Authors: J. V. Jones
He cut himself a
portion, marveling at the ease with which it took the knife. Just as he brought
flesh to lips, a knock sounded on the door. The archbishop tutted angrily and
cried, "Enter," in such a way that the word was transformed into an
insult and a warning.
"I trust Your
Eminence is well today?" said Gamil, walking into the room.
"I was
feeling quite well until about ten seconds ago, Gamil, then for some reason my
spirits took a sharp turn for the worst."
Gamil carried on
as if Tavalisk hadn't spoken. "I have news of Kylock's invasion, Your
Eminence. Apparently he's sweeping through western Halcus like a brushfire. The
man is a demon, ordering the killing of women and children, slaughtering
cattle, and constructing dams to flood the fields. Not to mention the fact that
he's burning every hayloft and chicken coop in sight. The newly crowned king
seems intent on bringing Halcus to its knees."
"Hmm."
The archbishop nibbled daintily on his tripe. "Kylock is turning out to be
quite an interesting character. I must say, I wholly agree with his decision to
murder the women of Halcus-they're an ugly and shrewish bunch, the lot of
them!"
"But isn't
Your Eminence worried about the consequences? If Kylock reaches Helch, then the
whole of the north will turn into one huge battlefield."
"Now, now,
Gamil," said Tavalisk, waving a tripe-tipped fork in his aide's direction.
"There's no need to panic. A battlefield in the north is nothing to lose
sleep over. It's the south that matters to us. The secret is to keep the south
interested in the war without actively involving them in it." Tavalisk
threw some tripe to his cat and the creature greedily snapped it up.
"Marls and Toolay would up timbers and run at the first sight of a soldier
brandishing a halberd, and I intend to use their fear to my advantage."
"How, Your
Eminence?"
"Simple,
Gamil. I will convince them that the only way they can stop the war from
spreading south is to make sure that Baralis and Kylock are firmly thwarted in
the north. Of course that will take resources: armaments, finances, mercenaries,
supplies. . ." The archbishop made a sweeping gesture with his arms.
"And the southern cities are the ones who should supply them. Not to
mention the fact that they can finally rid themselves of those pesky
self-righteous knights."
"Talking of
the knights, Your Eminence, Tyren and the duke of Bren have entered into an
agreement where both parties now guard cargo trains from the south to the
north. I think it was the rumor of the seized wedding dress that did it. The
duke of Bren can hardly sit back and let his cargoes be publicly seized by the
four-city force. It's too humiliating. So now when we attack the knights, we're
as good as attacking Bren, as well."
"Isn't the
buildup to a world war beautiful to behold, Gamil?" Tavalisk threw a
second piece of tripe to his cat. This time he flung the morsel high up, so it
landed atop a tapestry that was hanging from the wall. That would challenge the
beast. "An insult here, a few slaughtered cattle there, and the next thing
one knows, people are lining up on opposite sides, knives drawn, ready for a
fight. It's quite thrilling, really."
The cat, who had
been eyeing the out-of-reach tripe for a few moments, finally decided to make
its move. It jumped up, claws extended to catch at the cloth. The tapestry,
which was suspended by a chain from the wall, began to swing from side to side
erratically. The cat clung onto it, four limbs spread-eagled against the
likeness of Kesmont's horse. The tripe worked its way loose and fell to the
floor with a dull slapping sound. The cat tried to jump after it, but one of
its claws was caught up in the fabric and it hurtled downward only to find
itself suspended from the tapestry by its hind paw.
Gamil made to free
the trapped creature.
"No, don't
help it, Gamil," said the archbishop. "Even dumb animals must learn
the price of greed."
The cat squawked
loudly and began to thrash wildly against the wall.
"But Your
Eminence, it will hurt itself."
"It should
have thought of that sooner. Now, anything else?"
Gamil was forced
to speak over the sound of the cat screeching. "Two more things, Your
Eminence. First, the knight has become the duke of Bren's champion, and second,
the Old Man's cronies are on the way back home."
There was a loud
crash as cat and tapestry went careening to the floor. Tavalisk ignored the
noise. "So they didn't manage to murder the knight?"
