The man on the ground made a quick recovery, flesh trembling as he pulled himself up. His army drew close, no longer running but with weapons still held before them. Jack felt the return of the pudgy hand.
The white-aproned men formed a half circle around him. “He looks like no miller I know,” said one of their number.
“Aye, Barmer, but you know millers–sneaky through and through.” This comment, made by the fattest of the group, elicited several grunts of approval.
The pudgy-handed one spoke up from behind. “Do we give him a chance to speak, or club him where he stands?”
“Club him!” cried the fattest.
“Search him fast for gold,” cried Barmer.
The hand that was pressed against Jack’s mouth smelled strongly of yeast. “Well,” said its owner, “I think we should question him anyway. Suspend his vitals over a hot griddle and we’ll soon learn what the millers are up to.” The word millers was spoken with an enemy’s contempt.
Jack was beginning to realize what he had chanced upon. Snapping back his jaw, he jerked it quickly forward and bit the pudgy-handed man squarely on the thumb. Free from the man’s grip for an instant, Jack cried, “I’m not a miller! I’m one of you. I’m a baker.”
Three
It seemed a lot darker in Bren tonight than any other night Nabber could remember. Not that he was scared of the dark, of course. It was just a little worrying, that was all. Swift had once said, “Some nights just aren’t right for pocketing, ” and this was most definitely one of those.
Nabber was weaving his way through the south side of the city, about a league east of Cravin’s townhouse. He’d been skirting around the hideout all day, hoping to muster enough courage to face Tawl. He knew the knight would give him a lashing, the worst kind, too-a verbal one. After all he deserved it, sending Bodger and Grift round with the password, getting Lord Maybor nearly killed. Why, all he needed to do to top it all off would be to bring the duke’s blackhelms to the door!
Nabber spat in self-disgust. Swift would have revoked his pocketing privileges and cast him out on the street for less.
Oh, he knew he had to go back–and in fact had pocketed more than enough gold to ensure a welcome returnbut the thought of seeing disapproval or, even worse, disappointment, on Tawl’s noble face kept his feet from making their move. He still kept an eye on the hideout, though. Just to make sure that everyone was safe and no guards had turned up to take Tawl and Melli away. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if that had happened in his absence. Scratching his chin to aid reflection, Nabber carefully considered such an occurrence. Well, he might be able to live with himself after all-but he’d be sorely ashamed.
Slap! Thump! Tap!
For the fast time Nabber’s brain registered what his ears already knew: someone had stepped from the alleyway and was following him. Someone with a bad leg and a stick. To test the man out, Nabber made a point of crossing the cobbled road.
Slap! Thump! Tap!
The man followed suit. Now, looking like a penniless, scrawny low-life as he did, Nabber didn’t think old Bad Leg’s intention was to rob him. Which left only two other possibilities: Bad Leg was either a tunic-lifter, or one of Baralis’ spies. Either way, Nabber knew it was time to move on.
Remaining as calm as Swift had taught him, he began to walk a little faster. Bad Leg matched him step for mismatched step. He walked real fast for a man with a stick. Nabber’s eyes searched out likely doors and alleyways. He was beginning to feel a little afraid.
Slap! Thump! Tap!
Bad Leg was gaining on him. The sound of his lurching footsteps sent a shiver down Nabber’s spine. There was no one on the streets to watch them pass. Straight ahead lay a series of archways where the poultry sellers sold their birds by day. Nabber knew this area well: swan and peacock sellers were famous for their loose coinage. To the right was Duck’s End, a short alleyway that most people believed finished in a dead end. Nabber knew differently. A small drainage tunnel led under the wall. If he hadn’t grown too much in the past three weeks, he should be able to squeeze through it. Old Bad Leg wouldn’t stand a chance.
Nabber feinted to the left, then waited until the last possible moment before cutting a sharp right.
Slap! Thump! Tap!
There was no fooling Bad Leg.
Duck’s End was a dark spot in an already dark night. A trickle of sweat slid along Nabber’s temple and then down his cheek. It’s just getting a little hot around here, he told himself, wiping his face with his sleeve. Bad Leg was only a shadow behind him now. Nabber picked up his pace. The ground was always wet in alleyways regardless of the rain, and Nabber’s shoes squelched with every step. The dead end loomed close. The drainage tunnel was a black puddle at the bottom corner of the wall. Nabber began to gravitate toward it.
Slap! Thump! Tap! So did Bad Leg.
Sweat was now running unchecked down Nabber’s cheek. The sound of the man’s footsteps had his nerves on edge. Feet away from the tunnel now, Nabber gave up all semblance of dignity and made a run for it. Water splashed round his ankles, air raced past his face. The violent thumping of his heart drowned out all other noise. A whiff of air rose up from the tunnel: the foul stench meant freedom.
Feet first? Head first? Nabber had only a split second to decide. Taking a deep breath, he dived for the tunnel.
The entrance engulfed him, dark and inviting. He slid down into its moist and furtive depths. Hands, head, shoulders, body, legs … Feet! Nabber felt something clawing at his feet. Close to panicking, he kicked out wildly. His hands searched the curved wall of the tunnel for something to grip on to. His kick had no effect: Bad Leg’s fingers still grasped at his feet. They felt like talons.
Then a hand moved up to his ankle. Nabber tried to crawl forward, but Bad Leg pulled him back. The sheer strength of the pull took him by surprise. For some reason Nabber had thought the man would be weak. Scrambling for a handhold, Nabber was dragged from the tunnel. His belly scraped through the mud. His heart was beating so fast it was surely going to burst. The hands moved up to his knees and one sharp tug brought him out into the night.
Nabber twisted around and came face to face with Bad Leg.
Dark though it was, he recognized the man’s features. Or at least the look of them.
Gripping his wrist, the man smiled. “Nabber, isn’t it?” he said. His voice was as thin as wire. He was not out of breath, not even breathing fast. “You might already know me. I’m Skaythe, Blayze’s brother.” He smiled again, twisting Nabber’s wrist behind his back. This time when he spoke, his breath caught the side of Nabber’s face. “We met the night of the fight. I was Blayze’s second.”
Nabber tried not to breathe in the man’s breath-it smelled like sweet things turned bad. Skaythe was a shorter, wiry, and less handsome version of his brother. His teeth were like Blayze’s only slightly crooked, his eyes were a little narrower, and his lips, unlike his brother’s full and sculpted one’s, were nothing more than a jagged line. He didn’t have Blayze’s flair for fashion, either-his clothes were plain and boasted no frills. He was strong, though. Nabber couldn’t remember ever having felt a grip so powerful.
“What d’you want with me, then?” said Nabber, trying very hard to inject a measure of defiance into his voice. Another twist of his wrist was all it got him. “You know what I want, boy,” hissed Skaythe. “I want Tawl.”
Nabber tried to pull free, but the grip just got tighter. “And you’re going to take me to him.”
Something glinted, catching Nabber’s eye. It was the tip of Skaythe’s stick; molded onto the end of the wood was a spike of darkened steel. Nabber’s heart stopped at the sight of it. The spike came toward his face.
“Where is he?”
Nabber wasn’t at all sure if he was pleased when his heart started again, as it seemed to have moved up toward his throat. “I don’t know where Tawl is. I ain’t seen him since the night of the murder.”
Skaythe drew the spike under Nabber’s chin. Its progress was so smooth that only the warm trickle following it told of its slicing action. Nabber froze.
“Tell me where Tawl is, or I’ll cut more than just skin next time.”
Nabber didn’t doubt he was a man of his word. “Tawl’s in the north of the city-hiding out in Old Knackers Lane.” The spike came close once more. “Why you in the south, then, boy?”
Unable to move forward, Nabber slumped back against the man’s side. The action forced Skaythe to readjust his grip on the stick. Nabber used this diversion to raise his right knee and then slam his heel into Skaythe’s bad leg.
