Authors: J. V. Jones
Jack shook his
head. "Look, Tarissa, I don't care what you say. Rovas wanted me dead. He
sent me into the garrison knowing the tunnel was blocked." He hung his
head down; looking at Tarissa only confused him further. He didn't know what to
believe.
"I didn't
know the tunnel was blocked." There was an edge to her voice now. "I
waited all night for you. It was morning before I left the tunnel
entrance."
In the background
Magra tended to Rovas. The smuggler was regaining consciousness. His coughing
and spluttering was a sign to Jack to move on. He hadn't achieved anything by
coming here. It had been a mistake. Better to go now and never return.
Jack glanced
around the room looking for his knife. He spotted it lying underneath the
table. Bending down to retrieve it, he said softly, "I know you lied about
Melli being killed. I need to know what became of her." Hearing Tarissa's
sudden intake of breath, he braced himself for another lie.
"I'm sorry,
Jack," she said, her small pink lips quivering. "The whole thing was
set in motion before we even knew you. After that it was too late."
"Set in
motion, "
repeated Jack, anger flaring fast. "You mean when you
and Rovas deliberately set out to lure me into acting as your personal
assassin."
"It wasn't
like that." Large tears rolled down Tarissa's cheeks.
His hand enclosed
around the knife's hilt and he stood up. "I don't care anymore. Just tell
me what happened to Melli."
Tarissa wiped her
face. "She was sold to a flesh-trader called Fiscel. He took her east
toward Bren."
"Was that
where he was going to sell her?"
"I don't
know. He might have headed south once he crossed the mountains."
"That's all
you know?"
"Yes."
Jack looked into
the hazel of her eyes. He was sure she was speaking the truth. "Put some
supplies in a bag for me: food, water, clothing, you know the sort of
thing."
"You're not
going?" Tarissa looked horrified. "You're wet and you're bleeding.
You can't go."
"Watch
me." Jack made his voice harsh-he was afraid of giving in to her. Stepping
over the door, he made his way outside into the cool night air.
Tarissa followed
him. "Take me with you," she said. Jack shook his head.
"No."
She grabbed hold
of his hand. "Please, Jack. Please. I'm sorry about the lies. I never
wanted to hurt you. I tried to tell you about Melli that day by the pool."
"It's too
late, Tarissa." He pulled his hand free. "Get back inside. Don't
bother with the supplies."
She fell down to
her knees and clutched at his britches. "Jack, don't leave me. Please, I
beg you." Her voice was high, almost hysterical. "Take me with you.
There's nothing for me here. I hate Rovas."
"Stop lying,
Tarissa." Gently he pried her fingers away from the fabric. The temptation
to bend down and take her into his arms was so great that he had to turn his
back on her.
"Please,
Jack," she said, kneeling forward on the wet ground. "I'm sorry. I'm
sorry."
"I can never
trust you again, Tarissa. Never." He cursed his voice for breaking. He
couldn't look back now-if he did she might see the tears in his eyes. He began
to walk away.
"Where are you
going?" she cried. Her voice sounded small and frightened.
"East,"
he said softly.
The wind picked
up, brushing his hair into his face and carrying the sound of Tarissa's sobbing
straight to his ears. He didn't stop. He carried on walking, step after step
taking him further away from the woman he loved.
It was a beautiful
morning in Bren. The rain that had dogged the city for seven full days had
finally stopped and everything-the sky, the streets, the buildings, and even
the people-was brighter because of it. The sun shone gold, giving out the first
real warmth of the year, and the fragrance of mountain flowers was carried on
the breeze. Women dressed more boldly than they had in months, walking the
streets with hips that held messages in their sway. Men leaned out of windows
to watch them pass, puffing out their chests and whistling like songbirds.
Spring had come to the city by the lake, late as usual, but glorious
nonetheless.
Madame Thornypurse
ordered the maid to open the shutters. As a rule she didn't like fresh air-it
caused the rat oil to evaporate faster-but it was spring, and as a business
woman and a lady of the world, it was her job to make the proper seasonal
adjustments. Men's fancies turned to lust in spring, and nothing, absolutely nothing,
was as good at attracting that fancy as a house full of whores.
