by J. V. Jones
“Here, Grift, something’s going down at the moment, mercenaries in the castle grounds, fighting in the woods. Just this morning I saw a face I hadn’t seen in a long time.”
“Who was that, Bodger?”
“Remember Scarl?”
Grift took a sharp intake of breath. “Scarl. This bodes no good, Bodger. Scarl’s one villainous fox. I wouldn’t care to cross him.”
“Too right, Grift. Last time Scarl was seen in the castle more than one man ended up with his throat slit.”
“If I remember correctly, Bodger, last time he was here, Lord Glayvin met a sticky end.”
“He was the one who refused to sell his pear orchards to Maybor, wasn’t he?”
“Aye, Bodger. His widow had no such compunction, though. After her husband’s death, she sold Maybor those orchards so fast you’d think they’d been riddled with brown worm.”
Maybor decided that this meeting was best held out in the open, away from the listening ears of the court. He had been careful to choose a place in the castle grounds where he and his companion would be undisturbed. Downwind of the middens was just such a spot. Maybor covered his face with a handkerchief to prevent as much of the foul smell from entering his nose as possible. This action also had the added benefit of concealing the greater part of his features.
Maybor watched as the assassin approached. He was a slight man, not strong but rumored to be wiry and quick. No one, it was said, was craftier or more skilled with a blade.
“Well met, friend,” said Maybor.
“I wish you joy of the day, Lord Maybor.” The assassin scanned the area. “You have picked a foul spot in which to meet.”
“ ’Tis a foul deed that needs be done.”
“Whose absence from the world do you seek this time, my lord?” The assassin constantly watched the surroundings, making sure no one approached.
Maybor had no love for mincing words. “I seek the death of Baralis, the king’s chancellor.” Their eyes met and held, it was the assassin who looked away first.
“Lord Maybor, I think you know just how powerful Baralis is. He is more than man; he is said to be a master.”
Maybor didn’t like to think on such things. He tried to convince himself that Baralis’ powers were nothing more than hearsay, but he never quite succeeded—a smidgen of doubt always remained. He wasn’t about to let the assassin know that, though—the man’s price would double if he thought sorcery was involved. “Listen, Scarl, Baralis is not as powerful and all-seeing as everyone thinks. He has his weakness. A keen blade will slit his throat the same as it would any man’s.”
“His chambers will be warded against intruders.”
“That is not my concern. You must evade anyone who blocks your path,” said Maybor, deliberately misinterpreting Scarl’s words. He was damned if the assassin was going to talk openly about sorcery! They both suspected the risks—why add weight to them by giving them air? “It is your job to find the time and place when he is most vulnerable. All I ask is that there be no trail leading back to me.”
“Are you presuming to tell me how to do my job, Maybor?” The assassin spoke lightly, but there was a hint of reproach in his voice.
“No, no. I am anxious that the deed be done. Too long has Baralis held power in the court.” Maybor took a deep breath, forgetting where he was, and his lungs filled with the stench of human waste. He coughed violently, ridding himself of the foul air.
Scarl looked on, a hint of distaste showing upon his clever face. “I do not much like the sound of this commission. There is great risk.”
“Name your price,” uttered Maybor, impatient to be away.
“The price will be high.” The assassin raised a querying eyebrow.
“It is of no matter. I will pay whatever you ask.”
“I have no need of money, Maybor. Well you know I am paid a good price for my work. No, I seek a little something for my retirement.”
“Yes, yes, name it.”
“I want land, Maybor. I fancy growing apples when I’m older.”
Maybor did not like the sound of this; nothing was more precious to him than his land. “I will give you two hundred gold pieces,” he countered.
“No.” The assassin moved away as he spoke. “No, Maybor, I would have land in payment, or I shall take my skills elsewhere.”
Maybor relented. “Very well, I will give a stretch of land in the north. I have thirty acres outside Jesson that you can have.”
“Apples grow better in the east,” said the assassin.