Skaythe stumbled back. Nabber kicked his stick near the base, stopping him from gaining his balance. He didn’t wait around to see if it worked. Gathering all his strength, Nabber sprang for the tunnel. Skaythe sprang after him. Nabber knew what to do this time. Sprinting forward, he brought up his legs and leapt into the tunnel feet first. The cool filth enveloped him. Skaythe grabbed at his hair. Much though Nabber was attached to it, he snapped his head forward and let the locks go.
Sidling down the tunnel he made his escape. He was missing a fistful of hair, a cupful of blood, and about ten years from the lifespan of his heart. It was time he went home to Tawl.
Jack had, by means most extraordinary, gained entry into the city of Annis. He was sitting around a large, well-lit, well-burdened banquet table enjoying the somewhat skeptical company of the Baking Master’s Guild.
“How would you slow down a dough that rises too fast?” asked Barmer, a baker with a huge, bristling mustache and a face as red as the wine he was drinking.
“You put it in a tub full of water and wait until it rises to the top.” Jack’s answer met with grudging nods of approval.
He was getting quite used to the interrogation. For the past hour and a half-ever since he was caught outside the wall and dragged through a cleverly concealed gate into the east side of the city-the members of the baking guild had been throwing him questions to test his claim. It wasn’t enough to say he was a baker, he had to prove it as well.
“Any miller could know that,” said the only slim baker in the room, a hollow-cheeked man named Nivlet.
“Let the lad off the hook,” said Eckles, the baker who had first slapped his pudgy hand on Jack outside the city. “It’s obvious he’s one of us.”
“No, Eckles,” countered Scuppit, a short baker with forearms as broad as hams. “Nivlet’s got a point. That is the sort of thing that a miller might know. Best to ask the lad one more question, just to be safe.”
“Aye,” mumbled the rest of the bakers in disunion. They were about twenty in number, and were all currently stuffing themselves with a banquet’s worth of food. For the first hour, Jack had looked on as the Baking Master’s Guild discussed guild business such as the rising cost of bread tax, the weight of a penny loaf, and this year’s candidates for apprenticeship.
Millers were the enemy. The main aim of the Baking Master’s Guild was to outlaw, outwit, and outdo the Milling Master’s Guild. Millers mixed cheap grains in with good, milled flour either too coarsely or too finely, and had an unbreakable monopoly on the price of meal. If you told a baker that a miller had murdered his family and ate them for supper, the baker would nod and say: “Aye, and I bet he saved their bones for his mill. ” Millers were notorious for grinding anything that could be ground, and then passing it off as flour.
Jack had stumbled upon the Baking Master’s Guild’s monthly spying expedition. Eckles, who in addition to being one of the guild chiefs was the only person who believed Jack to be a baker from the start, had told him that once a month, when the Miller’s Guild were busy with their monthly meeting, the Baking Master’s Guild sent spies out to all the mills within a league of the city to check the miller’s stores. The number of grain bags at each mill was carefully counted and recorded, and then, as the month progressed, the baker’s would keep an eye to the amount of flour produced from each individual mill, ensuring that any excess was duly noted. Too much flour meant that foreign substances had been mixed in with the grain.
Each baking master was assigned a specific mill, and when the counting was done they met in the bushes south of the city and smuggled themselves through the wall via the hidden gate. Spying on fellow guilds was considered a thoroughly dishonorable crime punishable by lifetime expulsion from the professional classes. The Baking Master’s Guild were taking quite a risk.
Jack rather admired their nerve.
“All right,” said Barmer, swallowing a mouthful of food. “Let’s ask him a tough one.” The baker slipped a sweet roll between his lips to aid the thinking process. “Nice texture, Scuppit,” he remarked to the baker by his side.
Scuppit bowed his head graciously. “I added a halfmeasure of clotted cream to the dough.”
Barmer let the bread roll on his tongue. “Never tasted better, my friend.” He swallowed and then turned his attention back to Jack. “Very well, lad, what sort of buttermilk is best for unfermented bread? Fresh or sour?”
Jack was beginning to enjoy himself. He liked the bakers; they were a good-humored group who loved their creature comforts and were passionate about their trade. “Sour,” said Jack. ‘The soda in sour buttermilk will help a flat bread rise.” Eckles looked up from his food. ‘The boy knows his stuff, Barmer.”
“Mat he does,” agreed Scuppit.
“I still don’t trust him,” said Nivlet.
Barmer waggled a bread roll at Jack. “All right. One last question, lad. If you add more yeast to make the dough rise faster, will you need to add more salt, as well?”
“No. Too much salt slows down the yeast.” Jack smiled at the company of bakers. “And makes the crust too firm.”
Barmer stood up, walked over to Jack, and clapped him hard on the back. “Welcome to the guild,” he said. Food permitting, other bakers followed his lead, and Jack was slapped, patted, nudged, and even kissed in congratulation. All came forward except Nivlet, who sat back in his chair, eyeing Jack with open suspicion. After watching the backslapping for some time, Nivlet left the room.
“Eat, boy, eat,” said Eckles. “The Baking Master’s Guild never lets a guest go hungry.”
Jack didn’t need much encouragement. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast-which seemed at least two days back now–and the food in front of him looked a lot more appetizing than anything Stillfox had ever cooked. Glistening baked hams rested beside pies as large as butter churns, cheeses were split open and stuffed with fruit, and fat strings of crisp-skinned sausages shared bowls with roasted onions. Everywhere there was bread: barmcakes, soda rolls, sweet breads, bloomers, griddlecakes, and loaves. Jack had never seen such a variety. They were glorious to behold; some with hearty crusts, others softly glazed or sprinkled with seeds, many had been slashed before baking to give interest to the tooth, and a few had been formed into shapes as elaborate as could be. All of them were fresh, fragrant, and cooked to perfection.
As Jack ate, he began to feel guilty about his treatment of Stillfox. The herbalist had been kind to him-teaching, feeding, healing, asking no awkward questions-and he had repaid it all by storming out in a fit of indignant anger. Jack shook his head slowly. Tomorrow he would go back to the cottage; he wouldn’t apologize for his words-for he said only what he truly felt-but he would apologize for his anger and the way in which he left. He owed Stillfox that much.
With that decision made, Jack poured himself a cup of ale. For ten weeks the herbalist had treated him well, and it didn’t seem right to let one bad incident come between them. Jack downed the thick country beer, relishing its bitter taste. Hadn’t Falk told him all those months ago to accept people for what they are, with all their faults and frailties? Stillfox had accepted him, not blinking an eye about him being a wanted war criminal and a dangerously unstable sorcery user. So, thought Jack, if he had faults, surely he should make allowances for them in others? Yes, Stillfox had kept something from him, but perhaps his motives had been nothing but good.
Jack’s eyes focused on a far distant point. He no longer saw the baker’s lodge; he saw Rovas’ cottage and Tarissa by the fire. A world of good motives couldn’t justify what she had done to him. And then there was his mother with her half-truths and her desire for death. And back a decade more was his father: a man who had left him before he was born. Both his parents had deserted him, and no amount of excuses could talk their deeds away.
Here, in the baker’s lodge, with a score of noisy bakers busily eating themselves sick, Jack began to wonder if there was purpose behind the pain. Did his mother’s death, his father’s abandonment, and Tarissa’s betrayal mean something?
Jack’s cup was filled by an attentive pudgy hand. “Deep in thought, eh?” said Eckles.
Jack was annoyed at the distraction. There had been an instant where he felt the answer was within reach. Eckles’ words had chased it away.
“You best come with me now, lad. Bring your cup and as much food as you can hold.” Eckles began to walk toward a side door and Jack followed him bringing only his cup. His appetite had left him. The huge, round-faced baker led him to a small sitting room where a fire burned brightly in the hearth. “Sit. Sit,” he said, motioning to a bench that was pulled up to the grate.