"No, Your
Eminence. They never tried to. They were there to deliver a letter, not a
knife."
Tavalisk paused in
mid-chew. "It would be most interesting to know the contents of that letter,
Gamil." The archbishop sighed daintily. "We must continue to have the
knight watched closely, you never know what we might discover. Now if there's
nothing more, kindly take your leave."
"Certainly,
Your Eminence," said Gamil, walking to the door.
"Just before
you go, Gamil, I wonder if you could do me a small favor."
"Take your
cat to the physician to see if he can stop the bleeding?"
"Well done,
Gamil. I see you've reached the point where you can anticipate my needs."
Bringe was not a
happy man. Everything had gone downhill since he hacked Maybor's orchards.
Baralis had paid him his fee promptly-nineteen pieces of the king's own gold-so
he had nothing to complain about there. Unfortunately, a few days later his
wife had decided it was high time to give the brewing vat its once yearly
clean. So, while he was out at the local inn sharing a cup of tavern-keeper's
best with the full-thighed Gerty, his rat-faced wife was busy discovering his
hidden stash under the brewing vat, wrapped in linen, and packed with grease to
stop the coins from clinking together.
By the time he'd
returned from the inn she was gone. A few decent slaps to Gerty revealed that
she and his wife had an aunt in Highwall. A few decent kicks to the bailiff
revealed that his wife was last seen paying two golds for the protection of a
merchant train that was heading east. Bringe started after her, the now
miserable and wailing Gerty in tow. Four days later he caught up with the
train. His wife set the guards on him. Whilst he was being shot at, Gerty was
busy ingratiating herself with her older sister. When the merchant train pulled
away, he found himself alone.
He continued
drifting east, robbing food and money to live. His plan was to catch up his
wife and Gerty in Highwall, but the Halcus put a stop to that. Two weeks back
he was picked up by them as an enemy spy. Kylock's invasion had sent them into
a mad frenzy, seeking out any men from the kingdoms to torture and bum.
So here he was,
stuck in a Halcus prison cell, his face a match for a squashed pumpkin, being
stared at by some fever-crazy wild man. "Don't come near me,
longhair," he warned. No one was going to give him a dose of the ghones.
Or anything else contagious, for that matter.
As Bringe became
accustomed to the dimness, he realized that the stranger was younger than he
first thought. He was in a bad way. Down both of his arms were a series of
sores that looked as if they might be bite marks, and he was shaking from head
to foot. Bringe spat in distaste. "What you in here for, boy?"
The stranger sat
in a heap of dirty rushes. A trickle of blood ran down his neck where the guard
had kicked him. "I murdered a man," he said.
Murder? The boy
went up in Bringe's opinion. "I'm in here under suspicion of murder
myself. A merchant was killed in the tavern a couple of weeks back and everyone
swore it was a foreigner who did it. When they couldn't pin that one on me,
they got me for spying instead." This wasn't entirely true, but it made
him sound more important than admitting he was one of hundreds who'd been
rounded up for no other reason than they happened to hail from the kingdoms.
The part about the tavern murder was true, but it was his last cell mate who
was charged with the murder, not himself.
"What's your
name, boy?"
"Jack."
Bringe didn't like
the look of Jack one bit. His skin had a sickly look to it and his eyes were
bright with madness. "People call me Bringe." That statement met with
no response, so he soldiered on. "From the kingdoms, eh?
Whereabouts?"
"Castle
Harvell."
"I'm from the
Eastlands myself. You know, near Lord Maybor's estate."
At the mention of
Lord Maybor, the boy turned white. He shifted himself to his knees and asked,
"Did you know his daughter, Melliandra?"
Bringe had seen
her ride past his cottage once or twice in her brother's company. An
uppity-looking wench if ever he saw one. "Yes, I knew her well. Course she
spends most of her time at court now."
"She was
beautiful, wasn't she?" The boy looked to Bringe for confirmation.
"Aye, breasts
as firm as walnuts. She's the type that's hairy down below, too."
