Authors: J. V. Jones
Baralis saw the
man searching the crowd for a face. A moment later he nodded to a man dressed
like a beggar, and soon after Baralis felt the beginning of a drawing. Straight
away he realized what was happening: a sorcerer was attempting to weaken the
bear. His mistake was to do it too gradually. He needed to make it look
natural, to mimic the signs of fatigue. At first he did a good job, slowing the
creature down by restricting the blood flow to its heart. Then the bear became
frightened. It ignored the remaining dog and crashed into the fence. The crowd
scattered and all but one got away. A young boy was trapped beneath the tangle
of wood that had been the enclosure. The bear, shaking and in pain, fell upon
its victim.
The sorcerer tried
to withdraw. Desperation marked the intent. With the crowd screaming and the
bear tearing the boy limb from limb, the drawing began to turn. Blood frenzy
was upon the bear. The power of instinct fought for the beast. Will to survive
met with silent knowledge accumulated over hundreds of centuries-and struck
with the force of a whip. The bear's blood pumped fast and furious, smashing
through the sorcerer's clasp.
No one paid any
attention to the beggar in the crowd. The raging bear was a greater spectacle.
The man in rags fell to the ground, foaming at the mouth. His body was racked
by spasms and blood seeped from his nose and ears and eyes. A minute later he
was dead, his skull split by the backlash of the drawing.
It was never wise
to spend too long in any creature. If a deed were to be done, then let it be
done swiftly. He'd given Maybor's horse no chance to react, slipping in with
the grace of a dancer and then striking with the speed of a storm. He'd learned
caution that day by the meat market. There was little glory in coming to the
same end as the sorcerer who had drawn upon the bear.
Nabber scraped the
dung from his shoes and cursed all animals, especially horses. The problem with
following someone was that your eyes had to be on your mark, not your feet.
Now, filth was as much part of city life as markets and merchants, and Nabber
usually had no opinion on it, but only this morning he'd taken it upon himself
to lift a very splendid and very flimsy pair of silk shoes. Swift had once
said, "A
pocket's shoes are his greatest defense, "
and always
advocated cloth, not leather, for those on the game. Silk was indisputably
silent, but it also had the unfortunate tendency to soak through with urine and
slops the minute a man walked out the door.
Still, they were
an excellent fit and he had other more important things to occupy his mind than
the stains on his shoes.
Tawl was drinking
in' the tavern opposite. There had to be some way to get him to come to the
meeting. Loot wouldn't be enough, or would it? Minutes earlier the knight had
walked into the Brimming Bucket accompanied by the woman with straw yellow hair
and the lady proprietor of the brothel, Madame Thornypurse. If there were ever
any females who liked money better than those two did, then Nabber had never
met them.
Action was called
for, and with shoes squelching at every step, he crossed the street and entered
the tavern. The Brimming Bucket would have been more aptly named the Leaking
Bucket, for there was ale everywhere and it wasn't confined to the cups and the
barrels. Nabber's shoes found themselves in a foamy puddle a wrist deep. People
were shouting and singing and brawling. Two women were arm wrestling, a group
of men were busy swapping insults, and one man was holding a cup full of beer
to his eye.
Kylock, Kylock,
Kylock. The name was on everyone's lips. Even the men who were insulting
each other were speaking it. "You're as devious as Kylock and as ugly as
his father's corpse," said one of them, receiving grunts of appreciation
from the crowd.
"You should
speak the name of our future king with respect," piped up another.
"Kylock will
never be king here!"
"The duke
wouldn't let him."
"The duke
won't live forever."
"Catherine
will rule Bren, not Kylock."
"She'll marry
him, use his armies, rape his country, and then send him back to his
mother!"
"Aye!"
came the voice of the crowd as one.
Nabber had little
interest in such worldly matters. Whoever was ruler in Bren made no difference
to him. Loot was what counted, not kings. He pushed through the crowds, kicking
shins and stomping on toes when people refused to move out of his way. He soon
heard the shrill voice of Madame Thornypurse.