Jack did as he was told. “Are you going back to the meeting?” he asked. Obviously the Baking Master’s Guild had secret matters to discuss.
“Me? No.” Eckles shook his head firmly. “I’ve heard it all before, and I already know the outcome.” He didn’t as much sit as land on the bench next to Jack. “They’re deciding whether to make their ancient prophecy be known.”
Jack felt his face grow hot. “What prophecy?”
Eckles looked at him carefully. “Well, lad, you’re a baker, that’s for sure, and as you’ve already stumbled across our best-kept secret, I can’t see that telling you another will make any difference either way.” He had brought in a skin of ale from the banquet hall and filled Jack’s cup for a second time. Jack was hardly aware that he’d drunk the first cup. “The Baking Master’s Guild has been meeting in Annis since before it was even a city. When it was just a scholars’ retreat we were kneading dough for the philosophers, putting bread to rise for the wise men.” Eckles leant forward. “Contrary to popular belief, Annis was built on bread, not brainpower.”
Jack managed a smile: bakers were nothing if not proud.
“Anyway,” continued Eckles, “one day, over a century ago now, a baker baked a loaf for a man who called himself a prophet. Only when the loaf was delivered did the baker find out that the man had no money to pay for it. The prophet was close to starvation and begged the baker to give him the loaf. Now, the baker was a good man and took pity on the prophet. Of course he didn’t give him the freshly baked loaf-after all, he was a tradesman, not a fool-but he did give the man the leftover loaves from the day before. The man thanked him for his trouble, and from that day on the baker always sent his stale bread to the prophet.”
“The following winter the prophet caught the tubesthinkers just don’t have the constitution of us bakers-and on his deathbed he called the baker to him. The baker was master of the guild by now, but he came to the man’s summons as if he were just an apprentice. The prophet took the baker’s hand and said, “I have asked you here to repay my debt. As you know, I have no money, but what I do have is insight, and so that is how I will pay you.” Well, the prophet then told the baker his prophecy, and it has been a guild secret ever since. Passed from generation to generation, from father to son.” Eckles finished his tale with a dramatic flourish worthy of an actor.
Whilst the story was being told, Jack felt the palms of his hands growing damp with sweat. He felt guilty, but wasn’t sure why. “And what does this prophecy concern?” he asked.
“A baker, of course.”
Jack nodded He wasn’t surprised. “Which baker is this?”
“One who will come from the west and bring an end to the war.”
“What war?”
Eckles looked him straight in the eye. “The one that’s building between the north and the south. This one.” He rubbed his hand over his mouth. “I can’t tell you the whole verse, lad, not until the guild gives the nod, but the last two lines are:”
“If time turns twice, the truth will bring
Peace into the hands of a baker, not a king. “
Jack looked away. Time turning. The memory of eight score of loaves flashed quickly through his brain. Aware that Eckles was still looking at him, Jack worked hard to compose his features: he didn’t want to give anything away.
Abruptly he stood up. Prophecies, lies, secrets: he’d had enough for one day. The subject needed changing it was time to talk of truths, not shadowy foretellings. “Tell me what’s happening in Bren,” he said. “How is the duke and his new wife?”
A curious expression came over Eckles’ face. “Boy, where have you been these past nine weeks?”
Jack was immediately on his guard. “I live in a cabin in the mountains. My master and I are cut off from the world He only sends me into the city when we need some supplies. The last time I came was two months back.” Jack turned his face to the fire. All the time he’d spent despising deception and here he was, turning out to be quite a liar himself.
“Then you won’t know the duke is dead.” There was a slight edge to Eckles’ voice. “And his new wife has gone into hiding to escape Catherine’s wrath.”
“What would Melliandra have to fear from Catherine?” Jack no longer cared what Eckles thought: all that mattered was learning the truth.
“Half the city says she let the duke’s murderer into the bedchamber. Catherine wants her executed.”
“Is she still in Bren?”
“Most people believe so. If she left the city, Lord Baralis would know it.”
Baralis? Jack could hear the blood pumping through his veins. “Why would Baralis know it?”
“Lord Baralis is all but running the city now.” The emphasis Eckles placed on the word lord was a question in itself. “Just today I heard a rumor that the Lady Melliandra is with child–apparently her father is stirring up trouble in the city, swearing that the unborn babe is the duke’s issue. Whether it’s true or not, I can’t tell you, but you can be sure that Lord Baralis won’t like it one little bit.”
Jack’s throat tightened. Melli was in danger. “Is she alone?”
“Her father and the duke’s champion are said to be with her. There are those who say the champion is her lover.” Eckles shrugged. “None of it will matter before long.” ‘why.
“Because within a matter of weeks Bren will be razed to the ground.”
The room seemed to have shrunk as they spoke. Jack paced its length. He had to go to Melli-now. He had to go to Bren.
Eckles took a swig from his ale skin. “You seem mighty agitated, lad, for someone who lives quietly in the mountains.” He gave Jack a shrewd look.
Jack forced himself to take a deep breath. His throat fought him all the way, but he swallowed hard and willed his muscles to relax. He couldn’t afford to give Eckles reason to be suspicious. The last thing he felt like was a drink, but he took one all the same, purposely taking a long, slow draught to give himself time to think.
Going to Bren tonight just wasn’t practical; it was too late, too dark and his shoes and clothes were too flimsy for the mountains. Besides, he needed to see Stillfox. Jack could guess why the herbalist had withheld this information, but he wanted to hear it from the man’s mouth. They had things to talk about, and another lie wrapped in good intent was just the first of them.
“Look,” he said to Eckles, “I need somewhere to stay tonight. I’ll be gone before sunup.”
“Sunup comes late to Annis,” the baker said. It was his way of saying that Jack could stay. “You can sleep here by the fire. We’ll not trouble the others with the details; they’ll all be going home soon anyway. Just be gone before the maid comes to spread fresh rushes in the morning.”
Nabber decided to take the long way back to Cravin’s townhouse. After his encounter with Skaythe, he didn’t trust anyone or anything. If a drunk as much as stumbled in his direction, a prostitute gave him an earful, or an alley cat gave him the eye, then he’d backtrack, sidestep, or change his path. Sometimes he did all three. A man couldn’t be too careful when returning to his lair. Once, in the space of a single night, Swift had circled Rom three times, rowed from the north harbor to the south harbor in a crab boat, changed horses and traveling companions twice, and donned no less than four separate disguises just to throw his pursuers off the scent. Nabber sighed wistfully. Such extraordinary evasive maneuvers were the stuff of legends in the pocketing world.
Inspired by the thought of Swift braving salt water, strange streets, and a dress-the third of Swift’s four disguises had apparently been as an old milkmaid, complete with wooden buckets, shoulder yoke, and a limp-Nabber decided to make one final detour before heading back toward the townhouse.
Spying a street lined with taverns, brothels, and pie shops, Nabber set his sights in that direction. The fact that plenty of candlelight spilled from the doorways and shutters of various establishments only put him more at ease. He’d lost his appetite for the dark.
As he walked along, Nabber spit in his palm and smoothed down his hair. He wanted to look presentable when he finally saw Tawl. After a few moments of smoothing, probing, and measuring, he was quite sure he’d located a bald spot the size of a five-copper bit just above his left ear. Alarmed, for Swift always said that once a man lost his hair it never grew back, Nabber paused in midstep to search through his sack. After a little discreet fumbling, accompanied by much under-his-breath cursing of Skaythe, his fingers finally closed around the wooden handle of his preening mirror.
Having assured himself that no one was looking, Nabber sidled up to the nearest building, and standing on tiptoe to catch the light escaping through the open shutter, he brought the mirror up to his face. After much twisting and rotating, he eventually managed to find a position where the light fell directly onto the offending bald spot.
Strange, it didn’t look nearly as big and bald as it felt. In fact, it looked rather pathetic.