“I cannot think why you would want land in the east with the war against the Halcus still raging.”
“Wars of man come and go. Land endures.”
Maybor relented. “So be it. I will give you twenty acres of orchards in the east.”
“You would give me thirty in the north,” replied the assassin, once again stepping away.
“Very well. I will give you your thirty acres. But you will not see a blade of grass until I have proof you have done your job.”
The assassin nodded. “I think we have reached a fair agreement. I will take the commission.”
“Good. Is there anything I can do to facilitate this undertaking?” Lord Maybor received the answer he hoped for.
“No. I must find my own way. A good murder can often be an act of great inspiration. I prefer to work alone.” With that the assassin bowed neatly to Maybor and was off. Maybor forced himself to wait for the passing of a few minutes and then followed in the assassin’s footsteps. He was eager to be free of the smell of decay.
Melli spotted the dove on her waking. It was high in a tree. It seemed to her to be a sign of hope, and she was glad of its presence.
She had spent a surprisingly comfortable night. She had found a peaceful glade and wrapped herself warmly in blankets. The mossy floor was soft and springy, and she woke refreshed and hungry. Her horse had found its own food and was slowly chewing at a patch of grass. She wished there was something different for her to eat than just pork and dry-bread.
She thought to monitor the direction of the sun, for she still intended to head east. The sun, however, was not on show. The sky was bleakly gray, and she realized she would soon need to find shelter, for the clouds held promise of rain. Melli had scant protection from the rain: the blanket that served as her cloak was not oiled and water could easily soak through. Suddenly she had an inspiration: she could use the heavy sack that contained her supplies as cover. The fabric was woven, but its coarse and prickly thread promised more protection than her woolen blanket.
Melli emptied the contents out of the sack. Then, taking the small but sharp fish-boning knife that Master Trout had so thoughtfully packed, she cut holes in the bottom and the sides of the sack. She secured her blanket around her chest and then slipped the sack over her head, sliding her arms through the side holes. It was a perfect fit, covering her body to below her knees. She burst into laughter—how silly she must look. What would Master Trout say if he saw what had become of his sack?
She reveled in the sound of her own laughter, skipping gaily around the glade, making mock curtsies to imagined ladies of the court. “Yes, Lady Fiandrell, this is all the rage in Rorn. I had the materials brought in from beyond the drylands. But, if I do say so myself, the expense was well worth it.” Melli had now succumbed to a wild fit of giggles as she imagined herself at court, dressed in a sack.
Her old horse looked up, attracted by the sound of her laughter. “What are you looking at?” she shouted. “I won’t be the one who gets wet when it rains.”
Melli took a guess at where she thought the sky looked a little lighter and headed off in that direction, munching on a piece of drybread. Her belongings she had made into a neat package with the help of the second blanket. As she walked, she considered names for her horse: he wouldn’t suit a romantic name like Goldarrow, nor a military name like Warrior. He needed a simple name like Pippin or Brownie. Only she didn’t like either of those.
“
I’m afraid you’re destined to be the horse without a name,” she said, patting the creature’s back. One thing was certain: she had no intention of riding again without a saddle. The experience had proved to be most uncomfortable and her thighs chafed sorely as a reminder.
As she walked, her thoughts turned to her lost companion, Jack. She fervently hoped that he had not encountered her pursuers. He may have abandoned her, but she bore him no ill will. She even wished that he was still with her, for she didn’t like the idea of traveling alone with only a fish-gutting knife for protection. In the space of two days she had been robbed and violated. What will be next? she wondered, for everyone knew that trouble came in threes.
Eventually the rain started, and Melli led her horse on a route that promised as much protection as possible. She headed toward the most dense forest she could see, thankful for the trees’ broad branches, as they prevented some of the rain from falling upon her. She sang a few songs to keep her spirits up and tried not to think too much about the future.
