Authors: J. V. Jones
"Never fails,
Bodger. A woman likes a man to put his cards upon the table. It does you no
harm to hint that your manhood's a fair size, too."
"Won't she be
able to tell that already, Grift?"
"I should
hope not, Bodger. Generally speaking, it's best not to pull it out until she's
said yea or nay."
"No, Grift, I
was talking about the whites of a man's eyes. Didn't you say that's how you can
tell a man's size?"
"Oh, aye, I
did indeed. It's gratifying that you remembered my wisdom, Bodger."
"I never
forget a word you say. You've taught me everything I know." Bodger frowned
and scratched his head. "Come to think of it, Grift, since I met you, I've
had no success with women at all. They won't even look my way."
"Aah, Bodger,
you've got much to learn. When they won't look your way, it's a sure sign that
they're interested." Bodger attempted a scathing look, failed miserably,
and settled for a loud burp instead. "There's been a lot of coming and
going in the palace these past two days, Grift. The duke's been dashing
backward and forward from his hunting lodge, taking all kinds of doctors,
priests, and supplies. I wonder what he's up to."
"Aye, it's
mighty strange, Bodger. He took Bailor and his personal physicians with him
yesterday, and now he's back again. The head groom says he was ordered to ready
fresh mounts, so the duke's obviously intending to return to the lodge
later."
"It must be
something serious, Grift. I heard that it's a six-hour ride to the lodge."
"Aye, Bodger,
a man like the duke doesn't ride twelve hours in one day unless it's a matter
of life or death."
The sun slanted
sharply across the room, fading the rich colors of the tapestries and sending a
million motes of dust dancing into the air. Baralis was sitting up in his bed
sipping on mulled holk. His hands ached as usual-even to stretch them around
the cup was a strain but apart from that one, solitary complaint he'd never
felt better in his life.
The burns to his
chest had completely disappeared. The only sign that anything had ever been
wrong was a pale, raised line, which ringed his chest like the seam of a dress.
He could feel
where the sorcery had worked. Indeed, he could feel it still; its vestiges
prompting old flesh to bond with new. The sensation was not unpleasant; a
fertile burgeoning that tautened the skin and played upon the nerves like a
fiddler, sending countless tiny impulses directly to his brain.
Three days he'd
slept. Three perfect dreamless days where the only thing that he was aware of
was the gentle hands of Crope. His servant was here now, stoking the fire as
quietly as he could. He owed more than he could ever repay to the great hulking
giant.
They met the year
after he left the Great Plains. He had a purpose then and even knew his
ultimate destination, the Four Kingdoms, but he wasn't ready to visit them yet.
He needed to prepare, to learn, to plan. So first he went to Silbur.
Silbur, the
shining jewel that sparkled at the center of the Known Lands. And that was
exactly what it was: a jewel. A beautiful multihued city that had no purpose
except for show. Religious councils met there, thousands made pilgrimage to
visit the holy relics, He Who Is Most Holy sat upon his gilded throne, and
every scholar who'd ever brought quill to parchment boasted about spending long
hours on hard benches in its famous libraries. Silbur was a dead city, as much
a relic as the bones and hair and teeth of long-dead saints and saviors that it
depended upon for its income. There was no blood or flesh to the bone, no
muscle to make it move. Great once, it had been unmatched in its arrogance and
power. Towers were built taIl to pierce the sky, walls were built low to scorn
invaders. Silbur had no equal except for God.
The vision of its
leaders had shaped the Known Lands. No one, they argued, should have more power
than the Lord. Systematically, their armies tore apart the kingdoms and empires
that made up the map of the civilized world. Emperors were evil, kings had
commerce with the devil; the might of country took away from the might of God.
They had to be broken. Bloody, terrible wars, the likes of which have never
been seen before or since, ripped the continent asunder. Wars of Faith. A
hundred years later only city-states remained. Silbur was mother to them all.
Gradually, as the
century turned and religious power declined, great lords began to challenge the
power of the Church. Harvell in the northwest had been the first to forge
himself a new kingdom, Borso of Helch soon followed his neighbor's example,
spending a lifetime claiming the land that became known as Halcus. Silbur, now
weak, rotting from the inside, its leaders a series of weaklings and fanatics,
could do nothing to stop them. Not that they'd ever been that interested in the
north.
