Authors: J. V. Jones
She sighed and
said, "I will not lie to you, Jack. Lucy is not my given name, it was
chosen for me by another later." He tried to get her to say more, pleading
at first, and when that failed, shouting. Sick as she was, her strength of will
remained firm and her lips remained closed. Rather than lie to him, she had
told him nothing instead.
Rovas, bearing
offal, brought Jack back to the present. He was glad of it, there were too many
questions in the past. "The trouble with the kidneys, Jack," he said,
"is that they're a little ... how should I put it? ... a little
light."
"Light?"
"Too many to
a pound, if you know what I mean." Rovas smiled like a guileful child.
"So you
intend on making them heavier." Jack was beginning to catch the man's
meaning.
Rovas nodded
enthusiastically. "You're a bright boy," he said. "Now this is
what we do." The smuggler placed a kidney upon an empty platter and then
whipped out his knife.
"One tiny
cut, here, just above the tendon." He opened the kidney like a surgeon,
and then held the incision open with the knife-point. "Just pass me that
jar over there, boy." Rovas indicated a large container on a shelf.
"Careful, it's quite a weight."
Jack swung the jar
from the shelf and nearly dropped it. Master Frallit's baking stones were
heavy, but at least they were large. "What's in this?" he asked.
"Lead, of
course. Heavy as a mountain, soft as a good cheese. Reach in and grab me a
chunk. A fair-sized one, mind. We don't want it getting stuck in anybody's
throat."
Jack handed Rovas
a piece of the gray metal, and the man wasted no time inserting it into the
middle of the kidney. He carefully closed the cut, molding it back to its
original appearance, and then gave it to Jack to feel. "Not a bad job, if
I do say so myself."
"This could
kill a man," said Jack, testing its weight in the palm of his hand.
"So could
going without meat all winter." Rovas shrugged. "A man's got to make
a living, and the chances are the metal will be found before the kidney reaches
the pot." He caught Jack's disapproving look. "It's the way of the
world, boy. If I didn't do it, someone else would. Halcus has been through some
hard times since the war with the kingdoms started, and things look set to get
worse. It won't be long before Bren is pushing us from the other side. If
someone like me comes along and brings supplies to people who wouldn't normally
get them, then it's only fair I take a decent profit for my troubles."
"What do you
mean about Bren pushing from the other side?" Jack wasn't about to
challenge Rovas on his way of doing business. The man would never admit he was
doing anything wrong.
"Haven't you
heard? Your country is joining with Bren, and if you ask me, it means trouble
for more than just us here in Halcus. Annis, Highwall, even Ness-everyone's
nervous. People are afraid that Bren is using the Four Kingdoms to help them
dominate the north." Rovas spat reflectively. "Just this morning I
heard news that Highwall is busy training an army in readiness. That's one city
that won't wait for an attack like a rabbit down a hole."
This was the first
Jack had heard about a war. The kingdoms joining with Bren? Events had moved
swiftly since he left the castle. "Kylock is going to marry . . ."
Jack struggled to remember the name of the duke's daughter, "Catherine of
Bren?"
Rovas nodded.
"War's acoming."
War. It might
never have happened if Melli had married Kylock as she had been supposed to.
She would never have been killed, either. Jack put the kidney on the platter
and tried to wipe his hands free of the blood. The stain smeared and thinned,
but would not come off. Looking down at his bloodied hands, Jack couldn't help
feeling that he was somehow responsible for what was to come. It was
foolishness, he told himself. He'd never influenced Melli in any way; she had
already decided not to marry Kylock before they met.
Feeling guilty,
yet not understanding why, prompted Jack to attack Rovas. He wanted to share
the blame. "You should be pleased if war breaks out," he said, his
voice rising in anger. "More fighting will mean more profit."
For one brief
instant Jack thought Rovas would hit him. The man's body became tense, his hand
moved abruptly from his side. He controlled himself, though. Jack could clearly
see him working to regain his good humor. With an effort Rovas shrugged and
said, "Skirmishes along the border are one thing, boy, a full-blown war is
quite another. Yes, there's more money to be made, but there's more chance of
being killed before you spend it!" By the time he'd finished the last
sentence, Rovas was back to his old self. Jack was almost sorry; he wanted a
fight.
