by J. V. Jones
With haste, he sprinkled the poison on the shoulders and neck of the robes. He then beat a quick retreat. He knew just how deadly the poison was and he had no intention of being in a small room with the lethal fumes for an instant longer than necessary.
Pleased that the task was done to his satisfaction, he slipped out of the chamber and returned to his own rooms by the same indirect route he had used coming.
The assassin was not unduly worried that he’d lost Lord Baralis when he slipped into the passageways. Baralis was probably spying on someone, or up to some other ill deed. That no longer concerned him. What did concern Scarl were his plans for this night.
Tonight he would make his move, carry out his commission. The assassin had thought long and hard over how best to do his job and had finally decided on carrying it out on the night of the Winter’s Eve dance. The great banquet hall would be crowded with people, all drinking and eating. Baralis would not dare to bring his servant Crope to such a grand event.
The assassin had found, on his many explorations of the labyrinth, a passage that led to a small antechamber just off the banquet hall. It would be easy for him to slip into the hall, unnoticed amid all the drunken revelry and watch his mark.
The assassin knew Baralis’ ways well: he was not a man who liked to keep in the forefront; eventually he would retire to a remote corner to better observe the foibles of his fellows. Then, as Baralis watched with studied boredom, the assassin would make his move. The great lord would barely feel the touch of the knife before he fell dead to the floor. Scarl would return to the passage before anyone noticed what had happened.
The assassin was beginning to feel the familiar knot of excitement in his stomach which always accompanied the time leading up to his task. He was eager that it be done, and anxious that it be done right. He did not doubt his own skills—he was the best with a knife in the Known Lands—but he did worry in case anything should go wrong. Still, he had never failed before and he had a fine plan.
It really was a most beautiful plan. To carry out a murder in a room full of people would actually be a lot easier than it seemed. He would wait until such a time when the crowd’s reactions were dulled by drink; no one would notice a shadowy figure move about the room. In addition to the plan’s other merits, Lord Maybor would be in full sight of the room, and so no guilt would fall upon him.
Scarl considered Lord Maybor—he did not trust him. It was true that Maybor had paid willingly in the past for his services, but the assassin had seen something in the lord’s face when they had met last that boded no good. The assassin would be wary. He had taken a risk by not requesting his payment in gold—for if he had been paid in the traditional manner he would by now have half his fee in his keeping. As it was, he had nothing more than a promise from Lord Maybor to deed him some land after the job was done. He sincerely hoped that Maybor would not try and renege on his word . . . that would be most unfortunate—most unfortunate, indeed.
These matters the assassin put to the back of his mind; he would deal with such difficulties when and if they arose. For today and tonight he would need his complete concentration for the task in hand. Almost as a reflex, Scarl took his knife from his belt. He ran his finger lightly over the blade; the subtle motion drew blood. The assassin was well pleased at the sight: his blade had never been keener.
Jack was heading east through the forest. He was making a good pace; sometimes he even broke into a short run, his sack banging against his side. He had never felt more free in his life. It was a joy to him to be in the woods running at his own speed. All his life he had been at the beck and call of others: Master Frallit, the head cellarer, Lord Baralis. Now, for the first time he was experiencing what it was like to do things when he wanted, to eat when he was hungry and to sleep when he was tired.
He was light-headed with freedom. He owed so much to Falk. Thanks to him, he didn’t feel that what he’d done to the loaves was evil. Now, with time and the goodness of nature to give perspective, Jack realized Falk was right: he hadn’t intended to do anything bad. All he’d felt the morning of the loaves was worried. A worried man was not necessarily an evil one.
Still, he had done it. He couldn’t hide from it. In fact, part of him didn’t want to. It made him different, and he no longer felt the overpowering need to be the same as everyone else. A thought drifted through his mind, and when he realized its importance, he spoke out loud: “I might have inherited it.” Whatever it was that he had—power, sorcery, magic—he could have got from his parents.
Falk had led him to believe that his mother had not been afraid for herself but for him. What if she’d been afraid for both of them? If she’d had any similar power, she would have needed to keep it hidden in order to continue living in Harvell. If only she’d taken him into her confidence. But had he really given her the chance? He had been too young, too keen to be out at play when all she wanted to do was sit by the fire and talk.
Jack wished Falk was with him; he would know if magic, like hazel eyes and large feet, could be passed down in the blood.
It was really quite unbelievable: he, a baker’s boy—and, according to Frallit, not a particularly good one at that—had somehow managed to change the natural order of things. He felt no differently—perhaps a little wiser since his visit with Falk, but for the most part he was unchanged. He was still unsure what to do with his life; various ideas warred in his mind, and depending on his mood he either wanted to search for his mother’s family, settle down to be a baker in an eastern town, or wander through the world finding adventures as they took him, ideas of revenge against his father, which Falk had so shrewdly guessed at, were not something he would let govern his life.
