Authors: J. V. Jones
"Thank you,
kind sir. I'm most grateful. Could you make sure it's pork or lamb?"
Goose feet! What
sort of place has goose feet as its special? Nabber took a draught of ale and
waited upon his second course. His ears strayed back to the merchants.
"The pits
have been dead this season," said the one named Fengott. "It's hardly
worth placing a bet. I haven't seen a good fight all month."
"You're
right. There's been no decent challengers to the duke's champion for half a
year now. They're all fighting like women who don't want their dresses
creased."
"I did see
someone who might be promising," said the fat one.
"When?"
"Just last
night. Big golden-haired fellow, not from round here by all accounts. He fought
like a madman. Tore his opponent's arm off right before my very eyes."
"What's his
name?"
"No one
knows. Some say he's a knight. He keeps a rag bound to his forearm. You know,
the place where knights are branded with their circles."
"He can't be
a knight," said the third one. "They're not allowed to fight for
profit." The other men grunted in agreement.
"Where was he
fighting?" asked Fengott. "I wouldn't mind taking a look at
him."
"Chapel Lane
is where I saw him, but I think he's a free lance, so can fight where he
pleases."
"Well, I'll
keep an eye out for him. I'm always looking for a fair wager."
"Here, have
you seen that new road they're building ... "
Nabber withdrew
his hearing and sat very still. Before him a dish of spiced lamb went
unnoticed. The fighter was Tawl. He was sure of it. But where there should have
been gladness, there was despair instead. What had become of his friend? The
man he knew would never fight in a pit like a mercenary. Nabber knew it was
time he faced the truth. Tawl had murdered Bevlin. He had stowed this fact in
the deepest recess of his mind, hoping it would eventually be forgotten. But truths,
particularly ugly ones, burrowed like worms and eventually found their way to
the surface.
Still, Tawl was
his friend, and friendship was sacred. At the tenderest spot in his still young
heart, Nabber could not believe Tawl had acted willingly.
He laid a gold
coin on the table--more than enough to cover the cost of the geese feet as well
as the spiced lamband took his leave. He asked a passerby the way to Chapel
Lane and set his path accordingly.
Jack sat alone on
the straw-filled pallet that was now his bed. They had given him a room of his
own; judging from the furnishings it was normally the women's bedchamber.
He didn't know
what they wanted with him. He suspected he'd merely been caught up in some
internal squabble between the Halcus. None of that mattered. Melli was dead.
"She's
dead," the girl had said. Her voice cold and without compassion. So
similar to the last time he'd heard those words.
His mother had
died when he was nine summers old. A growth forming first in her breast and
then spreading to her lungs. She coughed up blood for a full year before her
death.
She tried to hide
the bloodstained rags from him, stuffing them deep within her embroidery basket
while he slept. Only he wasn't asleep. He couldn't fall asleep until he'd seen
the rags and made sure they were no more bloodied than normal. But too often
they were. So he would wash them for her; rubbing the stain against the stone
by the light of a midnight candle. The next morning he'd rise early and take
the drying rags from the grate. After he'd softened them by rubbing the fabric
against his palm, he'd slip them into her basket. When his mother wakened, she
would find the newly cleaned strips, and they could both pretend for a while
that there had never been any blood.
It got so bad near
the end that rags weren't enough, so he ripped up his tunics to give to her. At
the very end; she was kept from him. Whispered words of warning barred her
door. Jack's only consolation was the light that stole from under the panel. As
long as it shone, the candles still burned, and while they burned, she still
lived.
Crope was the last
to talk to his mother. Even now, Jack could remember the huge giant emerging
from the doorway, tears in his eyes, hand in his tunic. How he hated Crope for
being called to her side. No call came for him.
For three days he
was not allowed to see her. And then there was nothing to see. The light
disappeared from under the door. The cellar steward's wife came. "She's
dead," she said. "No use getting upset. Make yourself useful by
scrubbing those pots. You wouldn't want to turn into a burden."