Just this week she
had taken on three new girls, each and every one of them good and plump, with
bellies as round as cheeses and thighs as wide as milk chums. Not a beauty
amongst them. That didn't matter; crooked teeth, a few pockmarks, and a sallow
complexion could either be hidden, disguised, or overlooked. A pancake for a
bottom, however, was a flaw far too serious to ignore. Men needed a good
handful down there.
"Sister,
dear," came a voice from behind, "might I offer a humble
suggestion?"
Madame Thornypurse
turned to face her sister, Mistress Greal. Two weeks ago, about the time her
beloved Corsella went missing, Mistress Greal had arrived from the kingdoms.
Sadly, she had
lost her looks. Two of her front teeth were missing, and her left wrist was
curiously misshapen. Ringed with broken bones, it looked as if she were wearing
a strange, primitive bracelet. Madame Thornypurse would have liked to question
Mistress Greal about the mishaps and her reasons for leaving Duvitt, but she
was a little afraid of her older sister and so tactfully held her tongue.
"Yes, dearest
sister. I treasure your advice as if it were Tyro gold."
"Get those
lazy good for nothing girls off their buttocks and make them stand by the
windows. At the moment the only thing they're liable to catch is a cold."
Madame Thomypurse
nodded. Her sister's suggestion was, rather annoyingly, a good one. She clapped
her hands. "Girls! Girls! Go to the windows and call to every man who
passes."
"And pull
your dresses down low, so they can see your wares," added Mistress Greal
sharply.
The girls moaned
and scowled and adjusted their ruffles downward. They went over to the windows,
casting resentful glances toward Mistress Greal as they settled themselves
against the sills. Madame Thomypurse had noticed that none of the girls liked
her sister very much, but they always obeyed her.
"May I be so
bold as to make another suggestion, sister dear?"
"Certainly,
dearest sister."
Mistress Greal
came forward and laid her good hand upon her sister's arm. "We need to
invest in a great beauty."
"We do?"
Madame Thornypurse admired her sister greatly, yet she couldn't help feeling a
touch of peevishness. It seemed that Mistress Greal was intent on running her
business. In just over two weeks she had taken over the ordering of food and
drink, started supervising the maids, and now, it seemed, she dared to
challenge her choice of girls!
"Yes, sister
dear. The last girls you acquired are all a little, how should I put it
...?" Mistress Greal's thin nose went into the air like a dairyman
sniffing for mold. "Ugly."
"Ugly?"
Madame Thornypurse spat out the word. Mistress Greal's good hand squeezed like
a vise. "Don't take on, sister dear. I meant no offense. They'll all as
plump as sausages and I'm sure you got them cheap, but we need one girl, just
one, whose beauty is so compelling that tales of it travel throughout the city.
The beauty of that one girl will draw men here by the dozens."
"But a single
girl can only service four men in one night."
"Aha! There
you have it." Mistress Greal's crooked finger poked against the flesh of
her sister's arm. "Most of the men will have to settle for the other girls
instead."
"But won't
they just leave?"
"Not after
two glasses of my Duvitt special brew, they won't." Mistress Greal smiled
thinly, lips pressed together to hide her stretch of toothless gum. "Once
men have had a few, one woman begins to look much like another. We'll snuff out
most of the candles, block off the chimney to increase the smoke, and serve
them the strong stuff. They won't be able to see their hands in front of their
faces, let alone tell the difference between a filly and a mare." Mistress
Greal was triumphant. "The secret, sister dear, is to get them here in the
first place."
Madame Thornypurse
tried to find flaws in her sister's reasoning, but came up blank. "It does
sound rather profitable."
"It's the
oldest business practice in the Known Lands, sister dear: bait and
switch."
"Bait and
switch?"
Mistress Greal
nodded. "In your own small way you were doing it before Corsella went
missing. My niece was quite beautiful enough to attract men from far and
wide."
Madame Thornypurse
was torn between indignation over the phrase your own small way and pride at
having her beloved daughter complimented. Pride won. "She takes after me,
you know. Everyone says so."
"Beauty runs
in our family, sister dear." Mistress Greal's hand rose to her bony
breast. "It breaks my heart that I haven't been able to see my precious
niece. Do the bailiffs have any idea what has become of her?"
Madame Thornypurse
sighed heavily. "No, they say she will turn up sooner or later. I pray to
Borc each night to keep her safe."
