The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  “I assure you, Lord Maybor, that the foul concoction will do nothing more than give the king a mild fever for a few weeks and slow down the healing of the wound. In two months time, the king will appear to be back to normal.” Melli could detect a faint ambiguity to Lord Baralis’ words.

  “Very well, I will send my man to you tonight,” said her father. “Be ready with the arrow.”

  “One will be enough?”

  “My man is a fine marksman, he will have need of no more. Now, I must be gone. Be discreet when you depart, lest you be marked by prying eyes.”

  “Have no fear, Maybor, no one will see me leave. One more thing, though. I suggest that once the arrow is removed from the king’s body, it should be destroyed.”

  “Very well, I will see to it.” Her father’s voice was grim. “I wish you good day, Baralis.” Melli heard the door close and then the soft tinkle of glass as Baralis poured himself another cup of wine.

  “You can come out now, pretty one,” he called. She could not believe he was addressing her. She froze, not daring to take a breath. After half a minute, Baralis’ voice called again: “Come now, little one, step into the room, or I will be forced to find you.”

  Melli was about to hide under the bed when Baralis entered the bedroom, casting a long shadow before him. “Oh, Melli, what big ears you have.” He shook his head in mild reproof. “What a naughty girl you are.” His voice had a hypnotic quality, and she found herself feeling sleepy.

  “Now, Melli, if you are a good girl and promise not to tell what you heard, I will promise not to tell your father that you heard it.” Baralis put down his goblet on a low table and turned toward her, fixing Melli with the full impact of his dark and glittering eyes. “Do we have an agreement, my pretty one?”

  Melli’s head felt so heavy she found she could barely remember what she was agreeing to. She nodded as Baralis sat on the bed. “That’s a good girl. You are a good girl, aren’t you?” Melli nodded again dreamily. “Come here and sit on my lap and show me just how good you can be.” Melli felt her body move forward of its own accord. She settled herself on Baralis’ lap and put her arms around his neck. She smelled his scent; it was as compelling as his voice: the sensuous fragrance of rare spices and sweat.

  “That’s a good girl,” he said softly, his hands enclosing her waist. “Now tell me how much can you remember of what you heard.” Melli found she couldn’t speak, much less remember; her mind was a blank. Baralis seemed satisfied with her silence. “Such a very pretty girl.” She felt him caress the stiff fabric of her dress. His hand moved lower, down her leg and under her skirt; she felt his cool touch upon her calf. She was dimly frightened, but she couldn’t act, and his hand moved upward. Then, with his other hand, Baralis traced his fingers over her thin breast. She noticed for the first time how loathsome his hands were, scarred and swollen.

  Repulsed by the sight of the ugly hands, something in Melli stirred, and with great effort she forced herself out of her lethargy. Her thoughts sharpened into focus and she pulled away from him. Quick as a flash she stood up and ran out of the chamber, the sound of Baralis’ laughter echoing in her ears.

  That little whippet will be no problem, thought Baralis, as he watched her flee. It was a shame that she had seen fit to leave so soon. The encounter had just begun to get interesting. Still, he had more pressing matters to attend to and desire was already thinning from his blood.

  He exited Maybor’s chambers by means of a hidden passage, making his way to his own suite. He must prepare the poison for the king’s arrow: a delicate and time-consuming task. Also a dangerous one—the many scars and blisterings on his hands could attest to that. The poison that he would paint on the arrowhead would be of an especially pernicious kind, and he would not be surprised if, before the day was through, he had more welts and reddenings etched upon his tender palms.

  Baralis had another task he was anxious to do: he needed to recruit a blind scribe. He’d just secured the loan of the entire libraries of Tavalisk—the events that he and Maybor had been discussing were in fact part payment for the loan. He smiled knowingly. He would have arranged the king’s accident regardless of Tavalisk and his precious library, but it suited Baralis for the moment, to have Tavalisk believe that he was running the show.