So he'd scrubbed
pots the day his mother died, and scoured the floors the next. It had helped,
in a way, for a tired and aching boy, whose fingertips bled from using course
brushes, had little time or strength to think of his mother. He realized half a
year later that he could no longer remember what she looked like before the
illness. He'd scrubbed the memory clean away along with the pots and the pans.
Jack's fist came
crashing down on the side of the pallet. The wood cracked and splintered. Melli
was dead. He would not forget her with the same faithless haste. It was all his
fault. He should never have left her to deal with the body. He should never
have killed the man in the first place.
The girl called
Tarissa stepped into the room. "What's going on?"
Jack regarded her
coldly and said nothing. She spotted where the wood had been punched. "You
did that?" Her voice was flat, neutral in more ways than one. Neutral in
its careful lack of emotion, and neutral in its dialect. She had neither the
kingdom's lilt of her mother, nor the Halcus accent of Rovas.
"Look, I'm
sorry about the girl," she said.
"Are
you?" Her sympathy made him angry. "Or was it just part of your
plan?" Jack could still feel the pressure of Melli's last touch upon his
hand. The memory of their final parting was new and painful, and he ground his
knuckles into the splintered wood.
"Plan?"
Again Jack's fist
came down upon the wood. The girl stepped back, momentarily frightened. "Innocence
doesn't suit you," he said. "Don't expect me to believe that you and
Rovas were up near the frozen pond for the good of your health." The
splinters drew blood. Why had they saved him, not Melli? His life was
worthless. No one would mourn his passing. But Melli, she might have been a
queen. She was beautiful and proud, and the day he'd turned against the
mercenaries and blasted them with a mixture of rage and sorcery, she had saved
his life. With his mind gone and his body failing, Melli had dragged him for
leagues across the forest to find shelter.
"What's done
is done." Tarissa shrugged. "We did not bring about the death of the
girl. You have yourself and a certain Halcus captain to blame for that."
"What is this
captain's name?"
Rovas entered the
room and Tarissa fell under his shadow. "I will not tell you his name
yet," he said.
"Why
not?" Jack had the feeling they were both acting. That the whole scene had
been arranged, and by asking this question, he was playing into their hands.
"Because you
might do something foolish, when, given time and preparation you could do
something wise instead." So here it was: the proposal. Skillfully cast,
expertly baited. All that remained was for him to take the lure.
"So that's
why you brought me here," said Jack, "to do
something wise?"
"No,"
said Rovas. "I brought you here to save your life. You know you would
have died trying to help the girl."
"And you
expect a favor for a favor?" Jack stood up. He was more than a match for
Rovas in height. "Well, I'm sorry, but you'll get no gratitude from
me."
Tarissa took a
speaking breath, but Rovas stopped her from using it. "I expect nothing
from you," he said. "You are free to go."
A silence
followed. Jack sensed that Tarissa was unhappy with Rovas' words. He knew better-Rovas
was still acting. The words were merely a dramatic feint. Like all things
hollow, they were more sound than substance.
"But,"
said Rovas, "I can't guarantee your safety once you leave this cottage.
You murdered a Halcus soldier and will be tracked and hunted like a blooded
stag."
"And you will
give them the scent?"
"Me, no.
Tarissa, I think I can speak for, and she wouldn't, either. But her
mother..." Rovas shook his head. "Magra has no love of anyone from
her former country. She is a bitter woman, and bitterness turns to spite when
long in the belly."
"I see that
the word free has little meaning when dropped from your lips." Jack wiped
his bloodied knuckles on his tunic.
Rovas watched him
carefully, his eyes flicking down to the blood. He was not oblivious to the
threat implied by Jack's action.
When he spoke
again, his tone was calming. "Stay here, and I promise that by the time
you come to leave, you will be better able to take care of yourself. Whether it
be evading the soldiers, or extracting revenge from their captain."