Disappointed as much as he was relieved, Nabber went to move away from the shutter. Just as he settled back onto the heels of his feet, something bright flashed in the mirror. For a quarter of a second the interior of the building was fully visible in the reflection.
Nabber caught his breath.
A figure sat in the room with his back to the window. Dark haired and robed in black, the oyster pale flesh of his neck was all that was visible of the man. Yet Nabber recognized him all the same. Four days ago he had followed that neck across half a city: it was Baralis.
Nabber’s first instinct was to run. His second instinct was to creep ever so quietly away-he’d had quite enough excitement for one night, what with Skaythe and his metalspiked stick and everything. His third instinct, however, was to stay put and see if he could discover just what old Insect Features was up to, conducting a meeting in an unmarked building bordered by a pastry shop and a vintner’s, in the south side of the city after dark. Nabber seriously doubted that the man had developed a late-night fancy for a glass of wine and a pork pie.
Nabber wavered between his second and third instincts. He really did want to go home; right now there was nothing in the world he fancied more than a hot toddy, a spot of supper, and a freshly stuffed pallet for the night. Yet what if Baralis was up to something devious in there, something that Tawl and the Lady Melliandra needed to know about? Perhaps if he discovered something useful, Tawl might be so pleased with him that he’d totally forget about the fiasco at the Brimming Bucket. Nabber smiled, mind made up. He might even get a warm welcome to go with the hot toddy.
Crouching down to hide himself from view of the window, Nabber slipped his preening mirror back in his sack, his thoughts racing ahead of his hands.. This was obviously a secret meeting of some sort: why else would Baralis choose to meet someone away from the safety of the palace? Which meant that Baralis had probably either come here on his own, or brought only his rat-loving servant along for protection. Nabber slipped into the shadows. There would be no armed guards to give him chase.
As the building was in the middle of a row of six, there was no alleyway running down the side, so Nabber had to walk to the end of the row before he could find a way to approach the rear. A narrow, walled walkway provided access for deliveries, and Nabber had to keep count of the number of gateways he passed to ensure he picked the right building. They all looked the same from the back.
The vintner was obviously having some sort of latenight party, as the sounds of laughing, coughing, and singing escaped from between the partially closed shutters. Nabber was glad of the noise when he entered the middle building’s yard, as piles of scrap metal and rotting wood made it difficult for him to move quietly.
A sudden noise caused Nabber to freeze in midstep. A dark form close to the building’s rear wall moved. Nabber’s heart turned to a dead weight in his chest. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe. The sound came again, this time followed by a second noise. A low, nickering animal noise. It was a horse! Annoyed at himself for being scared of an old nag, Nabber risked moving in closer. Tethered to a holding timber jutting from the rear wall, the horse was on a very short lead. Looking at it, Nabber was forced to admit that it was an extraordinary animal: tall, with a finely muscled flank and neck, and a slim but gleaming belly. Not an old nag by anyone’s counting, but rather a Far South purebred.
Nabber could see now why it was on such a short lead: it’s owner wouldn’t want to risk the animal injuring itself on a chunk of scrap metal, or a nail-encrusted plank. The horse whinnied in Nabber’s direction. Nabber shook his head softly. There was no way he was going to go near it. All horses were dangerous as far as he was concerned-especially purebreds.
The horse whinnied again, louder this time. “Ssh,” hissed Nabber under his breath.
The horse wasn’t about to be quieted It stamped its forehooves on the ground and pulled against its reins. Panicking, Nabber darted forward and grabbed the horse’s bridle. Unsure of what to say to calm a horse, he threatened it with all manner of dire punishments in his softest, most encouraging voice. It seemed to work. The horse settled down, moving closer to the wall and letting the reins fall slack.
Nabber heaved a sigh of relief. As he took his hands from the horse’s noseband, he noticed something black on his palm. Bringing his hand closer to his face, Nabber inspected the mark, first rubbing, then smelling it. It was soot.
A small thrill passed down Nabber’s spine. Quickly, he glanced over at the horse’s noseband. Even in the dull light spilling from the shutters, he could clearly see a stripe of yellow on the leather. Two minutes earlier it had been entirely black. Someone had gone to great trouble to conceal the true colors of the bridle. Nabber leant forward and ran his hands over the leather. A second yellow stripe emerged from beneath the soot.
Yellow and black. The colors of Valdis.
Suddenly the back door of the building opened, and the backyard was flooded with light. Nabber dived for the shadows behind the horse. Something sharp caught at his left shin, and he had to clench his teeth together to stop himself from crying out.
A figure moved into the doorway, blocking out part of the light. Nabber used the cover of increased shadow to move into the corner where the building and the wall met. The jutting timber the horse was tethered to provided further cover.
Not dating to rub his throbbing shin, Nabber brought his hand to his throat. The cut that Skaythe had opened earlier was encrusted with dried blood. It stung when he touched it. Nabber gulped. He should have followed his first instinct and run straight home to Tawl.
The figure moved from the doorway into the yard, and then a second, taller man followed.
“The guards at the west gate will turn a blind eye as you pass,” said the second man to the first.
Nabber rubbed at the dried blood on his throat. That voice belonged to Baralis.
“Like a gaggle of maidservants on a wedding night, you think of everything, Baralis. “
The dark figure that Nabber now knew to be Baralis bowed toward the stranger. “I do my best.”
Both men took a few steps in Nabber’s direction. Nabber could now smell the scent of the stranger: exotic, foreign fragrances and horse sweat. His dark hair was slick with oil and his teeth flashed white as he spoke.
“You do know Kylock is camped outside the south gate?” he said, bringing a forger up to his temple to smooth a misplaced hair. Although he was wearing a leather tunic, he made no sound as he moved.
“There’s no need to bother the king with the details of our little meeting,” said Baralis smoothly.
“My thoughts exactly,” replied the stranger after a carefully lazy pause. Just how careful the pause was could be judged from watching the man’s left hand. As Nabber looked on, the stranger balled his hand into a fist and relaxed it five times before speaking.
Judging from the colors of his horse’s bridle, the stranger had something to do with Valdis. And although Nabber didn’t know much about these things, he had a feeling the man was more than just a knight.
The stranger moved toward his horse. Nabber pressed his body flat against the wall. The horse nickered softly. The stranger’s hand automatically came up to calm the animal, but Baralis chose that moment to speak, so his attention was diverted away.
“In fact,” said Baralis, moving toward the horse, “the less the king knows about our … how should I put it? … our understanding, the better. After all, he will soon have a new marriage, a new bride, and a new dukedom to contend with. I see no need to bother him with the petty details of power.” Nabber shivered. There was something about Baralis’ voice that chilled him through and through.
“Yes,” agreed the stranger. “Whatever religious activities transpire in Helch and any other occupied territories should be of little interest to the king.” The stranger’s voice wasn’t as cold and deadly as Baralis’; it was smoother and more detached. In fact, everything about the stranger was smooth: his leather tunic, his oiled hair, his movements.
“Know this, my friend,” Baralis said. “The king’s feelings in this matter are exactly the same as my own. As long as the knights join us on the field, and order is maintained in the occupied territories, we care little about your intent”
The stranger smiled. His teeth were small and perfectly even. Once again, he paused before speaking. Three fists this time. “I’m glad to hear the king has the same feelings about religion as we do.” The faint hint of mockery in his voice trailed away as he spoke the next sentence. “The north has been too long under the spiritual guidance of Silbur and Marls and Rom. We shouldn’t be beholden to the whims of a southern Church.”
The stranger took a breath, preparing to speak again, but Baralis cut him short:
“Do whatever you have to do, Tyren. Just keep Helch on its knees until Highwall is broken, and no questions will be asked about your motives.”