"Sister dear,
come and lie down," said Mistress Greal. "I can see you're upset.
I'll have the maid send in a drop of brandy."
"You loved
Corsella, didn't you, dearest sister? You sent her all those gifts: the
necklaces, the bracelets . . ."
"She was like
a daughter to me, sister dear. When you were ill with the pox that time, I
looked after her as if she were my own." Mistress Greal pulled herself up
to her full height. "If any man has harmed as much as a hair on her head,
I swear I will see him in hell for it."
On hearing her
sister's words, Madame Thornypurse felt a warm glow in her heart. Mistress
Greal might be many things-overbearing, bossy, and shrill to name but a fewbut
she was, above all, a woman of her word.
A sudden
distraction caused both women to turn toward the windows. The girls were shouting
and cheering. One of them, a sweet-looking girl with a harelip, turned around.
"We've got one, madame. He's on his way in right now."
Madame Thornypurse
rubbed her hands together. "And so early in the day, too." She nodded
graciously to her sister. "Wise as ever, Mistress Greal."
Mistress Greal
inclined her head like a queen. "You know me, Madame Thornypurse: anything
to improve business."
Both women went to
the door. Due to Madame Thornypurse's sore foot, Mistress Greal got there
first. She swung open the door. A man, lean and travel-weary, waited on the
other side. "Good morning, kind sir," she said. "Are you looking
for a little comfort?"
"That, some
decent food, and a bed for the night, if you've got one." The man spat out
a wad of snatch and ground it into the step with the heel of his boot.
"Come in,
come in," said Madame Thornypurse, pushing her sister out of the way.
"Hot food, a warm bed, and the comeliest girls in Bren await you."
"After you've
put down a small deposit first, of course," added Mistress Greal.
The man pulled out
his purse and pressed a gold coin into her palm. "Now, woman," he
said, "run along and fetch me some ale."
Mistress Greal had
little choice but to do his bidding. Off she went, her skirts swishing
violently in protest. Madame Thornypurse turned toward the man; she linked her
arm around his and smiled coquettishly-she at least had all her front teeth.
Leading him into the room, she said, "So, handsome sir, what do they call
you at home?"
"Traff. They
call me Traff." The man was busy eyeing up the girls.
"And what
line of work are you in, Traff?" Madame Thornypurse beckoned over her two
best: Dolly and Moxie. The girls came quickly, giggling and jiggling, just as
they'd been taught.
The man reached
out a hand to squeeze Moxie's breast: "I'm a mercenary."
Madame Thornypurse
was well pleased. His kind always had cash, or the means to get it. "So,
what brings you to our fair city?" She disengaged herself from his arm,
freeing it up for Dolly. If she was lucky, he'd pay for both of them.
Traff's mouth
twisted to a bitter smile. "I've come to find my betrothed," he said.
Tawl knocked
softly and then let himself in. Melli was standing in the middle of the room,
legs apart, arms out, brandishing her silver blade at an imaginary foe. The
instant she saw him she blushed and dropped her arms to her sides.
"You might
have knocked," she said. "I did. You might have listened."
Tawl could see her
deciding whether to frown or smile. Over the past few days he had learned that
Melli's emotions were always written openly on her face. Fear, joy, pain,
anger, and most commonly, indignation, could- be seen flashing regularly across
her eyes, bending the curve of her lips, and raising the furrows on her brow.
Even her skin tone changed. She could never hide a thing.
"Well, knock
louder next time," she said, settling for half a frown.
Tawl bowed in
acknowledgment of the reprimand. He came over to her and laid his hands on her
shoulders. "When you have a real opponent to wield your blade at, don't
stand so rigidly, bend your knees a little." He pressed her down to the
right position, tilting her back and raising her arms. "This way there'll
be less chance of being thrown off balance." His hand closed around her
fingers as he felt how she held the knife. Gently, he adjusted her grip to the
correct position. "Your wrist, on the other hand, should never be bent. Or
all the strength in your shoulders and flank will go to waste."
Demonstrating his point, he ran his fingers along the muscles in her side and
shoulders. "If you bend your wrist, you break the line, and the only
muscle you'll be left with is your forearm. You try and stab a man like that
and at best you'll strain your wrist, at worst you'll break it."