The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  He made his way down to the queen’s chamber. Once he arrived at the beautifully carved door, he knocked loudly. He was not a man to meekly tap. He waited for several seconds and was about to knock again when the queen’s voice rang out coldly: “Enter.”

  Baralis stepped into the great room. The walls were hung with exquisite silken tapestries; chairs and benches were upholstered in the richest of fabrics, worked with gold and silver thread. The queen issued an unspoken insult by not turning to greet him as he entered. He was forced to address the back of her head: “I wish Your Highness great joy of the day.”

  She whirled around quickly. “I have no wish to exchange pleasantries with you, Lord Baralis. Say quickly what you will and then leave.”

  Baralis remained unruffled by the queen’s venom. “I have a gift for Your Highness.”

  “I want no gift from you, Baralis, save your quick withdrawal.” She was beautiful in her aloofness, her back straight and noble, her profile cool as marble.

  “The gift is more for your husband, the king, than for yourself.” Baralis watched with amusement as a flicker of interest crossed the queen’s brow. She worked quickly to conceal it.

  “What could you have that would be of interest to the king? You tire me, Lord Baralis. Please withdraw from my presence.” The queen was indeed a fine actress. Baralis found himself admiring her.

  “Your Highness, this gift of which we speak will do more than interest the king. It may very well help him.”

  “How will it help him, Lord Baralis?” The queen’s voice was scathing. “The king is not so ill that he would need your help.”

  “Oh, Your Highness.” Baralis shook his head with mock sympathy. “We both know the king is seriously ill and is only getting worse. These past five years since the unfortunate hunting incident, he has deteriorated visibly. All the court is deeply saddened by his decline.”

  “How dare you speak so of the king!” The queen drew close, and for a brief instant he thought she would strike him. Her blue eyes met his: he could smell her, the subtle fragrance stirring up memories in his breast. Unsettled by his nearness, she took a single step back. “I cannot bear your presence an instant longer. Be gone now!” She spoke the last words in a fury and Baralis obligingly withdrew.

  As he walked the distance back to his chamber, there was a suggestion of a smile upon his thin lips. Things had gone very well. The queen had, of course, been most proud and indignant—he had expected no less. She had failed to hide her interest, though, and the bait had been taken. All that remained for him to do now was to wait for her inevitable summons. Proud she might well be, but she would regret her hasty words and would soon seek him out, demanding to know the nature of the gift.

  It seemed that every person who lived in the huge city of Rorn was out on the streets. People were drinking and dancing and gathering in groups to exchange pleasantries and gossip. Buildings had been hung with brightly colored banners, and flowers were strewn amongst the filth on the streets.

  Vendors cried their wares, proclaiming fresh apples or hot pies or cool ale. Children ran unchecked through the crowds, and old women found the shade. Young girls wore dresses cut so low that their breasts seemed ready to spill out. Indeed, some voluptuous curves did—to the great delight of the men, who watched lecherously as the unfortunate girls tucked their bounty back beneath their bodices.

  It was the greatest day of the year for the city. The annual festival attracted scores of people from many leagues away. There would be a huge parade, exotic performers, great singers, and amazing fireworks displays. The city would feast and frolic for three days. These three days were the single biggest event of the pickpockets’ year.

  Thousands of people on the streets, money in their pockets, their minds dulled by drink. Why, the pickings were so rich and easy that the pickpockets almost bemoaned the loss of their art. It wasn’t a skill to take a purse from a man who was pickled in ale—it was child’s play. Still, there were proceedings to be followed even on these three idyllic days of plenty. It wouldn’t do for a ’pocket to encroach upon another’s turf. Not if he valued his life. For Rorn, like all other cities, was controlled by an established system of extortion and corruption.