Now, two hundred
years on, Bren sought the same recognition. The duke would have a kingdom where
a city had been before. Baralis smiled into his cup of holk. There would be no
sovereign in Bren, no king upon a throne. For the first time in four centuries
the Known Lands would have an empire.
Another sip of the
holk brought him back to the pale sunny mornings of Silbur. His first meal of
the day was always a cup of holk and a pastry baked around a peach. He'd taken
lodgings in the scholars' quarter and paid his way by scribing and healing. In
many ways it was the best time of his life. Up every morning at dawn, a long
walk down to the library, and then a whole day spent in study. He went
unnoticed, one of thousands of black-robed scholars who came to read the
ancient texts. Just another young man engaged in that most noble of pursuits:
scholarship.
At nights he would
go healing. Silbur did not tolerate sorcery under any guise. Practitioners were
burnt at the stake. He had to be careful: discreet in his employment of
potions, restrained in his use of magic. One night, returning home from a house
where a young girl lay dying, Baralis came across a group of youths beating up
a man. The victim was on the ground, whimpering as he was kicked continually by
the youths. A thin man with a stick was directing the beating.
This was none of
his business. Baralis lowered his eyes and stepped into the road to avoid
coming any closer to the scene. The person on the ground cried out:
"Please
stop. Me sorry, me sorry."
The thin man stepped forward and brought
the stick cracking down upon his face.
"Shut up, you
half-witted bastard," he said. "It's too late for mercy now."
Looking back,
Baralis couldn't say what made him tum and face the men. The arrogant voice of
the one with the stick? The pathetic plea from the victim? Or was it something
else: the gentle push of fate? Anyway, turn he did. Straightaway the beating
stopped.
"What are you
looking at?" said the stick-man. "Bugger off, this isn't your
concern."
Baralis knew
better than to look afraid. "Leave him be," he said, looking at each
man in tum, using his flint gray eyes as weapons. Two of the youths backed
away-even then his voice had that effect on people.
"What will
you do if we don't?"
Slowly, Baralis
put down the sack containing his potions and scrolls, careful to pick a spot
that was free of dirt. "I'll bum the hearts from your bodies and leave the
skin untouched." It was said simply, with no boast-and that was what made
the men afraid.
The two that had
already backed away ran off. That left two others: the stick-man and his
friend. One last kick to the victim's groin, and the friend was off. Baralis
raised an eyebrow. "I think you'd better follow your little playmates. It
wouldn't be wise to face me alone."
The stick-man's
gaze met his. Slowly he sneered, then walked away.
From the ground
came a small, soft voice. "Thank you, master. Thank you." The man
stood up and Baralis couldn't believe his eyes: He was a giant, broad as a
wagon, tall as a building.
"What's your
name?" he asked.
"Crope,
master." The man had been badly beaten, and not just once: his face was a
mass of bruises and scars. He held his head low in a pathetic attempt to
disguise his height.
"Come, follow
me home, Crope," said Baralis. "Those wounds of yours need
tending." And so the man had come to his chambers, and they'd been
together ever since.
There was nothing
Crope wouldn't do for him. An outcast from birth, he was ridiculed and hounded,
blamed for everything from kidnapping to rape, from murder to thievery. Crope's
only defense to accusations was simply to say he was sorry. Most of the time he
didn't even know what he was saying sorry for. No one had ever shown him
kindness. He lived in a world of fear, where his greatest concern was staying
away from people who might pick on him: young boys, drunken men, fight-hungry
soldiers. He only went out at night. Baralis had changed his life. He was his
protector, his savior, his only friend.
Baralis stirred
himself from his memories. He never liked to spend too long reminiscing. The
future was what counted, not the past. "Crope," he called. "Has
the young lady been asking about me?"
"The
beautiful one with golden hair?"
"Yes, you
fool. Catherine, the duke's daughter."
"She was here
yesterday, master. She wants to come and see you as soon as you are well."
"Good. Good.
