Authors: J. V. Jones
"I brought
him here late last night with the lawyers and scribes. I wanted to see you
alone, by myself, today." The duke took a sip of his wine. His hawked nose
rested against the rim of the cup. "Tell me, Lord Maybor, am I right in
supposing that you have been somewhat reluctant in your support of the
match?"
Maybor did not
like to mince words. "I don't trust Baralis one little bit. The man is too
ambitious for his own good. I think he's trying to place Kylock in a position
where he can take over the entire north-including Bren. And frankly, Your
Grace, I'm surprised that you're about to sit back and let him." Maybor
finished his speech by downing the lobanfern in one. With a certain amount of
satisfaction, he slammed the empty cup on the table.
The duke did not
seem at all surprised by his outburst. He stood very still, one hand on his
cup, the other resting against the hilt of his sword, and said quietly,
"Lord Maybor, when you get to know me better, you will come to realize
that I never sit back."
Maybor was
impressed by the duke's tone, but he didn't want him to know it. "None of
this will be my concern much longer, Your Grace. Sit back or forward-do
whatever you will. My job is done here and I shall be returning to the kingdoms
as soon as arrangements can be made." Although he was speaking for
dramatic effect, the idea of going home appealed greatly to Maybor. It would be
good to sleep in his own bed, to eat good plain kingdoms food, and to be
amongst people who respected him.
"I wouldn't
go just yet, if I were you, Lord Maybor." There was something strange
about the duke's voice. "What do you mean?" asked Maybor.
"I mean, my
friend, that you should at least stay until the Feast of First Sowing. That is
when I intend to make the official wedding announcement." The Hawk was
smiling slyly .
"I will stay,
if that is an official request."
"No, stay for
a different reason."
"What
reason?"
"Stay because
you might be pleasantly surprised by what you hear and who you meet."
"I have no
love of riddles, Your Grace." Maybor was becoming a little impatient.
"Neither do
I, my friend. So I will say this much: stay until the Feast of First Sowing,
and you will finally see your fellow envoy put in his place." The duke
crossed over to the door and opened it. "Now, if you will excuse me, I
have to visit the bride-to-be herself."
Maybor followed
him out of the door. Together they walked down the staircase and through to the
main entrance. When they reached the outer door, the duke turned and put his
hand on Maybor's arm.
"Before you
go," he said, "let me give you some advice."
Advice? Maybor did
not like the sound of this. "Go on."
"The Feast of
First Sowing may provide a few shocks to those sitting around the table, but I
would suggest that you, my friend, try to conceal your surprise. It would please
me greatly if I knew I could count on your . . ." the duke searched for
the appropriate word ". . . composure."
Maybor stepped
away. He would not agree to something blindly. "I will make you no
promises, Your Grace." Strangely, the duke seemed satisfied with this.
"As you wish." He inclined his head and began to walk down the long
corridor in the direction of the ladies' quarters.
Maybor headed in
the opposite direction, his step lighter than when he had come. He didn't know
what to make of the meeting, but it would certainly do no harm to stay put for
a few days to discover what the duke was up to. Anything that promised the
unraveling of Baralis' plans was well worth waiting for.
"Well, you're
right and you're wrong, Bodger," said Grift. "It is true that ale
makes a man randy and then hinders his performance, but really it all depends
on the amount of ale he drinks."
"You mean the
more he drinks the less impressive his performance gets?"
"Aye, pretty
much so, Bodger. However, a little known fact is that eventually, if a man
drinks enough ale-say, twenty skins full-he passes through the drunken stage
and emerges on the other side as a rollickin' god of a stallion."
"A rollickin'
god of a stallion, Grift?"
"Aye, Bodger.
You've heard that if men on the battlefield go long enough without washing then
they actually get clean again on their own?"
"Aye,
Grift."
"Well, it's
exactly the same for ale. Drink enough of it and a man will eventually end up
as sober as a bailiff and randy as an owl. The trouble with most men, Bodger,
is that they just don't have the staying power to see it through. They haven't
got the guts for it."
"What about
you, Grift? Have you ever reached the rollickin' stallion stage?"
"What d'you
think put the smile on Widow Harpit's face last Winter's Eve, Bodger?"
Bodger thought for
a moment, nodded, poured himself a cup of ale, drank it, and then poured
himself another one. "Easy dgoes it, Bodger. Timing is everything."