Tyren. A hard lump rose in Nabber’s throat. He tried to breathe and found he couldn’t. Tyren was the leader of the knights. He was Tawl’s idol, his savior, his mentor. And here he was making secret deals with Baralis that involved performing Borc-only-knew what atrocities on the unsuspecting people of Helch. Nabber wasn’t fooled by the words “religious activities.” He’d lived with smooth-talkers for too long not to see the truth behind a well-chosen phrase. Tyren wanted to convert the people of Helch to his own religious doctrines, and judging from what had been said tonight in this yard, neither he nor Baralis were fussy about the means.
Listening to the two men plotting, Nabber vehemently wished that he had never stumbled upon the meeting. This wasn’t the sort of information Tawl would thank him for coming back with. In fact, Nabber was beginning to wonder if he should keep the details to himself. It would crush Tawl to find out the truth about Tyren. The leader of the knighthood was the one person left in whom Tawl had any faith.
Nabber felt a sharp pain in his neck. Without realizing it, he had pulled the scab off his throat. Skaythe’s spike wound reopened and a trickle of blood slid down Nabber’s tunic. He forced himself to breathe, taking fast, feather-light breaths. Stay calm, he told himself. Stay calm.
Baralis and Tyren had been speaking all the while, and as Nabber concentrated upon what they were saying once more, Tyren reached over to untie the reins of his horse.
Baralis spoke. “I don’t want to hear any rumors of torture or worse coming out of Helch. Whatever you choose to do, it must be done quietly. It’s too early in the game to risk the south getting wind of our plans.”
“Don’t worry, Baralis,” Tyren said, long, gold-ringed fingers tugging gently on the reins to loosen the knot. “I’ll make sure that nothing leaks out. There are countless different methods for discrediting a tattletale, and more than half a dozen ways to kill one.”
As Tyren was speaking his eyes flicked from the wooden beam to the horse. For the briefest instant, he looked straight into the dark corner where the wall and building met. Less than six paces away from where he stood, separated only by the horse and its shadow and the wooden holding beam, Nabber tensed.
Tyren hesitated for a second. His hand moved from the reins to his face. He peered into the darkness.
The lump returned to Nabber’s throat. It was as heavy as lead this time. Sweat trickled down his nose.
Suddenly the horse pulled on its reins, stepping away from the wall. Tyren was forced to move along with it in order to keep hold of the reins.
“Well, Tyren,” said Baralis, nodding at the horse. “It looks as if your gelding is eager to be on his way. I think our business for this night is complete. We both see eye to eye on the religious future of the north.”
Tyren checked the position of the saddle and the buckles on the stirrups and then mounted the horse. “And when the king decides to expand his empire outwards?” he said, settling himself down in the saddle. “I trust Valdis will be allowed to address the religious practices of the south, as well?” Baralis smiled slowly. “Oh, most especially the south.” Hearing Baralis’ words, Nabber’s stomach collapsed inwards, leaving an aching hollow in his chest. He felt as if he might be sick.
Tyren nodded, satisfied Baralis looked on as he guided his horse toward the gate. Neither man bid the other farewell.
Baralis stood in the center of the fan of light escaping from the doorway and watched as Tyren rode away. When the sound of the horses’ hooves could no longer be heard, Baralis took a thin breath and then smiled.
“Tavalisk,” he said softly, speaking into the darkness, “it may have taken me nearly twenty years, but I will have my revenge.”
Baralis waited a moment longer and then turned and walked back to the building.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Nabber took a long, deep breath. He thanked Borc and the spirit of Swift’s dead mother for keeping him safe and sound-he even thanked the horse. Sending his right hand down to explore his throbbing shin, he discovered a large, bloody lump that was unbelievably tender to the touch. The spike wound on his throat was still bleeding, and his tunic was soaked in sweat. Although there was nothing in the world he wanted to do more than to run as fast as he could from the yard, Nabber forced himself to stay put until the lights went out. Even then he didn’t dare move until a fair length of time had passed. He was taking no more chances tonight. Chased, accosted, threatened, trapped, and very nearly caught: he’d had quite enough excitement to last him all his life. Well, certainly a good part of it.
Stiff from standing still for so long, cold, tired, and shivering, Nabber made his way out of the yard. He couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for throwing potential pursuers off his track and took the shortest, quickest route back to Tawl.
It had been a long time since Kylock last measured the powder as Baralis had taught him. No longer did he bother to spread only enough grain to cover the dip in his palm. Now he took his drug by the fistful. Into his glass he sprinkled it, the powder flashing as quick and bright as an arrowhead shot to a mark. A cup of red wine wetted it for the taking. Only when the powder had been washed down his throat could Kylock breathe easy again.
The terrible flashes when his skull crushed his mind, and when his thoughts turned inside out revealing the raw meat of brain beneath, would ease for a while now. The drug did that at least.
As he drew the glass to his lips a second time, two guards carried the girl’s body away from the tent. It had been an especially unpleasant attack. Passion brought out more than the beast in him.
“Get her hand off the floor,” he commanded to the men. The fools were carrying her too low and her hand was trailing the length of his carpet. It was tainted now, along with the pillows and the sheets. The whole place reeked of her. Everything would have to be destroyed. Kylock pushed past the men to the tent flap and made his way into the night.
The sky was always dark when he was under it. And Kylock was not displeased to note that Bren’s purple-andblack expanse acted no differently from the rest.
They were camping just south of the city–so close they could see the walls, taste the wood smoke, and hear the wagons creaking through the streets. Kylock cast his gaze upon the high battlements of Bren. Yes. This city was for him. Not an overbloated town like Harvell, not an ancient shabby hovel like Helch, but a glorious youthful city, growing, burgeoning: a terrible child. Bren didn’t sit in its own squalor like other cities: the mountain air carried off the stench each night and the rain washed the dirt to the lake.
The lake, the mountains, the walls: Bren’s defenses were unmatched in the Known Lands. It was made to be the center of an empire. The long line of its dukes had prepared the city for him, constructing strong walls, impregnable gatehouses, and ringing the city with a network of portcullises. Now that they had done their job, it was fitting they were gone. Bren had seen the last of its dukes.
Kylock drank the last sip from his glass. The drug was a sweetener for the wine. The smell of roasting flesh met his nostrils and he guessed the guards had thrown the girl on the fire. Burning was the best way to render a corpse unrecognizabie. No one but he and the guards would know who the girl was or what had become of her. Her chest cavity would be split by the actions of the flame, and her two broken wrists would be reduced to so many charred and disjointed bones. Kylock shrugged. It might even burn the expression of tenor right off her pretty face. She would just be another diseasewracked whore who was torched for the good of the camp.
He was feeling a lot better now. The drug was working its commission: the world was heavier, darker, and infinitely more solid under its thrall. It calmed the rage inside. Something alarming was happening to him. More and more he lost control of himself: violent schisms ripped through his body and his thoughts. Always there was the taste of metal in his mouth. Just earlier, when he was abed with the girl-when he had tied her wrists to the post and her neck to the board, and when the wax was hot enough to blister-his body had been racked by a violent contraction. It was as if a hand had squeezed his gut, sending bile flooding to his mouth. His brain grew large, or his skull shrunk small, and suddenly his thoughts were too many to be contained. A shocking pressure built up within and the only way to release it was to tear at the girl beneath.
He fell on her like an animal. Teeth became fangs and fingers became talons. Blackness came to overwhelm him, and by fighting the girl he fought the monster off. If she screamed, he never heard it; if she struggled, he never noticed. All he felt was the cooling spray of her blood on his cheek and the feeble push of her second to last breath. By the time she took her last, he had clawed his way back to the light. Gut rested against liver once more and the pressure had lifted from his head. A trickle of his own blood had run down from his nose, and he spat in a cloth to remove the aftertaste from his mouth.
“A missive has arrived from Halcus, sire.”