  Not that he’d ever make the mistake of underestimating Tavalisk. The man had a dangerous talent for trouble-making. One wave of his heavily jewelled fingers, and he could sanction the wiping out of entire villages. Whenever it suited the interests of his beloved Rorn, Tavalisk could be heard to cry loudly, “Heretics.” Baralis had to admire the particularly potent power which the man’s position afforded him.

  It was, however, not too stable a position. In fact, that was part of the reason Tavalisk had agreed to loan his library. He needed Rorn to be prosperous; as long as the city was doing what it did best—making money by trade and banking—his place would be assured. Rorn, much like a surgeon in times of plague, always did best when others did badly. A spark of insurgency in the north would result in the cautious money moving south.

  There was more, of course. With Tavalisk one always had to be careful—the man had knowledge of sorcery. How much was hard to judge, as rumor was never a reliable source. Baralis had met him once. It had proven difficult to take his measure—his obesity had proved an effective distraction, yet it was enough for each man to know what the other was. Yes, it was best to be wary of Tavalisk: an enemy was at his most dangerous when he had intimate knowledge of the weapons at his opponent’s command. That one day Tavalisk would become his enemy was a fact Baralis never lost sight of.

  But for the time being, the alliance served both men: Tavalisk was able to promote income-generating conflict within the Four Kingdoms, and in turn Baralis was given access to some of the rarest and most secret writings in the Known Lands.

  He was no fool; he knew, even before the huge chests had arrived last week, that there would be volumes missing. Tavalisk would have kept back those writings which he considered too valuable or too dangerous for him to see.

  There was still, however, a wealth of knowledge in what remained: brilliant, fantastic books, the likes of which he’d never imagined, bound in leather and skin and silk. Relating histories of people he’d never heard of, showing pictures of creatures he’d never seen, giving details of poisons he’d never made. Infinitely delicate manuscripts, made brittle by the passing of time, tied with fraying thread, providing insights into ancient conflicts, showing maps of the stars in the heavens, presenting listings of treasures long lost to the world . . . and much, much more. Baralis was made lightheaded by the thought of so much knowledge.

  One thing he had determined to do was have all of Tavalisk’s library copied before it was returned. To this end, Baralis needed a blind scribe: someone who could copy exactly, sign for sign, what was written on a page but not understand a word of it. Baralis had no intention of sharing the rare and wondrous knowledge which the books contained.

  He needed a boy with a dexterous hand and an eye for detail, a clever boy, but a boy who had never been taught to read. Crope was out of the question; he was a blithering, big-handed fool. The sons of nobles and squires were taught to read from an early age and so were of no use. Baralis would have to look elsewhere for a blind scribe.

  Jack was woken up by Tilly. The pastry maid took great delight in shaking him much harder than was necessary. “What is it?” he asked, immediately worried that he’d overslept. The light filtering through the kitchens was pale and tenuous, a product of freshly broken dawn. Pain soared up his arm as he stood, and the memory of Frallit’s words the night before raced after it.

  Tilly put her finger to her lips, indicating that he should be quiet. She beckoned him to follow her, and she lead him to the storeroom where the flour for baking was kept. “Willock wants to see you.” Tilly pushed one of the sacks of flour aside to reveal a hidden store of apples. She selected one, hesitated a moment, considering whether or not to offer Jac
k one, decided against it, and then pulled the flour sack back into place.

  “Are you sure it’s me he wants, Tilly?” Jack was genuinely surprised, as he had little dealing with the cellar steward. He cast his mind back a few weeks earlier when he’d secretly tapped a few flagons of ale on a dare from a stablehand. It suddenly seemed quite likely that Willock had discovered the missing ale; after all, the man was known for his scrutinous eye. Jack had a horrible suspicion that the famous and slightly bulging eye had turned its gaze his way.

  “Of course I’m sure, pothead! You’re to go straight to the beer cellar. Now get a move on.” Tilly’s sharp teeth bit through the apple skin. She watched as Jack smoothed down his clothes and hair. “I wouldn’t bother if I were you. No amount of grooming can make a stallion out of a packhorse.” Tilly gave Jack a superior look and wiped the apple juice from her chin.