Bodger downed the
second cup and poured himself a third. "I think I'll be arranging to see
Tessa the ash maid tonight."
"You can do
better than an ash maid, Bodger. Lowest of the low, they are. You don't want to
rollick beneath yourself."
"Ash maids
can't be beneath me, Grift. I remember you once said that the most refined girl
in all the kitchens was none other than an ash maid. Jack's mother, I think she
was."
"Aye, Bodger,
I did at that. Lucy was her name." Grift smiled tenderly. "A
beautiful girl. Clever, too. Of course, she wasn't always an ash maid-that's
the difference here."
"What was she
before, then?"
"A
chambermaid, Bodger. She used to spend all her time upstairs in the nobles'
quarters. Then, once she got pregnant, she sort of hid herself down in the
kitchens. She took the lowliest job she could get: tending the great cooking
fire, and never once set foot in the nobles' quarters again."
"That seems a
big odd, Grift."
"Perhaps she
wanted to hide her shame, Bodger. She never did say who the father was."
The two men drank
in silence for a while. They both felt the need to show a little respect for
the dead.
Tawl was on his
way back to Melli's chamber when he heard the sound of footsteps behind him.
They seemed to have come from nowhere. Instinctively his hand felt for his
sword. Spinning around, Tawl drew his weapon and turned to face his attacker.
"Don't hurt
me. It's me, Nabber."
Angry, poised to
strike, sword quivering in his fist, Tawl thundered at Nabber: "What in
Borc's
name are you
doing here?"
Nabber shrugged
sheepishly.
"Never do
that again," hissed Tawl, shocked at how close he had come to hurting the
boy. "You could have got yourself killed." He resheathed his sword.
Nabber risked a
smile. "Sorry, Tawl. Just thought I'd test your reflexes, that's all.
You're a bit jittery, if you don't mind me saying so."
Tawl had to turn
away to hide a smile. It was impossible to stay mad at the boy. Looking back in
the direction that Nabber had come from, he couldn't work out why he hadn't
heard him coming sooner. The corridor was long and straight. "How did you
manage to sneak up on me?" he asked.
"Don't insult
me with a question like that, Tawl. I'm a pocket, ain't I? Stealth is my
trade."
"Well,
stealthily return the way you came."
"Can't I stay
with you for a while? Ever since you got back to the palace, I've hardly seen
you. Seems to me that you're dropping your old friends now you've got a high
and mighty lady to look after." Nabber pulled himself up to his full
height. "Well, let no one say that I ever stuck around where I wasn't
wanted. I'm heading back to the streets." He began to walk away.
Tawl reached out
and caught Nabber's sleeve. He felt very protective toward the boy and did not
want him returning to a life on the streets. True, Nabber could be bluffing,
but he didn't want to risk it. "All right, you can come and sit outside
the lady's chamber with me. But you've got to promise to be good and not take
any valuables."
Nabber smiled
broadly. "I'll treat them as if they were my own."
"Hmm, that's
what I'm worried about."
The two of them
walked to the ladies' quarters. Nabber told Tawl about his two new
friends=Bodger and Griftand then the conversation turned to Baralis.
"I tell you
this, Tawl," said Nabber. "That Baralis is one scary devil. Just the
sound of his voice alone is enough to send a man's knees aquivering."
Tawl had heard
Baralis' name mentioned several times by the duke. He'd even seen him once or
twice around the palace. Tall, dark, dressed in black, people always moved out
of the way to let him pass. As soon as the announcement of the duke's marriage
was made, Baralis was one man Tawl intended to watch closely. As envoy to the
kingdoms, he would ill like Kylock being robbed of exactly what he had come
here to secure in the first place: Bren's ascendancy.
Tawl was so busy
with thoughts of potential threats to Melli that something important almost
slipped his mind. Almost. Just as they turned in to Melli's reception chamber,
Tawl pulled Nabber
back by catching hold of his tunic. "How come you have spoken to
Baralis?" he asked.
With a great show
of dignity, Nabber freed himself from the grip. His hand came to rest on his
chest like an actor about to speak from the heart, and he said, "You know
me, Tawl. Powerful people flock to me. I can't do anything about it."