  ’Pockets, cutthroats, thieves, prostitutes, con men, they all lived in fear of the men who ran the city. These men collected their dues, and they in turn answered to one man. The man who ran the crime in Rorn was without face or name. He was known simply as “the Old Man.” Tales of the Old Man’s power and influence abounded in the city. It was said that not a thing happened on the streets or in the taverns that he did not know about. If a whore was overcharging, he knew it; if a trader loaded his scales, he knew by how much; if a thief robbed a house, he knew the value of what was taken down to the last tin spoon. Rorn was said to be riddled with his spies and informants, and it was rumored that he had friends in the highest of places.

  For today, at least, people forgot about the darker side of life in the city. The festival had begun and the people of Rorn were determined to celebrate.

  Tawl was jostled and pushed by the heaving crowds. He had not liked the idea of coming out today, but Megan had been insistent that he stretch his legs and get some fresh air. He was pleasantly surprised by how his body responded. He had always been physically strong, but he hadn’t expected his muscles to be so resilient. He was weak, yet already he could feel his blood pumping through his flesh, bringing new life to tissue and tendon.

  After his months of confinement, he was alarmed by the size and noise of the crowds. He was sure he’d never seen so many people in his entire life.

  Megan had given him six silver pieces with which to buy a knife. She had told him the saying that in Rorn, a man without a weapon is a man without a future. Tawl had disliked taking her money, and he suspected it was her last. But he needed a weapon of some sort before he risked leaving the city, so he had accepted, swearing one day to pay it back.

  He was surprised to find his unusual attire seemed to fit right in with the mood of the festival. In fact, his clothes seemed modest in comparison to what some were wearing. The men of Rorn paraded like peacocks in bright leggings and tunics, and the women wore shawls in the colors of the rainbow. As he walked through the streets, he noticed the advance of a great parade. People on horse and foot were bedecked in fabulous costumes, and the crowd made way to let the parade pass.

  He didn’t take great interest in the parade at first; he had no love of jugglers and tumblers. Then, after a while, horns sounded and the crowd grew quiet as a huge man on a massive horse rode through their ranks. A noticeable hush fell upon the people as they looked in awe upon the august figure of the rider. The man was dressed all in white and was adorned in fabulous jewels: bracelets, rings and necklaces, all sparkling with harsh luster in the bright sunshine. He even wore a crown. There was something about the man’s fleshy profile that was familiar to Tawl.

  Instinctively he slipped deep within the crowds, searching out shadow as the rider passed. He watched from a distance as the man rode by. Tawl was certain that he was the same person who had supervised his torture. He turned to a young boy standing nearby and asked, “Who is the man in white?”

  The boy gave Tawl a disgusted look and retorted, “Why that’s the archbishop. Every fool knows that.” He then gave Tawl a kinder look and added, “I suppose you’re from out of town.” Tawl nodded and moved on.

  He headed toward the tavern which Megan had recommended for knife buying. He was feeling weak and his eyes were still not accustomed to the bright of day. As he neared his destination, he came upon yet another crowd of people. They were gathered around a handsome and brightly dressed young man. Tawl could tell from the red tassels on his hat that the man was a fortune-teller.

  “Yes, madam,” the man was saying with dramatic flourish, “I can see that your daughter longs for another child. Tell her to offer a prayer up to the goddess Huska and her wishes will be granted.” The crowd moaned in approval. The fortune
-teller moved on to the next person, taking his hand and looking enigmatically toward the heavens.

  “Sir, you are a man in need of money.” Tawl could not help but smile. Show me a man who is not in need of money, he thought. After a pause for theatrical effect, the fortune-teller continued, “You will find seven gold pieces under the floor of your house.”

  “Whereabouts?” asked the man.

  “But two steps away from your door,” said the fortune-teller, his voice gaining an edge of boredom, as if to say he was too important to be concerned with specific details. “You, madam,” he called as a woman was about to leave the group. She came forward and he took her hand, once more looking to the sky. “I see a great future for you.” He closed his eyes, as if receiving divine guidance. “I see that you will become dressmaker to a queen.” The crowd applauded with admiration as the woman informed them that she did indeed do a little sewing on the side.