"Here,"
said Rovas, distracting Jack's thoughts by handing him the platter of kidneys.
"Stuff these for me. I've had enough of war for one day. I'm off to get my
supper." With that he left the hut, shutting the door behind him.
The thought of war
had stirred something within Jack. The kingdoms joining with Bren? Why did the
news matter so much? And why did it make him want to pick a fight with a man
who would surely have beaten him? For the first time since leaving the castle,
Jack felt restless. The familiar yearning to take off and leave everything
behind was upon him. The platter felt like a dead weight in his hands. The
smell of the kidneys was unbearable. He shoved the platter away and opened the
door.
The chill night
air cooled Jack's face. The familiar yearning, but also the familiar
frustration. He had nowhere to go.
Rovas' footsteps
formed an arc in the snow. Jack's eye followed the curve to where it ended: the
entrance to the cottage. The people inside were his only connection to the
world: Rovas, Magra, Tarissa. They were not what they seemed. Magra and Tarissa
had secrets to keep. The same thing that made the mother bitter had made the
daughter strong. Then there was Rovas, who only minutes earlier had nearly
slipped and shown the edge beneath the padding. They had the look of a family,
but not the feel of one.
Even the cottage
had the look of home about it: candlelight slipping out from the shutters,
smoke spiraling up from the roof, the polished door offering a welcome. It was
no place for him to stay. Jack suddenly felt tired. He couldn't foresee a time
when he'd ever have a proper home again.
Traveling with
Melli had made him forget how alone he was. As long as she was with him all his
worries had been for her. Keeping Melli safe and warm and well fed was all that
mattered. Now that she was gone, his thoughts turned inward once more.
For many months
now his destination had been Bren. There was no reason behind it other than it
felt right to head east. Now more than ever, with the news of war still ringing
in his ears, he felt the need to be there. But he wouldn't go. Not yet, anyway.
He wasn't ready. He had no skills at fighting, and if he were going to a place
of war, it would be better to be prepared. And then there was Melli. Jack
couldn't bear the thought of going without trying to make amends; her death was
too important to be casually forgotten. Leaving now would diminish her. Nearly
ten years ago, when his mother died, he'd carried on as if nothing had
happened, barely sparing a breath to moum her. He wouldn't make the same
mistake again.
Jack closed the
door and the expanse of the night retreated. He would stay and learn. Rovas was
using him-the man obviously had his own reason to want the Halcus captain
dead-so
he
would use Rovas. He would learn all the smuggler could teach.
Reaching for his
knife, Jack turned back to the kidneys. He suddenly felt sorry for the Halcus;
leaded meat was the least of their problems.
The stars were out
in Bren. Bells, muffled by damp and darkness, tolled the hour of midnight. Oil
lamps cast their light into the fray, gaining an ally in the snow, which
reflected their magnified meager assault.
The crowd was
restless. They had been kept waiting too long. Blood was what they craved. They
had come to see the golden-haired stranger fight. A man who looked like an
angel yet fought like a devil. Rumors abounded: he was a nobleman who'd fallen
from grace; he was a warrior from beyond the northern ranges; he was a knight
on a quest. The blend of mystery, romance, and danger was a heady mix to the
people of Bren. They turned out in unheard-of numbers to see the object of so
much speculation.
Nobles, taking
tipples from silver flasks, rubbed shoulders with tradesmen swigging from
tankards and peasants slurping from skins. There were even some women present,
hoods pulled over their heads to hide their identities and thick cloaks pulled
close to conceal their femininity.