Tavalisk was eating one of his favorite delicacies: raw oysters. It was oyster season in Rorn, and their supply was plentiful. Tavalisk, however, would eat no common oyster. His were brought in fresh each day from the cold seas of Toolay. The expense of such an endeavor did not concern him; it would be borne by the church. After all, he thought, an archbishop deserves whatever meager pleasures life affords.
Tavalisk prised open another shell with an expert hand and sprinkled vinegar over the milky creature, noting with pleasure the faint shudder as vinegar touched oyster flesh. The shudder was a sign of a healthy, live oyster. He cupped the half shell up to his lips and savored with relish the sensation of oyster in his mouth. He was careful not to puncture the creature with his sharp teeth. He liked to swallow them alive and whole. With displeasure, he heard a knock on the door. Why must that fool Gamil always come while he was eating?
“Yes. What is it?” he asked, careful to keep his voice sounding bored and indulgent.
“I thought you might like to know what our friend the knight has been up to.” Tavalisk ignored his aide while he opened another shell. He could tell straight away the oyster was bad: it had a grayish bloom to its skin.
“Would you care for an oyster, Gamil?” he said, proffering the unsavory creature to his aide. Gamil looked rather astounded; Tavalisk never offered him food. He was obliged to accept the morsel and swallowed it quickly, making an unpleasant slurping noise.
“Now, wasn’t that delicious?” The archbishop smiled with benign indulgence. “I have them brought in from Toolay, you know.” Gamil nodded in agreement. “You were saying about the knight?” Tavalisk opened yet another oyster.
“Yes, Your Eminence. The knight visited Frong Street yesterday and went into The Grapes, where he bought a long-knife.”
“Very good, Gamil. Is he showing his circles?”
“No, the marks were concealed beneath his cloak.”
“He is wise to keep them hidden; the people of Rorn have no love for the knights of Valdis.” Tavalisk allowed himself the smallest of smiles, parting his lips just enough to reveal the glint of teeth. “I think I’ve made sure of that. Though their hatred needs little prompting at the moment. The knights paint themselves as religious fanatics, but what they’re really after is trade, not conversions.” He poured a clear, heavy liquid into his cup. “Anything else?”
“One more thing. The knight was asking about Larn.”
Tavalisk, who had been about to drink from his cup, put it down quickly. “Larn. What was he asking about Larn for?”
“I can’t say, Your Eminence.”
“If I remember rightly, that old fool Bevlin has no love for Larn. He tried to put a stop to what went on there once. Of course, he failed miserably. Larn is not a place to suffer interference gladly.” Tavalisk paused while he toyed with his cup. “Perhaps he’s using the knight to mount a second offensive. He really should keep to his books and prophecies—he’s far too old to be indulging in moral causes.”
The archbishop turned to Gamil. “You may go now. You’ve made me lose my appetite with all this talk of Larn.” Gamil obediently withdrew. As soon as the door was closed, Tavalisk immediately returned to his oysters, his eyes scanning them greedily for the biggest.
Tawl was out on the streets of Rorn again. When he returned to Megan the previous night, he had questioned her about the Seers of Larn, but she had never heard of them. Today he was determined to do two things: first, he wanted to build up the strength in his muscles by walking several leagues, and second, he was going to find someone to tell him about Larn.
The crowds were still out on the street, but there were not nearly as many as the day before. What people there were seemed pale and drawn, heavy drinking and overindulgence stealing the spring from their step.
Tawl was feeling a lot better. His arms and wrists were slowly recovering and his legs were feeling stronger. His training as a knight had left a legacy of physical resilience that even now, five years later, could still be drawn upon. With concentration, he could control the blood flow into his muscles, swelling the arteries, making the tissue supple and ready for action. Tawl found that this technique, taught to be used in preparation for battle, was helping his damaged muscles recover their strength more quickly.
His training seemed far behind him now. He was a different person than the young, idealistic boy who’d presented himself at the gates of Valdis so many years before. There was hope, then, and dreams and the thrill of achievement.