Tawl winked at the
two guards flanking the door. He then grabbed hold of Nabber's ear, twisted it
sharply, and proceeded to march the boy into the chamber. Only when the door
was firmly closed behind him did he loosen his grip a little. "Now,
Nabber," he said, pleasantly. "You have two choices: one, you can either
tell me the truth-in which case I will only hurt you slightly; or two, you can
lie to me and I'll tear your ear off." Tawl demonstrated his ability to do
this by tugging firmly on the ear. Nabber howled. "Now, which will it
be?"
Nabber tried to
wriggle free, but Tawl just pinched harder on his ear. "All right, all
right," the pocket said. "Let me go and I'll tell you what
happened."
Tawl shook his
head. "I'm not going to release you until I hear the truth."
"You're a
cruel man, Tawl." Nabber's face was turning an unpleasant red. He took a
deep breath. "Baralis was asking me questions about Bevlin."
Bevlin? This was
the last thing Tawl had expected. He let go of Nabber's ear. Suddenly he didn't
feel like playing games. "Tell me exactly what happened."
Nabber brushed his
tunic down and rubbed his ear. "He came down to the chapel when I was with
Bodger and Grift. He asked me a lot of questions. You know, about where the
wiseman lived, about his books. About you."
"What did you
tell him?" Tawl's voice was grim. He didn't like the sound of this one
little bit. Why would Baralis be interested in him? It didn't make any sense.
"Only things
that were common knowledge, Tawl. I swear it. I told him where Bevlin's cottage
was, how long I'd known you, that sort of thing. He already knew about the
quest."
Tawl interrupted
him. "He knew I was looking for a boy?"
Nabber nodded.
"Swift's honor, he did."
"And why was
he interested in Bevlin's cottage?"
"He was after
his books. Apparently both men shared a love for crawling insects."
Tawl's gut sent
him a warning; it tightened, forcing bile into his throat. Baralis wanted
Bevlin's books. But why? Insects were a poor excuse. As he tried to work out
what Baralis could want, another thought flashed across his mind, blocking all
others in its wake.
"If he goes
to the cottage, what will he find?" The last time he'd seen the place
there was blood spread across the floor and a dead man in the middle of it.
Nabber immediately
understood the question. "He'll find a nice clean home with everything in
order."
"And the
body?"
"I buried
it."
Tawl looked deep
into Nabber's brown eyes. The young pocket never ceased to amaze him. He had
taken care of everything. When he himself had ridden away in a tortured,
cowardly frenzy, Nabber had stayed behind and dealt with the body and the
blood. Tawl felt ashamed of himself. He also felt a great respect for Nabber.
"Thank you," he said.
"I was just
doing what Swift taught me-looking out for my friends."
Tawl held his hand
out and Nabber took it. "You're the only friend I have," he said,
clasping the boy's arm firmly. "I'm the only one you'll ever need."
The door opened
and in walked the duke. Seeing Nabber he assumed he was a servant. "Leave
us, boy. I would speak to my champion alone."
"It was dark
the night of the fight, Your Grace," said Tawl, preventing Nabber from
leaving by placing a restraining hand on his shoulder, "so I will forgive
you for not recognizing my second: Nabber of Rorn." He pushed the boy
forward.
Nabber flushed
with pride. He executed a rather impressive bow. "Your Grace."
The duke inclined
his head graciously. "Please accept my apologies. Rorn, eh? Happen to know
the archbishop, do you?"
"He's a
slippery blighter, I can tell you that much."
The duke laughed.
"You can come and work for me anytime, Nabber. I wish more of my
counselors would put things as succinctly as you do."
Nabber was beaming
from ear to sore ear. "Anytime you need a spot of advice, Your Grace, just
look me up. Tawl always knows were to find me." He bowed again. "Now,
I must be off. Commerce calls."
Tawl and the duke
watched him go.
"A remarkable
boy," said the duke once Nabber had left the room.
"In more ways
than one," replied Tawl. He made up his mind that he wasn't going to
question Nabber any further about Baralis. He had the strong suspicion that the
boy had probably sold the man information, but that was Nabber's way. It was
what made him who he was, and he could hardly be blamed for it. Besides, it
sounded as if Baralis had another source of information. Someone else had told
him about the search for the boy. Tawl scanned his memory for those who knew
about the quest. The archbishop of Rorn. Tyren. Larn.