  Tawl prepared to move on, but the fortune-teller stopped him. “You, sir!” Tawl had no intention of moving forward, so he shook his head and stepped away. The fortune-teller was too fast for him and caught his arm. The man squeezed his hand and looked to the heavens. “You sir, are searching for a boy.” Tawl’s face remained impassive. The fortune-teller continued. “You will not find him in this city. You need to visit the Seers of Larn—they will tell you where he is.” Tawl’s eyes met briefly with those of the fortune-teller and then the man was off.

  “Madam, give me your hand. You are a widow in need of a husband. . . .”

  Tawl walked away, rubbing his chin as he reflected upon what the fortune-teller had said. He’d never heard of Larn or its seers. He tried hard to dismiss the incident as mere fancy or trickery, but as he walked the tawdy streets, it weighed heavily on his mind and he decided he’d find out more about Larn.

  He soon came upon the tavern Megan had named and slipped inside, glad to be free of the noise and the crowds. He settled himself in a dark corner and was relieved to take the weight off his still weak legs. A sour-faced girl approached him. “What d’you want?” she asked, making no show of welcome.

  “I’ll take a cup of ale.” The girl was obviously affronted at being asked for such a meager service. She huffed away, returned much later with a cup of flat and watery ale. “Before you leave, could you tell me if Tucker is here?”

  “Who’s askin’?”

  “A friend of Megan’s.” The girl withdrew to the back room. Several minutes passed and eventually a man emerged. He looked critically toward Tawl and then approached him.

  He wasted no time with greetings. “What do you want?” The light from the window did the man no favors; it highlighted the depths of the pock marks on his cheeks.

  “I need a knife.”

  “What sort?”

  “A long-knife.” Tawl was hoping he had enough money to make a purchase. He suspected the price of such goods in Rorn would be high.

  “Cost you ten silvers.”

  “We won’t be doing business, then.” Tawl motioned to leave. His bluff paid off.

  “Eight silvers,” countered the man.

  “Six.”

  “Done.” The man headed to the back and returned minutes later with a long-knife, which he drew from within his coat. Tawl was surprised to see it was a remarkably fine knife. Undoubtedly contraband. The two men exchanged money and goods, and Tawl headed toward the door.

  “By the way,” he asked, “have you ever heard of Larn?” The man gave him a warning look and then shook his head.

  Tawl got the distinct feeling the man knew something but would not say. He stepped out into the bright sunlight and headed back toward Megan’s. The fortune-teller had planted a fertile seed, and Tawl was determined to find someone who could tell him about Larn and its seers.

  Jack had watched as Melli sped not an arm’s length away from him. She had neither seen nor heard him. He listened to the approach of the mounted men and quickly turned in the direction from which he had come. There was nothing he could do to help his companion now, but he took some comfort in the fact that she was at least on horseback. To his untrained eye, Melli had appeared to be an expert horsewoman.

  He ran as fast as his long legs would take him; over bracken and fallen log he raced, his breath coming fast and heavy. As he looked back to check on his pursuers, he misplaced a step and his ankle twisted painfully. He fell forward onto the damp floor of the forest. He struggled to his feet and attempted to put his weight on his leg, but the ankle could not bear it. “Damn!” he whispered, half in pain, half in anger. He knew he would have to hide now, for he had no chance of outrunning his pursuers with a twisted ankle.

  He made a quick scan of the terrain and his eye spotted a low ditch. He hobbled as fast as he could and flung himself into the trench. It was not very pleasant; fungus clung grimly to the sides and at the bottom lay cold, foul-smelling water. He still felt he was too exposed and lay down in the icy wetness, covering himself in a blanket of wet, dead leaves. The water stole through his cloak and breeches, chilling him to the bone.

  As he waited he couldn’t help feeling a little ashamed—Melli was being chased by Baralis’ men while he crouched in a ditch like a coward.