Kylock spun around. He had not heard the guard approach. As the man handed him the sealed parchment, he noticed the guard’s eyes fall to his tunic. The girl’s blood formed a dark patch upon the gold. Kylock spoke very softly. “Blood spilled in secret is a bond between men. Go now, my friend, and tell no one of what you saw.”
The man fell to the floor. “Sire, I would spill an army’s worth of blood on your saying.”
Kylock nodded softly and gestured for the man to rise. “Your loyalty will not be forgotten.”
The man bowed and walked away.
Kylock smiled. Every day he discovered new powers that were made for kings alone. The ability to inspire unquestioning loyalty was a gift straight from the gods. What men would not do for money, they would do in an instant if it was a matter of belief. His men had faith in him: he won wars, took risks, and was hated by his enemies. He promised his men spoils and made sure that they got them: women or children, whatever their tastes. Gold, grain, appointments … destruction if they fancied. A town set alight in a frenzy of blood-lust was often the best reward after a day on the field. Nothing inspired greater contempt for the enemy than watching them burn.
Kylock broke the wax seal. Yes, he had the loyalty of his men, and the contents of this letter proved it.
Tonight, just before dawn, his mother would meet her death. Her castle in the Northlands would be raided by a rogue Halcus war party. None would survive to tell the tale. Kedrac, Maybor’s eldest, had planned every detail, right down to the rape and desecration of the dowager queen. The truly inspirational part had been his own, though. The queen’s body, when it was done with, was to be laid out on an Annis banner. The implication would be that Halcus was working in conjunction with the mountain city. The kingdoms would be outraged when the news came to light, and support for his next move-which just happened to be the invasion of Annis-would be all but guaranteed. What country would let the rape and murder of its beloved, and so recently bereaved, queen go unavenged?
Of course the invasion of Annis would be merely a feint. His army would be needed elsewhere, but it suited him to let his enemies believe that they were too entrenched in a siege of honor to be moved. Kylock’s eyes searched out the dark lines of the battlements of Bren. It would be quite a surprise to all when his plans took their final turn. Of course Annis would be his eventually anyway-a few months here or there would make no difference in the end.
Kylock read on. Kedrac was clever enough to write in code. Not only had he arranged the queen’s demise, he’d also timed the conquering of the last Halcus towns to perfection. Kylock was well pleased with Kedrac’s work. It meant that the day he married Catherine, he could present her with Halcus as her own. A magnificent gesture, but an unworthy gift: nothing was too precious for Catherine.
He couldn’t wait to meet her. He would come to Catherine as a free man. With his mother gone he would be bound to no one. He would give himself wholly to his new bride, and when he came and knelt at her feet, she would cleanse him forever of the taint of the womb.
Kylock turned back toward the camp. His manservant knew him well enough to have heated some water in his absence. He was dirty and needed to be clean. His hands and clothes stank, and it wasn’t fitting to even think of Catherine whilst he smelled of the whore he’d just killed.
Four
Jack was dreaming about Tarissa again. His thoughts, which so carefully avoided her during the daytime, seemed to gang up on him at night. She was always there; one moment laughing, tempting, merry as a dairymaid, the next she would be crying, pleading, falling on her knees and begging him to take her with him.
Always, even in his dreams, he walked away. Only tonight he heard her footsteps following him. Jack’s heart raced to hear them. He turned to face Tarissa, but she wasn’t there. Still the footsteps came, nearer than ever now. Jack spun around. Where was she? The footsteps were so close the ground vibrated with their resonance.
“He’s in here,” came a voice.
Not Tarissa’s voice. Not a familiar voice_ Not even a dream. Jack jumped up. His senses came after him. He was in the baker’s lodge and the light peaking in from the shutters told of a new dawn.
The door burst open. Four men fully armed barged into the room. Nivlet, the one thin baker in the Baking Master’s Guild, stood behind them.
“That’s him!” he cried. “He’s the one the Halcus are looking for.”
Two of the men came forward. Jack’s hand was already on his knife. His mouth was dry and his thoughts were still reeling with sleep. As he moved to meet the guards, he cast his gaze from side to side, taking in the details of the room. Searching for distractions. The wood shuttle lay to his left, well-stacked with logs. Jack made a jump for it, kicking it toward the guards. The logs went careening forward, forcing the two guards to step back. Jack sprang with them. His knife was ahead of him, drawing ever decreasing circles in the air. The blade caught one of the guard’s arms. Jack put his weight behind it and sliced through muscle as well as skin.
Something nicked him from behind. Spinning around he came face-to-face with the third guard. He had red hair, a large red mustache, and the longest knife Jack had ever seen.
“Come and get some, boy,” he encouraged. His sideways glance gave him away. He was hoping to distract Jack long enough to enable the second guard to slice him from behind.
His eyes never leaving Red Hair for a moment, Jack took a guess at where the second man stood. He pivoted his weight to his left leg and then kicked back with his right heel like a horse. He caught the man’s knee dead-center. Groaning, he fell forward. Jack made straight for Red Hair’s blade. At the very last instant, he pulled sharply to the side. Red Hair was already in motion, and his momentum carried him forward. He went smashing into the second guard, who was rocking over his knee.
Jack had no time to watch the outcome. The air burned in his throat and his lungs seemed ready to burst. He turned his attention back to the first guard with the wounded arm. The fourth was still in the doorway, biding his time. Wounded-arm had gotten a spear from somewhere. He teased Jack with it, stabbing wildly at his chest and thighs. Jack grew angry at the man’s cowardice. Keeping a safe distance between himself and the spear tip, he raised his knife to his face. Wounded-arm’s blood was still drying on the blade.
“Hmm,” said Jack, hoping to get the man to look down at his wound. “I’d see a physician if I were you. Your blood looks a strange color to me.”
The man smiled. “I’m not so easily fooled, boy.” He jabbed his spear forward.
Jack was forced to step back. He realized he couldn’t go any farther, as he was now backed up against the wall. Something had to be done. He returned the guard’s smile. “I still think you may have to see a physician after all, my friend. About that terrible slash near your eye.”
Just as the man’s face registered confusion, Jack tensed his knife arm like a spring and then shot his wrist forward. He released his grip on the haft and the blade went shooting straight for the man’s eye. Once again, Jack didn’t wait for the show. Now unarmed, he sprang away from the wall. Red Hair had recovered, but the second guard was on the floor. There was blood on Red Hair’s blade. The fourth guard had moved to his side, and both of them now blocked Jack’s path to the door.
Two men, armed and ready, faced him. Jack knew it was time for sorcery. He concentrated on the metal in the blades. He felt it dense, rigid, resisting with all its might. Doing exactly what he had been taught, he entered the cool-metal hardness. This wasn’t one of Stillfox’s training sessions where the dangers were mostly imagined and the outcome carefully monitored like an experiment under glass. This was real.
Split seconds were all he had. There was no time for straining or finesse, no time to be entrapped by the substance he entered. Jack fed off the urgency and the danger.
His mind conjured up an image of Tarissa. She was there in a blink of an eye, Rovas in front of her, and gently she raised her hand to feel the heat from his forehead. Jack felt sorcery build. Shame was underneath, but he had no time to deal with that now. He let the power flood up from his belly whilst his thoughts swept down from his mind. The two met in his mouth and the metal bite of sorcery slithered down along his tongue.
Straight to the blades it went. Jack’s mind formed the intent as it raced through the air. He molded the sorcery like a sculptor, and once it hit it was fully formed. It passed with his thoughts into the substance of the knife, and just as it did what it was made for, he pulled himself back from the blades. The knives became red-hot pokers. Both men screamed, opening their fists and dropping the blades to the floor.
Jack felt a wave of weakness sweep over him. Fighting it off, he pushed past both men toward the door. Neither Red Hair nor his friend had any desire to stop him. They were both holding up red, raw palms and looking wildly around for some way to cool them.