The boy struggled
to pull himself onto his feet. A kennel's worth of bites had tom his britches
to shreds, and his legs were shaking like aspic. Once upright, he came
tottering toward Bringe, sweat dripping from his chin and a manic look in his
eye. Too late, Bringe realized that the boy meant to hit him. The boy's fist
landed firmly on his newly broken nose. A sickening crunch was followed by the
quick flare of pain. A second later, the boy reeled backward and collapsed onto
the floor.
Bringe brought his
hand to his nose to stop the bleeding, contemplating beating the boy, decided
it would only get him into more trouble, and settled for a swift kick to the
abdomen instead. The boy groaned and spit blood from his mouth. In a way Bringe
respected him; a man who defended a woman's honor was not all bad. It was the
women themselves who were vicious money-grabbing mares.
"Come on,
Jack," said Bringe, offering the boy a hand. "Let's not fall out over
a woman."
The boy refused
his help, dragged himself into a sitting position, and proceeded to scowl at
him.
"Of course
you've got to give kingdoms' women their fair due," said Bringe, entering
into one of his favorite subjects. "No one can match them when it comes to
thighs. Halcus women are too skinny, Highwall women are too muscley, and Annis
women are so tall that you wonder if it's a thigh or a tree that you're
grabbing." Bringe met with no response, but decided to continue on
regardless.
"Everyone
knows that kingdoms' women are the best. That's what the tavern murder was all
about. The captain here, I forget his name, sold a kingdoms girl to a
flesh-trader. By all accounts he made a fortune. A couple of weeks later a man
turns up asking about her. 'Tis rumored he was her betrothed. Anyway, the next
day the merchant that he questioned is found dead. Throat slit down a dark
alley."
"Was the
captain named Vanly?" asked the boy. Bringe nodded. "That's
him."
"How long ago
did this happen?" The boy's demeanor changed. He was lucid, sharp, his
whole body leaning forward in anticipation of the answer.
"I think the
girl was sold a couple of months back now. During the wintertime. Apparently
Vanly found her in a chicken coop."
"What was the
girl's name?"
Bringe scratched
his head and tried to remember what his cell mate had told him. "Something
beginning with M, like Minnie or Melda."
"Was it
Melli?"
"Er, I'm not
sure."
"Think.
Think!"
Bringe was
beginning to feel a little nervous. The boy looked set to explode. "Melli,
you say. It
does
sound familiar."
"And this
girl was sold to a flesh-trader?"
"Aye, that
much is common knowledge. For weeks afterward that was all the town's people
could talk about: the killing Vanly made on the deal." Bringe's eyes
flicked nervously to his companion. One look at the boy's face and a primal
instinct warned him to back away. He didn't know what he was dealing with, but
one thing was certain: the boy was dangerous.
It was a sham.
Tarissa, Magra, Rovas; they'd all played him for a fool. Right now they were
probably sitting round the fire, laughing away at how stupid he'd been.
All the time that
he'd stayed in the cottage, Melli had been alive.
How could Tarissa
do it? How could she have loved him and kissed him and lied through her teeth?
He felt crushed by the weight of her lies.
A slow pressure
began to build within him. He hardly noticed the push.
Where did the lies
end? Did Tarissa really hate Rovas? Or had that been just another acting feat?
The pressure built
steadily, rising upward to meet his thoughts.
Tarissa said
she
was the one who was supposed to kill Vanly.
She said that
Melli was dead.
His head pounded
in time to the list of her deceptions. She said she would come with him to
Annis.
She said she loved
him.
She said she would
wait for him.
LIES. LIES. LIES.
He couldn't bear
the pain.
The pressure
turned to fire in his blood. It burnt a trail along his tongue and crackled
forth like a whip. Jack felt the rush of sorcery. Glorious, terrible,
uncontrollable, it fed off his thoughts like fuel and ate away at his soul.
She had
betrayed him.
The air shimmered
then thickened around him. The building began to shake. Stones and masonry came
crashing to the floor. The earth jolted beneath his feet. It began to rock back
and forth, the stones churning themselves to mud. The bars on the cell door
buckled and the frame fell away from the wall. A warm wind carried the stench
of metal around the cell. The power that tore through his body terrified and
entranced him. Without stopping to think, he made his way through the opening
and up into the garrison.