That was what
Rovas was after, Jack was sure of it. He wanted the captain murdered and needed
him to do it. He decided not to let Rovas know just how transparent he was
being. "You are right," he said. "I have need of training. You
saw only two days back that I have little skill with a blade. If I am to escape
from this country alive, then I must be able to defend myself."
"So you'll
stay?"
"As long as
it suits me."
The change in
Rovas' manner was overwhelming in its completeness. The huge man stepped
forward and embraced Jack. The smells of garlic and sword oil wafted from his
tunic. In the throes of the powerful and heavily scented embrace, Jack spied
Tarissa over Rovas' shoulder. The girl's face was as cool as ever, only now her
lips were drawn into a grudging smile. There was something familiar about her
features. Something known br remembered. Before he could grasp at what it was,
she turned and left.
They were drawing
close to the mountains, and the land, as if practicing for its great feat of
elevation, had begun to slope and fall. Baralis could not spy the peaks of the
Great Divide, for the clouds and the snow conspired to keep their heights
hidden. But he knew they were there. They called to him. Their ancient and
venerable songs, without words or music, carrying their messages to all who
could perceive them. In this modem world of metal plows and water clocks, that
number was not many.
Baralis could hear
them. The messages were an unconceited statement of might. A generous warning
from that which was without prejudice. Their songs told that they were a power
to be dealt with, and one crossed at one's own risk. A toll might be taken for
passage.
Bren lay on the
other side of the mountains. Baralis knew what kind of city it was. He knew the
turn of the streets. He'd seen the sparkle of water in its fountains. Bren was
a dangerous city. Dangerous in its pride. Its children were taught that Bren
was the most beautiful, the most pure, and the most powerful city in the Known
Lands. Not for them the festering passions of Rom, not for them the
overcultured languor of Annis. No, they were alone in their perfection. Their
city was cleaner, more industrious, and stronger than any other.
Such pride is
always dangerous. When a person is sure he knows the best way, he is seldom
content until he has made converts out of others. So it was with Bren. Baralis
drew his lips into a cynical line. Only conversion, when undertaken by the good
duke took the form of annexation.
The duke of Bren
had started modestly enough: surrounding villages were brought into the fold,
small rivers were claimed. Then towns were invited to join with them the
invitations always so thoughtfully accompanied by a legion or two of Bren's
armies. Since the duke had been in power, the maps of the Known Lands had
changed. Bren, which twenty years before had been a fair-sized city surrounded
by many towns, now stood alone.
And the duke
wanted more.
Baralis knew all
this, and it did not worry him. He and the duke had the same aims, for the time
being.
He stroked the
mane of his horse; such a beautiful creature, so gentle, so obedient. Not at
all like that arrogant, preening, and now dead stallion of Maybor's.
He looked to where
Maybor led the column. The great lord was now riding his captain's gelding and
looked most uncomfortable doing so. Doubtless the fall from his horse had
rendered him somewhat infirm. Baralis was beginning to think that Maybor could
not be killed. At least not in one fell swoop. Perhaps his best course would be
to slowly debilitate the man. Certainly the poison on his robes and now the
fall from his horse had left their marks. Maybe he should just carry on trying
to murder him until the old philanderer was so overcome with various injuries
and afflictions that he dropped dead of his own accord.
Baralis smiled,
his lips following the curve of his thoughts: Maybor was a naive fool if he
thought he would be the superior envoy now that King Lesketh was in his grave.
And what a premature grave it was.
Someone had a hand
in the king's death, he was sure of it. From the very beginning of the king's
affliction, right from the impact of the double-notched arrow, Baralis had
controlled the man's illness. Controlled the progress of poison on the flesh,
controlled the wasting of muscle and then mind, and, when it suited him,
controlled the semblance of recovery. He was the architect of the king's
illness, and it was an insidious construction designed to be brought down on
his bidding. The king had not been due for death.
Only now he was
dead. Despite what the messenger said, despite the presence of the Master of
the Bath and the royal guard, someone had gained access to the king's chamber.
Baralis was almost certain of who it was: Kylock, once prince and now king.