"My sister
will be arriving next month," she said. "Couldn't bear staying in the
kingdoms a moment longer. The place is such a backwater, you know." The
good lady spotted Nabber. "You're the messenger from the other day, aren't
you, boy?" She patted the back of her heavily powdered hair and smiled.
"I never forget a face."
"A good
memory is the least of your charms, Madame Thornypurse," replied Nabber
with a short bow. It never hurt to flatter the ladies--even the ugly ones.
"Such a fine
young man." Her eyes narrowed for a moment. "Another message to
deliver?"
"As
perceptive as you are beautiful." An idea was beginning to form in
Nabber's head. "Is the knight here?"
"Just over
yonder with my daughter, Corsella."
So that was what
the thieving, dyed-haired, hanger-on was called. "I just can't believe
it," he said.
Madame Thomypurse
looked confused. "Believe what?"
"I can't
believe that you're her mother." Nabber smiled winningly. "Tell me
the truth. You're sisters, aren't you?" Simpering like a girl a third of
her age, Madame Thornypurse said, "You're not the first to ask me that.
It's the rat oil, you know."
"Rat
oil?"
"Yes, very
expensive. You have to squeeze a lot of rats to get even half a cup."
Nabber was feeling
decidedly out of his depth. He hadn't got the slightest clue what rat oil was.
He proceeded with caution. "It's worth the expense."
"I rub it
into my face twice a day." That explained a lot of things. "Should I
call the knight over?" she asked.
Nabber shook his
head and looked down at his feet. "What's the matter, young man?"
said Madame Thornypurse. "I detect a little reluctance on your part."
"You are a
perceptive woman. I am a little nervous about approaching him." Nabber got
the reply he'd hoped for:
"Can I help
in any way?"
"Madame
Thornypurse, I wouldn't dream of burdening you with a matter of such. . ."
Nabber made a great show of choosing the right word ". . .
importance."
"Importance?"
"And
profit."
Madame
Thornypurse's entire body quivered at the word profit. She took a step forward
and laid a proprietorial hand upon his shoulder. "Tell me everything, my
dear boy."
"You've heard
of Blayze, the duke's champion?" Madame Thornypurse nodded eagerly.
"Well, he's interested in meeting with your friend, the knight."
"He wants a
fight?" cried Madame Thornypurse. "Ssh. Don't tell half the
tavern."
Madame Thornypurse
looked suitably contrite. "Go on."
"There's no
need to tell you," said Nabber, "of the vast sums of money that will
change hands on such a venture."
"No need at
all," she whispered.
"Now this is
strictly confidential." Nabber could feel Madame Thornypurse's fingers
digging into his shoulder. "If the knight dies-and let's face it, there's
a good chance of that-someone will have to bury him."
The girlish glow
of greed faded from the good lady's face.
"Bury
him?"
"As the
knight has no family in the city, whoever agrees to care for his body will take
his portion of the spoils."
"The knight
is like a son to me!" cried Madame Thornypurse. "I would consider it
my duty to care for his dearly beloved corpse."
"You are a
remarkable woman," said Nabber. "Now, let's get down to business. The
knight needs to meet Blayze tonight at sundown by the three golden fountains.
Can you arrange for him to be there?"
"As my life
depended on it."
"Good. Until
we meet again, fair lady." Nabber quickly looked toward Tawl. The knight
was downing yet another skin of ale, oblivious to his surroundings. "Let
him drink all he wants. It will make for smoother negotiations."
Madame Thornypurse
nodded judiciously and held out her hand to be kissed. Nabber reluctantly
obliged, thoughts of rat oil uppermost in his mind, and then made his way from
the tavern. He struck a path toward the three golden fountains. If his plan was
to work, he needed to have a few words with the duke's champion before Tawl
did.
Rovas burst into
the cottage. "The rumors are true: Lesketh is dead and Kylock means to win
the war."
The effect of
Rovas' words on Magra and Tarissa was profound. Mother and daughter looked
straight at each other. All color drained from Magra's face. Tarissa stood up,
sending her sewing flying into the air and went to kneel beside her mother. She
took and kissed her hand. Magra pulled away. "When did this happen?"
she asked. Her voice was high and strained. Jack thought she sounded angry.