  He hurried down to the beer cellar, wondering what form his punishment might take. Last year, when he’d been caught raiding the apple barrels in an attempt to brew his own cider, Willock had given him a sound thrashing. Jack sincerely hoped another sound thrashing would be called for. The alternative was much worse: being forced to leave the castle.

  The kitchens of Castle Harvell had been his home for life; he had been born in the servants’ hall. When his mother grew too sick to tend him, the scullery maids had fostered him; when he needed food to eat, the cooks had fed him; when he did something wrong, the master baker had scolded him. The kitchens were his haven and the great oven was his hearth. Life in the castle wasn’t easy, but it was familiar, and to a boy without father and mother or anyone to call his own, familiarity was as close as he could get to belonging.

  The beer cellar was a huge chamber filled with rows of copper vats in which various grades of ale were produced. When Jack’s eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he was surprised to find Frallit was there, standing beside Willock, sipping on a cup of ale. Both men looked decidedly nervous to Jack. Willock spoke first. “Did anyone follow you down here?” His small eyes flicked to the door, checking if anyone was behind him.

  “No, sir.”

  Willock hesitated for a moment, rubbing his clean-shaven chin. “My good friend the master baker has informed me that you are nimble with your hands. Is this true, boy?” The cellar steward’s voice seemed strained, and Jack was beginning to feel more than a little worried. He brushed his hair back from his face in an attempt to appear nonchalant.

  “Speak up, boy, now is not the time for false modesty. The master baker says you have a real feel for kneading the dough. He also tells me you like to carve and whittle wood. Is this true?”

  “Yes, sir.” Jack was confused. After last night’s encounter with Frallit, he hardly expected praise.

  “I can see you are a polite boy and that’s good, but the master baker also tells me you can be quite a handful and need a good whippin’ from time to time. Is this true?” Jack didn’t know how to respond, and Willock continued. “A rare opportunity may be coming your way. You wouldn’t want to miss a rare opportunity, would you, boy?”

  The hair which Jack had pushed from his eyes was threatening to fall forward again. He was forced to hold his head at a slight angle to prevent its imminent downfall. “No, sir.”

  “Good.” Willock glanced nervously in the direction of several huge brewing vats. A man stepped out from behind them. Jack could not see him clearly, as he was beyond the light, but he could tell the stranger was a nobleman from the soft rustle of his clothes.

  The stranger spoke, his mellifluous tones oddly out of place in the beer cellar. “Jack, I want you to answer one question. You must give me a truthful reply and do not be mistaken, I will know if you lie.” Jack had never heard a voice like the stranger’s before, low and smooth but charged with power. He didn’t question the man’s ability to tell truth from lie and nodded obediently. At this sudden move of his head, Jack’s hair fell over his eyes.

  “I will answer you truthfully, sir.”

  “Good.” Jack could make out the curve of thin lips. “Come forward a little so I may better see you.” Jack moved a few steps nearer the stranger. The man stretched out a misshapen hand and brushed Jack’s hair from his face. For the briefest of instances, the stranger’s flesh touched his, and it took all of Jack’s willpower not to recoil from the touch. “There is something about you, boy, that is familiar to me.” The stranger’s gaze lingered over him. Jack began to sweat despite the chillness of the cellar. The pain in his arm sharpened to a needlepoint. “No matter,” continued the stranger, “on to the question.” He shifted slightly and the candlelight fell directly onto his face. His eyes shone darkly. “Jack, have you ever been taught how to read?”

  “No, sir.” Jack was almost relieved by the question; the threat of being banished from the castle receded upon its asking.

  The stranger held Jack enthralled with the force of his stare. “You speak the truth, boy. I am pleased with you.” The man turned to where Willock and Frallit were standing. “Leave me and the boy alone.” Jack had never seen either man move so fast, and he might have actually laughed if it hadn’t been for the stranger’s presence.