Jack stepped over the threshold and walked straight into Nivlet. Frallit had once said: “Never trust a skinny baker, ” and it seemed that he was right. Jack punched Nivlet squarely in the face. Nivlet fell to the floor and Jack stepped over his body. “See to it those guards get some water for their burns.” He didn’t wait to hear the man’s reply; he turned his back and walked away.
Feeling strangely elated, Jack made his way from the lodge. He had done it! He had made sorcery do his bidding! It was exhilarating. He felt powerful, confident, ready to take on all comers. As he walked through the banquet hall, Jack swept all the remains of last night’s food from the table. Loaves, chickens, and fruit went flying into the air. He threw his head back and laughed out loud. Finally he had done something right.
Footsteps again, either Nivlet or one of the injured guards. Time to move on. Jack’s smile fell from his face. It looked like he wouldn’t be seeing much of Annis after all, as he’d be going out the same way he came in: by the back door. Jack picked a particularly nasty-looking carving knife from the rushes, filled his tunic with bread and cheese and, as an afterthought, downed a cupful of ale in a toast to himself. Grimacing-sitting around all night had done little for the ale-Jack turned on his heel and slipped out into the dawn.
“Your Grace, may I present His Royal Highness King Kylock, Sovereign of the Four Kingdoms.” Baralis stepped back and let Kylock come forward to meet Catherine.
Kylock looked magnificent. Dressed in black silk and sable with spun gold at cuffs and collar he looked more than the king he was. Tall and fine-limbed he carried himself with casual pride. His features were harder to judge; strangely shadowed despite the sunshine beaming down from the windows, they eluded both words and light.
He stretched out an elegant hand and Catherine raised her own to meet it. He brought her pale fingers to his lips. His breath was cool, cooler even than his lips. A tiny thrill passed through Catherine. She hadn’t intended to curtsy when she met him–the mistress of Bren bowed to no man-yet she knew how very becoming she looked from above: how enticingly the cleft of her bosom deepened, how full her bottom lip became when gilded with light.
“It is an honor to welcome you to our fine city, Your Majesty.”
“The honor,” said Kylock, “is mine.”
They stood in the great hall surrounded by courtiers. Garlands of summer roses decked the walls. The windows were glazed with stained glass and the sun’s rays shining upon them were converted to the colors of state. Royal blue, midnight blue, purple, and scarlet: colors her father had chosen. The colors of the cloth they had wound around his corpse. Catherine shivered despite the warmth of the sun.
Kylock still had hold of her hand. “Say the word if you are cold, my lady,” he said softly. “And I will burn a city to warm you.”
Catherine’s sharp intake of breath was not the only one. The courtiers who heard Kylock speak shifted uneasily in their places.
Baralis stepped in to fill the awkward silence. “Your Majesty must be tired after your long journey. If you will permit me, I will show you to your chambers.”
Kylock did not look at him. He did not take his eyes from Catherine. Still he had hold of her hand. His forgers pressed against her bone, stopping the blood from flowing to the tips. “You are right, my chancellor, I must rest. Today I have seen my future wife, and the sight has all but stolen my breath.” Abruptly he let her hand drop.
Catherine had willed him to let it go, but now that he had she felt lost. There was such power to him, and while he held her hand it was as if she was party to it. She spoke to hold him an instant longer. “My lord, I trust you will ford your chambers to your liking. I saw to the furnishings myself.”
He moved swiftly forward. Catherine panicked for a moment and took a step back-for some reason she had thought he meant to strike her. He bowed instead, dipping his head low and exposing the white flesh on the back of his neck. His nostrils quivered as if he were taking in her scent. “My lady’s thoughtfulness is matched only by her purity.”
Catherine dug her fingernails into her palms to stop herself from blushing. Purity? Such an odd word to use. She began to feel uncomfortable. Bowing her head, she murmured, “I trust I will not disappoint you.”
Kylock’s eyes met hers. Dark, they were, but the color escaped her. He smiled, showing even white teeth with a slight inward slant. “My lady will not disappoint me.” He moved away from her so quickly that she was unable to focus on his form until he was still once more.
Turning to Baralis, he said, “Chancellor, lead me to my chambers.” Baralis came to the king’s side and began to guide him from the hall.
Catherine watched the pair go. There was something strange about the two of them … they were matched in height and coloring. Even their very movements seemed the same. No footfalls sounded as they walked. Catherine shook her head slowly, unwilling to carry her thoughts further.
Kylock and Baralis were from the same country, the same court; it was hardly unusual that they bore the same facade. Overcome with a sudden desire to rest, Catherine dismissed her court with a wave of her hand. She was tired, drained, sharply aware of her vulnerability. Kylock was so much more than she had expected, and his presence had unnerved her. In eight days she would be his wife. Turning, she made her way to her chambers. Never in her life had she felt more alive than when King Kylock held her hand.
“The trout is coming along nicely, Grift. A few more minutes and it will be as fine as fish can be.”
“I’ve never cared for fish myself, Bodger. But it is good for a man’s plums.”
“His plums, Grift?”
“Aye, Bodger, his plums. A man will never have a problem with his hernies as long as he eats lots of fish. “
“Why’s that, Grift?”
“Fish increases a man’s power of suspension, if you get my drift, Bodger Two trout a day and your plums will be so supple they’ll be bouncing off the floor.”
Bodger looked doubtful. “I’m not so sure that sounds like a benefit, Grift.”
“It’s not for me to decide what’s best, Bodger. I’m merely here to give you all the facts.” Grift nodded wisely and Bodger nodded back.
“Here, d’you think I should take a trout to Tawl, Grift?”
“No, Bodger. Best stay clear of him today, it being the Feast of Borc’s First Miracle and all. It’s the most holy of days for knights, and bringing Tawl a fish will only serve to salten the wound.”
“Aye, Grift. I think you’re right. I saw him earlier and he looked right through me. Lady Melliandra tried to comfort him, but he just sent her away.”
“You can hardly blame the man, Bodger. Every knight who was ever knighted lets his blood for Borc today. Tawl will be feeling the loss of his circles keenly.”
“How does the story go again, Grift?”
“Well, Borc, as you know, was a shepherd in the foothills of the Great Divide. One day he’s protecting his flock and along comes a pack of hunger-crazed wolves. They chase Borc and his flock right up to the Faldara Falls. Well, Borc has nowhere to go and so he pleads to God for guidance, and before the words have left his mouth the falls turn to ice. Every spit of water, every fish on the fin: all frozen in an instant. So Borc and his sheep cross the falls, and as soon as the wolves step onto the ice, everything melts and the predators go plunging to their death.”
Bodger sighed impatiently. “Everyone knows that story, Bodger. It’s how Valdis fits in that I’m not clear on.”
“Right. Why didn’t you say so in the first place, then?” Grift downed a mouthful of ale and settled himself back on his chair. “Well, as you know Valdis was the first man to become a disciple of Borc’s. And when Borc traveled to the Far South in search of truth, Valdis stayed in the north to spread the word. Anyway, ten years to the day after the miracle at Faldara Falls, Valdis is preaching along its bank to an angry and disbelieving mob. They begin to shout at him, saying there was no miracle and that anyone who tried to cross the falls would surely die.”
“Well, being flesh and blood like he was, Valdis knows there’s no way he can perform a miracle, so he does something else instead: the First Act of Faith. He jumps into the river and lets the current take him over the falls.”
“Naturally everyone thinks he’s a goner, he’d likely be crushed by the rocks the minute he hits the falls. So the mob walks home to their wives and children and promptly forget all about him. But somehow Valdis survived-how, no one knows for sure, though most say it was God’s reward for his faith—and he makes his way back to the village. The villagers are so overcome by the sight of him that they fall to their knees and pledge themselves to Borc. Valdis kisses each and every one of them on the forehead, and then leaves, telling them it is their duty to go forth and spread the word.” Grift drained his cup, indicating the end of the story.
“Valdis was a very brave man, Grift,” said Bodger softly.