"He died in
his sleep over a month ago now." Rovas looked away.
Silence followed.
No one moved. The fire sent shadows dancing across the room. Tarissa's face was
buried in her hands. Magra sat very straight, her eyes focused on a point far
in the distance. Rovas and Tarissa seemed to be waiting for her to break the
silence.
Finally she did.
She stood up and walked toward the fire. Her back was straight and rigid.
"Kylock will win the war," she said.
Despite the weight
of the words, everyone in the room seemed to draw a sigh of relief. Jack got
the distinct feeling that Magra had somehow changed the subject. Yet the dead
king and Kylock
were
the subject.
"How will
this affect his marriage to Catherine of Bren?" asked Tarissa, jumping in
to fill the silence. Her question was for Rovas, but she looked at Jack. She
was checking to see how the strange scene had affected him. He gave nothing
away. She smiled gently, and Jack,.even though he realized she had some other
motive, found himself smiling back. Tarissa was the most seductive-looking
woman he had ever seen. Jack's mind began to drift away from thoughts of asking
questions.
"I've a feeling
the marriage will go ahead regardless," Rovas was saying. "Things
have progressed so far that to halt them now would cause embarrassment to both
parties." The smuggler looked weary. He poured himself a tankard of ale
and downed it in one.
The three
continued talking, discussing the war and its possible effects, yet Jack no
longer heard them. He was watching, not listening.
Tarissa was
speaking, her soft and lovely mouth assuming countless beautiful forms. Jack
recalled the feel and the taste of it. The memory took his breath away. Why had
she pulled back from him last night, when only moments earlier she had invited
him forward? There was no answer, and if Grift's counsel was anything to go by,
that was not unusual with women. The castle guard had warned him many times
about the perils of romance: "If
you're as confused as a peacock in a
snowstorm, then things are going well, "
he would say. "But,
if
you're as carefree as a barnacle on a rock, then there's trouble acoming for
sure. "
Jack had little experience
with women, but he knew enough to suspect that Grift was not always right.
Still, what did he expect? He'd kissed a woman older and wiser than himself. A
voluptuous, tempting woman with eyes of hazeled gold. He felt a little ashamed
of his thoughts; they talked of war while he thought of lust.
Taking his eyes
from Tarissa, he noticed Rovas looking at him. The smuggler flashed a warning,
and for half a second Jack was convinced that he was reading his mind. For some
reason, Rovas didn't want him having anything to do with Tarissa. Earlier that
day, when he'd been out in the back field practicing with the long sword, it
had been Magra who brought his midday meal. At first Jack thought it was
because Tarissa was avoiding him, but now, seeing the hostile look in Rovas'
eye, he wondered whether it was because the smuggler had ordered her to stay
away from him.
Jack decided to
test his theory. He stretched his arms and stood up. "My body's as stiff
as a week-old loaf. I'm going for a walk before it gets dark." He looked
directly at Tarissa: "Do you want to join me?"
That one simple
question sent a wave of looks, warnings, counter-warnings, and unreadable
expressions crisscrossing among the three.
Tarissa took a
deep breath, "I think that I might." She looked to her mother,
appealing for help.
"It's nearly
suppertime, girl," said Rovas. "You have to help your mother with the
meal."
Everyone waited on
Magra. The woman was staring at the smuggler. Her face held a warning that Jack
couldn't understand.
Didn't want
to understand. "I can get supper
on my own," she said. "You go ahead, Tarissa, but don't be
long."
The tension
between Magra and Rovas was unmistakable. It crackled as fiercely as the fire,
but was as invisible as its heat. The smuggler wanted to speak up against her,
that was plain to see, but she was Tarissa's mother and therefore had final
say. She was scared, though, and not the only one: her daughter's hand shook as
she tied the laces on her cloak.
Crack!
Rovas
kicked over the timber scuttle, sending chopped logs careening over the floor.
"What are you waiting for?" he cried. "If you're getting supper,
then damn well get it now!"
Tarissa was at her
mother's side in an instant. "I won't go out, I'll stay and-"
"No,"
said Magra, "you and Jack take a walk."