  There was no doubt in Jack’s mind that Baralis was behind the chase. If anyone in the castle knew anything of sorcery it was the king’s chancellor. It was widely murmured that the man dabbled in the ancient arts; however, he was so powerful that no one dared mention it aloud, let alone challenge him about it. A breath of revelation passed through Jack—he’d felt it. Looking back on his time scribing, there had been instances when he’d felt sick and head sore. Up until now he’d dismissed it as a result of eyestrain and late nights, but the sensation was akin to what he’d felt yesterday morning. Baralis had practiced sorcery and somehow he had perceived its use. Jack recalled many instances of nausea, and whenever he’d seen Baralis the same day, the man usually looked pale and weak.

  Excitement over his discovery quickly turned to worry: all it had done was confirm that he wasn’t normal.

  The thing Jack wanted most in life was to be normal, to be able to walk through the castle without someone calling him a bastard. He wanted a father like everyone else, and a mother who no one called a whore. He wanted to be on the same footing as legitimate offspring and have the same sense of belonging. Now, more than ever, it seemed impossible.

  He could move to the east and become a baker’s apprentice. But the best he could hope for would be to conceal his past. He wouldn’t lie. No. When someone asked about his parents, and they surely would, it would be an insult to himself and his mother to make up stories about a life he’d never had.

  Jack shivered violently, chilled to the bone. It seemed there would be no easy option for him. Wherever he went, he would be an outsider. The incident yesterday had merely sealed his fate. The sooner he accepted that and stopped dreaming about finding his mother’s family and being welcomed with open arms as a long lost relative, the better. He had to deal in realities. The ditch was a reality, the loaves were a reality, and he would never be more than a bastard.

  He settled down in the cold water and listened to the progress of the mounted men. Before long he felt the ground tremble as some of their number drew near to his hiding place. Judging from the sound of hooves, they were only few in number. He heard them slow down and then shout to each other. They spoke with accents unfamiliar to Jack’s ears.

  “You said the boy ran this way.”

  “He did. I’m sure of it.”

  “He can’t have gone far. You head over there and we’ll take this path. Go now and hurry.” Jack heard one horse gallop off. The two remaining riders were quiet for some time. Jack imagined them to be listening very carefully. He lay as still as he could manage, hardly daring to breathe. Eventually the two riders were off. Only when they had run a fair distance did Jack feel safe to breathe again.

  He decided not to risk moving, unpleasant though his circumstances were. His ankle was throbbing, bu
t more distressing was the slow chill of the water upon his skin. He noticed a slight pressure under his left leg and tentatively felt for the cause of it. It was something furry. Jack could risk no further movement but was now sure that the foul smell in the ditch was due to the decomposing carcass of a small animal.

  Jack hoped it wasn’t a rat. He was afraid of rats. The one thing he’d hated most about his job with Frallit was going to the storeroom for the flour. As soon as he opened the door, he would hear the sound of rats scurrying. He always gave them a few moments to hide before bringing his lantern forward, not wanting to see their fleshy legs and tails. Even with the lantern ahead of him, there were always some rats who defied its light and carried on feeding. Those were the worst—their beady eyes cold with defiance. Jack had kicked one once, and its bones crunched against the wall. The next day when he entered the storeroom, there were a score of rats feeding upon the carcass. There had been something else, too dark to make out; its teeth glinted for an instant, then it was gone.

  Master Frallit gave him a beating over the incident. “Live rats are bad enough,” he said, “but dead ones attract the devil.”

  According to Frallit, there were no end of things that attracted the devil. Long hair and daydreaming were two of his favorites. Jack knew the master baker said such things just to bully him, but he wasn’t about to take any chances over a dead rat.

  He scrambled out of the ditch. His clothes were soaked in mud, and he shivered as the wind picked up. As he limped deeper into the wood, his thoughts were with Melli: he hoped she had not been caught instead of him.

  “There’s a good boy.” Melli’s horse reluctantly stepped into the flow. Her pursuers were only feet away. She ignored their approach as she coaxed her mount to cross the stream. The horse was now up to his fetlocks in icy water. “Good boy, good boy.” She spoke more to comfort herself than the horse. The creature stumbled a little as he found his footing on the rocky streambed. “It’s all right, boy,” she whispered gently.