I will see her next time she calls." Baralis put down his cup and rubbed
his chin. He and Catherine had a lot to talk about: sorcery, sex, and treason.
She owed him her life, and he wasn't a man to let such a precious debt go
uncollected.
Maybor was busy
teaching his dog to kill. He had taken a pillow, stuffed it with the shredded
remains of Baralis' undershirt, tied it to a piece of rope, and hung it from
the rafters at man height. He was now in the process of getting Shark to jump
up to the place where Baralis' throat would be. The dog was learning fast.
Maybor called the dog over, patted it rather warily, and gave it a huge chunk
of bloody meat. "Good boy. Good boy." After a minute he stood up,
went over to the pillow, set it swinging, and then backed away to a safe
distance. "Kill, Shark! Kill!" he cried.
The dog leapt like
a warrior, teeth drawn like knives. This time it went straight for the throat,
and it didn't let go. Its grip was so great that it hung, suspended in the air
from the pillow. Shark swayed back and forth, neck thrashing from side to side,
feet kicking air, until the rope gave way. Dog and pillow came crashing to the
ground. Even then Shark didn't let go. The dog worried away at the pillow until
there was nothing left.
Maybor was
distracted from this gratifying spectacle by a loud rap on his door. Who dared
knock in such an arrogant manner? His question was answered immediately as the
duke let himself in the room.
"Ah, Maybor,
I'm glad I found you here." Looking around at the sight of feathers flying
and linen shredded to ribbons, he said: "Training Shakindra, I see."
Maybor shrugged.
"Personal protection, nothing more."
"Have you
reason to need protection, Lord Maybor?"
"Probably
less reason than you, Your Grace."
The duke laughed.
"Well said, my friend. A man's power can be measured by the number of his
enemies." He slapped his thigh and Shakindra came toward him. He bent down
and stroked her ears. "Good girl. Good girl."
Maybor was glad of
the chance to gather his thoughts. There was only one reason why the Hawk would
come to his chambers: to discuss Kylock's invasion of Halcus. It wouldn't be
right for him to broach the subject first: he had been told the news in
confidence by Cravin. In reality, pigeons were only a day or two ahead of
people, and he wouldn't be at all surprised if half of Bren knew about it by
now. Still, playing ignorant suited him best at the moment. "To what do I
owe this honor, Your Grace?"
The duke walked
over to the table and poured two cups of wine. He handed the first one to
Maybor, the second he left sitting untouched. "I was wondering if you
would like to invite your family to Bren for the marriage ceremony."
Maybor nearly
choked on his wine. It went down his throat, heading straight for his lungs. He
coughed, he spluttered, he turned as red as a beet. Marriage! What was this?
The duke was
speaking as if the marriage between Kylock and Catherine was still going ahead.
It made no sense. There was only one conclusion: no one had told him about the
invasion.
The duke waited
for Maybor to compose himself, his lips drawn together in a faint look of
distaste.
"Are you
aware, Your Grace," said Maybor, wiping wine from his chin, "that
Kylock has invaded Halcus?" The duke nodded. "Of course." He
spoke in a manner that invited no questions.
Maybor was
confused. Surely the duke would be furious over the news? The people of Bren
would not like the idea of their precious heir being married to a king with a
taste for blood. When the duke died, Catherine would rule Bren, and now, by
invading Halcus, Kylock had shown that he was not the sort to sit passively by
and let his wife rule alone. Indeed, the way things were progressing at the
moment, it looked as if Bren might be destined to form one small part of
Kylock's northern empire. Yet here was the duke, calmly making wedding plans.
It made no sense.
"You never
answered my question, Maybor," said the duke. "Will you bring your
family to Bren?"
"My eldest
son, Kedrac, is a great friend of the king. I'm sure Kylock would insist upon
him attending the wedding." Maybor couldn't resist the exaggeration.
Besides, if the marriage was going ahead, he needed to be seen to support it.
Kylock would confiscate the lands of -a traitor in an instant. Cravin was
right, the best thing to do now would be to assassinate Baralis. The man wielded
too much power and had too much influence over events. Once he was out of the
way, the marriage would become less of a threat.