During his first year at Valdis, the emphasis had been on physical strength. Novices were set a series of tasks to test and develop their skills of endurance. Tawl was sent into the Great Divide with only a knife at his side. He was lucky; some before him were caught in blizzards and never came back. Two months it took him to reach the mountain shrine. Even now he could remember the terrible cold, his hair stiff with ice, the saliva freezing on his teeth. The shrine was set upon the second tallest peak in the Known Lands. It was a symbol, and to meditate in its barren chamber was essential for gaining the first circle.
When he returned to Valdis, flushed with pride at his success, they sent him out again, this time to search the length of the milk flats. Pride was not tolerated at Valdis.
The milk flats, which were located south of Leiss, were deceptively named. They were formed from white porous rock and were flat when viewed from a distance, but up close they were a maze of tunnels and sinkholes. The rock was as brittle as old bones: one wrong step, one sudden rain shower, or even the smallest of earth tremors, could lead to death. Tawl was ordered to bring back a knight who’d gone to the flats in search of Borc’s sword. Nothing lived on the sterile rocks. Night and day were cruel masters: the sun was merciless and the moon cold-hearted. Close to starvation and madness, he eventually found the body. The knight had slit his own throat. Before he died, he etched the words es nil hesrl into the face of the rock. I am not worthy.
To a knight of Valdis the only thing that mattered was to be worthy. It was what all the training, all the learning, all the searching was for.
Tawl looked back on his time as a novice with mixed feelings. The first circle had brought him renown. He’d surpassed all others in the art of swordplay, though before his training he’d never even handled a sword. He’d gained the shrine in two months, when most took over three. And then there was the body, carried home from the milk flats on his back. Valdis liked to bury its own.
Renown brought resentment, and his first conferment had been marked by subtle tensions. He was called too young, too common, too favored.
The second circle brought derision. He had no learning; the only book he’d ever read was Marod. Yet after gaining his first circle, he was thrown into the company of men of culture. It was a struggle to master the classic texts, to learn the great histories, to speak in foreign tongues. He was constantly shown for what he was: a lowly boy from the marshlands. Most of the knights came from the nobility; they had manner and bearing
and speech on their side, and they never once let him forget that he wasn’t one of them.
Tawl had gone through a hundred different humiliations: he didn’t know how to bow, how to dress, how to speak with great lords. It made him more determined than ever to learn their ways—not because he wanted to be what they were, but to prove that any man could be a knight. If it hadn’t been for their taunting, he wouldn’t have gained his second circle so fast—at least he had that to be thankful for.
He did have some friends, good men who’d been like brothers. Once he got his second circle and was free to go out in the world, they’d planned to go on a journey together, beyond the drylands in search of sacred treasures. But it all changed. Everything changed when he came home to visit his family. His life had been forever altered and now only the quest remained.
Tawl walked aimlessly through the streets of Rorn, searching out diversions. When his thoughts circled too closely around his family, he became desperate to change their path. Women, with their ability to give so tenderly of themselves, could usually lead his body to a place where his mind would follow. And if he’d been in a different city, he might have gone in search of some comfort. Megan was here in Rorn, though, and she’d done so much and asked so little that the least he owed her was fidelity.
Tawl chose streets that were bright with people, seeking out distractions where he could. Eventually he found himself heading down to the harbor. The smell of the sea was sharp but not unpleasant. Tawl found his spirits reviving with each salty breath.
Rorn was the greatest trading city in the east: rare spices, exquisite silks, fabulous gemstones, and fresh seafood all found their way through the great port. Rorn’s main source of income came from trade. The terrain to the north of the city was both rocky and barren, and Rorn grew no crops, or reared no livestock to speak of. The city owed its prosperity to the fortunate trade winds which gently drew ships from all the Known Lands to its safe harbors.
The harbor was large, spread over several leagues of seafront. Tawl enjoyed the brisk, salty air. It made a change from the smell of decay in the whoring quarter.