Nabber surveyed
the crowd. Pickings were rich tonight. He was astute enough to know that the
real cash lay not in the hands and pockets of the nobility, but in the pouches
of the tradesmen. The nobles were notoriously tight of fist, whereas the
merchants were eager to spend and came prepared. Although he'd made a promise
to himself that he wouldn't do any prospecting, Nabber found the pull of easy
cash hard to ignore. He pocketed almost without conscious thought, as a man
might scratch an itch. A few silver coins here, a jeweled dagger there. The
peasants he left alone, never forgetting Swift's words:
"Only the
lowest kind of scoundrel steals from the poor. "
Still, he hadn't
come here tonight for financial gain. He'd come to keep an eye on Tawl. The
knight was keeping the people waiting. His opponent, a man as broad as he was
tall, was making his impatience known. He was already greased and in the pit,
and Tawl hadn't even shown up yet. At last there was a hush. The crowd parted
and from their midst emerged Tawl. He made his way to the foot of the pit and
ripped off his tunic. Gasps of awe escaped from those nearby as his muscled but
scarred torso was revealed. Nabber felt such pain at seeing his friend revealed
in all his fallen magnificence before the crowd that he could hardly bear to
look.
"I've killed
men before now for keeping me waiting." It was Tawl's opponent, shouting
up from the pit in an attempt to bring the crowd's attention back to himself.
The crowd was
pleased by this warning and looked to Tawl for a suitably menacing reply. When
it came, they had to strain to hear the words:
"Then you
kill too lightly, my friend."
The crowd was
silent. Tears came to Nabber's eyes. He alone knew the anguish behind Tawl's
words-words that were more a reproach to himself than his opponent. Nabber, who
had never aspired to anything more than a comfortable life, began to comprehend
the tragedy of a man who had failed to live up to his own ideals.
A cry went up,
"Let the fight begin!" and Tawl jumped into the pit.
The betting, which
had been a lackluster affair before the knight's appearance, began to take on
the look of a feeding frenzy. As the two fighters circled each other, odds were
shouted and bets were laid. Nabber took a moment to size up Tawl's opponent. He
was a large man, wide and well muscled, with no lard to slow him down. Someone
nearby offered five golds on him to win. Nabber could not resist; in his eyes
the fight had only one outcome. Tawl would prevail.
"I'll take
you up on that, kind sir," he said, feeling a twinge of guilt.
"Done!"
replied the man. They exchanged markersnotched sticks-and Nabber moved away.
In the pit, the
fighters were locked together. Taut muscles, perfectly balanced, strained for
supremacy. Tawl's knife was close to his foe's belly. Nabber felt a ripple of
indignation on spotting the knife of his opponent. It was longer than a hand
knife, a fist longer. The man was not playing fair.
"Ten golds on
the scarred stranger," he cried to no one in particular. It was his way of
backing up Tawl.
"Make it
twenty and you're on." The voice of a noble man.
"We have a
deal." Another exchange of markers, this time with a polite bow, and then
Nabber stepped back into the crowd.
The fighters were
well matched at first. Each man executing a seemingly effortless array of
feints and thrusts. The fight gained momentum and an edge of anger honed the
skills of both men. Tawl was forced to parry a blow with his forearm, and his
opponent's blade cut through to bone. Blood welled slick and dark in the
lamplight. The crowd cheered. Nabber, always the businessman, knew a good
opportunity when he saw one: everyone thought that Tawl had lost his advantage.
"Who'll give
me two to one on the stranger?"
Nabber was
inundated with takers and collected markers like fallen leaves. The problem was
that by the time he'd finished his dealings, the fight had taken a turn from
bad to worse. Tawl's arm was drenched in blood and lay limp at his side. He was
backed up against the wall of the pit, his opponent's knife at his throat. Tension
was so high that most of the crowd had actually stopped betting. Nabber willed
his knees not to give way under him.
"I'll give
you five to one on the stranger," hissed someone in his ear. To Nabber,
the idea of betting at such a time seemed appalling. He turned around and
kicked the man hard in the shins.
The subsequent
need for a quick escape prevented Nabber from seeing what happened next.
Suddenly the crowd went wild, stamping their feet and calling at the top of
their voices. When Nabber managed to get close to the pit once more, he found
the balance of power changed. Tawl had his opponent up against the wall of the
pit. The man's knife lay on the ground. Tawl's knife was at his throat. The
eyes of the knight were dangerously blank. The knife blade shook with tension
as both men fought over its course. It hovered and wavered, close enough to
flesh to draw blood, yet not near enough to slice muscle and tendon.