  The man watched with cold eyes as the two scuttled away. He moved full into the light, his silken robes softly gleaming. “Do you know who I am, boy?” Jack shook his head. “I am Baralis, King’s Chancellor.” The man paused theatrically, giving Jack sufficient time to fully understand the importance of the person who was facing him. “I see by the look on your face that you have at least heard of me.” He smiled. “You are probably a little curious as to what I want of you. Well, I will prolong your wait no longer. Have you heard of a blind scribe?”

  “No, sir.”

  “A blind scribe is a contradiction in terms, for he is not blind, nor does he understand what he sees. I can tell I am confusing you. Let me put it simply. I require someone to spend several hours each day copying manuscripts word for word, sign for sign. Could you do this?”

  “Sir, I have no skill with pen. I have never even held one.”

  “I would have it no other way.” The man who now had a name drew back into the shadows. “Your job is merely to copy. The skill with pen is nothing. Frallit tells me you are a clever boy—you will pick that up in a matter of days.” Jack did not know if he was more amazed at Baralis’ offer or that Frallit had actually spoken well of him.

  “So, Jack, are you willing to do this?” Baralis’ voice was a honeyed spoon.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Excellent. You will start today. Be at my chambers at two hours past noon. I will require your presence for several hours every day. You will not give up your kitchen duties.” Jack could no longer see Baralis; the shadows hooded the man’s face. “One more thing, Jack, and then you may go. I require your complete discretion. I trust you will tell no one of what you do. The master baker will provide you with an alibi if you need one.” Baralis slipped away into the darkness between the brewing vats. There was not a sound to be heard upon his departure.

  Jack was shaking from head to foot. His knees were threatening a mutiny and his arm felt as if it had been keelhauled. He sat down on the cellar floor, suddenly tired and weak. The stone was damp, but the unpleasantness went unnoticed as he wondered about what had happened. Why would the king’s chancellor choose him?

  Coming to the lofty conclusion that the world of grown men made little sense, Jack curled up into a ball and drifted off to sleep.

  It was a perfect morning for a hunt. The first frost of winter hardened the ground underfoot and crisped the undergrowth. The sun provided light but not warmth, and the air was still and clear.

  King Lesketh felt the familiar knot of tension in his stomach that always accompanied the hunt. He welcomed the feeling; it would keep an edge to his judgment and a keenness to his eye. The small party had set off for the forest before dawn and now, as they approached their destination, the horses grew skittish and the hounds barked noisily, eager to begin. The king briefly look
ed over his companions. They were good men, and the fear of the hunt was a bond between them on this fine day: Lords Carvell, Travin, Rolack and Maybor, the houndsmen, and a handful of archers.

  He did not miss the presence of his son. The king had felt relief when Kylock had failed to show at the predawn meet. The boy was turning out to be a brilliant sportsman, but his cruelty toward his prey troubled the king. Kylock would toy with his game, needlessly wounding and dismembering—trying to inflict as much pain as possible before death. More disturbing than that was the effect his son had on those around him. People were guarded and uneasy in the boy’s presence. The hunt would be more joyous in his absence.

  The party waited as the hounds were loosed. Minutes passed as the dogs searched for quarry. The king’s hounds had been specially trained to ignore smaller game such as rabbit and fox. They would only follow the bigger prize: the wild boar, the stag, and the bristled bear. The hunting party waited, tension written on every man’s face, breath whitening in the cold air. Before too long, the baying of the hounds changed and became a savage beckoning. All eyes were on the king. He let out a fierce cry, “To the hunt!” and galloped deep into the forest, his men following him. Sound blasted the air: the thunder of hooves, the blare of horn, and the yelping of hounds.

  The hunt was long and dangerous. It was difficult to maneuver horse around tree and over ditch. The hounds led the party on a twisting path into the heart of the wood. The trees became so dense that the party was often forced to slow down. The king hated to be slowed. The cry of the hounds urged him to go faster, to take risks, to pursue his game at any cost. Lord Rolack was at his flank and threatened to take the lead. Lesketh dug spur into horseflesh and pushed ahead. The men were gaining on the hounds. Over stream and fallen log they leapt, through glade and brush they charged. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, they caught a glimpse of a huge and fast-moving form.