“Aye, Bodger, and the knighthood he started was supposed to carry on his ideals.”
“Poor Tawl. It must distress him to see the way the knighthood has fallen.”
“If you ask me, Bodger, he’s lucky to be out of it.”
“If you could have seen his face this morning, Grift, you’d know that’s the last of his thoughts. He just sat in his windowseat and looked out toward the south.”
“The city of Valdis lies to the south, Bodger.”
“Aye. And Tawl’s heart lies with it this day.”
Baralis closed the door behind himself. He thought for a moment and then drew the bolt. Kylock was in the palace now, and somehow his presence changed everything.
The boy had grown in many ways since Baralis had last seen him. Indeed, he was no longer a boy at all. A man. A king. A ruler of men. Oh, how his presence dominated the great hall! How everyone strained to hear his every word, and how they all breathed a sigh of relief as he left. There was no doubt about it: Kylock was born to be an emperor. He was begot for it. But he was so young, so inexperienced, so bright with all the ruthlessness of youth. He had to be molded, his decisions gently guided, his policies shaped to curves of greater subtlety.
Seeing Kylock this morning had been like seeing a different person. He would be no willingly manipulated halfman. He was whole, vibrant, and ready to take control.
Baralis permitted himself the smallest of smiles. Well, not quite whole. The sparkling drug named ivysh had already seen to that. Ivysh stopped sorcery from flowing through the body, and while Kylock continued to be addicted to it he would be unable to draw upon the source. The fact that the new king was still taking it was no longer in doubt. He reeked of it: his hair, his clothes, his breath. The side effects he covered up well, though.
Ivysh promoted madness in some, paranoia in others, and destructive delusions in all. Men in Hanatta took it to bring themselves closer to God. Women in Hanatta took it to forget about the cruelty of their men, and children in Hanatta were given ivysh-coated rags to suck on when they cried too much. Baralis had tasted it only once, in the mouth of his teacher’s young niece. He never tried it again: self-control was not something he relinquished lightly.
The fact that Kylock managed to take the drug and still retain the semblance of sanity was nothing short of remarkable. Five years he had taken it. Baralis could not begin to guess at the long-term effects of its use. Yet despite everything Kylock appeared to be faring well. A remarkable young man, indeed.
Baralis felt a trace of paternal pride. He worked quickly to suppress it: now was not the time for self-congratulation. There were things he must do, tasks he had been putting off for several days now, while he gave his body a chance to recover from the incident with Maybor at the tavern. Baralis sat by his fire and Crope came to pour him some holk. “Ready my potions, Crope. I have a long journey to make.” The drawings he had performed at the Brimming Bucket had left him badly weakened, and only now did he have the strength to forsake himself. Baralis drank his holk slowly, putting off the final moment for as long as possible. He hated leaving his body. When mind was separated from flesh, when the soul pulled away from the body that fed it, and when the heart pumped blood around an empty shell, time was of the essence-and dangers as terrible as insentience and madness lurked in dark spaces waiting to strike. Taking a deep breath, Baralis began his preparations: the powder, the leaf, the blood. He inhaled the mixture deeply and then fell back into the waiting arms of Crope. The terrible lightness never failed to shock. Baralis kept his thoughts weighty, lest his mind rise high above the firmament never to return. His body screamed in protest, but already he was too far away to acknowledge the loss. Up and up he went, through layers of clouds and thinning bands of air pressure, the rotation of the world bending his ascent. Strange how he felt the cold. Heat, wind, and water left him unaffected, but the cold had a power all its own.
Before he knew it he was there. The temple at Larn lay below him: a stone rectangle on an island that was shaped like a pear. Down through slate and rock and wood he traveled, into the chamber they had prepared for his mooring. Four men, a table, four candles, and a bowl.
“Welcome Baralis,” said the first of the four.
Baralis took a moment to still himself. If he’d had breath he would be breathless. This time he did not make the mistake of shaping himself a form-he would not waste his energy on a trifle to please the priests. “I have come in search of answers.”
“You have come to the right place, but what will you give us in return?”
“Not my soul, if that is what you think.”
“You have no soul, Baralis. You survive on ambition alone.”
Baralis flexed his will and all four candles went out. “I will listen to no condemnation from Larn.”
The eldest of the four spoke quickly. “Say what you want, Baralis.”
They already knew why he’d come, he was sure of it. They just liked to play their games. “The duke’s newly bereaved wife is with child. I need to know if it is a boy or a girl.”
The four were silent for a moment, exchanging whatever secret messages they needed to exchange. After a moment the youngest priest spoke up. “III tidings for you, I’d say, Baralis.”
“A boy, then.” It was as direct an answer as he was ever likely to get from Larn. He moved quickly along: it was never wise to give the priests too long to think. “When will Annis and Highwall move against Bren?”
The youngest tut-tutted. “Now, now, Baralis. A favor for a favor first.”
Baralis was prepared for this. If there was one thing Larn was famous for, it was always extracting its price. He spoke slowly, relishing every word. “I know the identity of the one whom you fear.”
No one breathed for the longest moment. Then the eldest whispered, “Go on.”
“A baker’s boy from Castle Harvell is the one who can destroy you. Jack is his name, and he used to be my scribe.”
“Where is he now?” hissed the youngest.
Baralis was beginning to enjoy himself. He wished he had shoulders to shrug. “Somewhere west of Bren-Helch, Annis, who knows?”
“What makes you so sure of what you say?”
“Aah, my friend, do I ask you how the seers spin their tales?” Baralis wasn’t about to tell them of Marod’s prophecy–let them figure that one out on their own. Marod spoke of many things that were no concern of Larn’s.
“And what of the knight who seeks the boy called Jack?”
“I believe he is still in Bren. ‘Twould be near impossible for him to smuggle a pregnant woman and her aging father out of the city.” Baralis couldn’t resist a jibe. “But surely you know that already?”
“We cannot force our seers to see.”
“You would if you could.” Baralis changed the timbre of his thoughts. He was tired of trading jibes, and time was running out. “Tell me what you know of Highwall’s plans.”
“Their plans are no longer their own. Their troops will not leave their city until the marriage has taken place.”
“Why will they wait until then?”
“Because the one who pays the piper picks the tune.” Tavalisk Rorn’s scheming archbishop was financing the buildup to war. Yet what benefit would he gain by waiting? Baralis felt himself wavering. The blood-pull of his body called him back.
“Going so soon, Baralis?” taunted the youngest.
“A proposition before you do,” said the eldest. “Track down and destroy the knight and the boy, and we will direct your hand in the war.”
The words I agree sounded over half a continent as Baralis succumbed to the cravings of his flesh.
Jack felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle like a dog’s. It was damp and cool with a light breeze blowing, but nothing could explain the sensation he’d just felt. It was as if a dark shadow had passed over him.
Jack pulled his new cloak close. The sky was growing dimmer by the minute. It was dusk, and from where he stood, at the side of the road leading up to the mountains, Jack could see all of Annis below him. He had decided not to return to Stillfox. There was too much risk: the city would be crawling with people looking for him. The road leading to the herbalist’s village was too busy–a hundred people might recognize him. In fact, walking to the city in the first place had been nothing short of foolish. According to Stillfox, his likeness was posted all over Annis.
No. It was for the best that he didn’t go back. He would only be placing Stillfox in danger. And even though the man may have hidden the truth about Melli from him, he hardly deserved to be branded a traitor. Jack didn’t know what the penalty for harboring a notorious war criminal would be, but he could guess it would involve torture, then death.
Jack began to walk up the narrow mountain path. Even though he knew he was doing the right thing by not returning to say farewell to Stillfox, he couldn’t help but feel bad. The herbalist would assume that he had taken off in a fit of anger vowing never to return. Well, that was what life was all about, wasn’t it? A series of misunderstandings, halftruths, and regrets?