For today, though, he was content to be out in the forest. Decisions were for the future. The food was good, the ground was firm, and time, at last, was his own.
He began to feel a chill once more, and broke into another run to keep himself warm. He leapt over ditches and fallen logs, dodging trees and trampling the undergrowth. When he finally stopped, his feet were a little sore. The boots that Falk had given him were not a very good fit; he was grateful as they kept his feet warm and dry, but they pinched at his toes. He’d always had a problem with shoes and clothing, everything was always too small, and he’d become accustomed to tying his jerkins with string and cutting holes in his boots for his toes.
Breathless, Jack fell to the ground. Hungry as ever, he decided upon a bite to eat. He cut himself a slice of venison and chose an apple to round it off. He dreamt of where he would go: there was Annis, the jewel of the north, beautiful and proud; Highwall, austere and majestic; or Bren, powerful beyond measure. Jack took a hearty bite of his apple. There was only one choice that seemed right, one city where he felt he needed to go. He would head to Bren.
The noise was unclear at first, masked by the apple crunching against his teeth. He swallowed quickly and concentrated. Jack’s stomach churned with fear as he recognized the sound of horses galloping in the distance. Baralis had come for him! It had been so long, he’d thought himself safe. Quickly, he searched for somewhere to conceal himself. The surrounding land was flat and without bush—just the thin trunks of tall trees. Jack grabbed his sack and started to run.
The horses were drawing closer. He decided his best course would be to run toward a distant rise. He was already short of breath, but forced himself to run further. The horses were almost upon him and he dived to the ground, hoping the riders would not spot him. The cold earth echoed with the thunder of hooves. He was now able to see the riders as they raced through the trees: they were the same men he had last encountered, only this time there were more.
He thought he might go undetected, for he had managed to clear the riders’ path, and they were obviously headed in a specific direction. However, the first rider shouted something and the troop slowed down. Jack tried to make his body as flat as possible against the ground. The first man had now dismounted and was examining the undergrowth. He bent down a
nd picked something up and showed it to the others. At first Jack could not see what it was, then he realized the slice of venison and the apple had been left behind when he had fled. He cursed his stupidity—his brain was as addled as crumpets!
The mercenaries were now looking in his direction. Running, he had probably left tracks. Jack became weak with fear. Should he stay where he was or should he at least try to outrun the men? He didn’t feel comfortable hiding—the need for action was upon him. Grabbing a tight hold on his sack, he jumped up and started to run. As he fled, he heard the shout of the armed men as they spied him in the distance. With speed born of desperation, Jack ran like the wind.
He led the men on a fine chase, heading for the most dense part of the forest, knowing that it would be his only chance of escape. As he ran, he heard the leader call to spread out. They were gaining on him. Jack hurled himself onward, trees and bushes becoming dim blurs. One thought consumed his mind: he must escape. One of the riders drew abreast of Jack and another was at his heels. He tried to swerve away, running for a narrow gap between two trees.
He felt the net descend upon him. The nearest rider had thrown a webbed rope over him, and his feet became tangled in it. He fell to the ground, still struggling forward, trying to free himself. Frantic, he worked to free his legs, pulling hard at the coarse rope. Just as he had managed to kick himself free, the armed men descended upon him. They had dismounted and were brandishing spear and sword.
“Don’t move, boy,” warned the leader, “or you’ll feel a spear through your leg.” Jack froze on the spot. “I can see you’re a smart one. Bind him up, boys. I’m taking no chances this time.” Two of the armed men approached Jack, one of them aiming a violent kick at his kidneys.
“Steady on, boys, we wouldn’t want to do anything that would upset Lord Baralis.” The men looked suitably cowed. “Besides, if we bring him back in good shape, we might get a bonus. Lord Baralis ain’t expecting us to find the boy. I reckon it’ll be extra gold all around.” The leader surveyed his men. “So let’s not blow it by roughing the lad up, all right?”
Jack was doubled up with pain; the kick had been well placed. The two men bound his wrists and ankles with leather strips, pulling the bindings so tight that Jack winced as they snagged his skin.
“Throw him over the back of the extra mare, and make sure he can’t wriggle off. We’ve got a long ride ahead of us, and I don’t want him going anywhere.” Jack was slung over a large horse and bound to it with thick rope.
“Are we going to head back to the castle, Traff, or find the girl?” asked another of the men.
Traff, the leader, considered for a moment. “We go on and find the girl.” The men mounted their horses, and with Jack as their captive, rode on into the forest heading southeast.
Maybor had just enjoyed a glass of lobanfern red as was his habit before dressing for a big occasion. He was a little worried as to why the queen had requested an audience with him the following day, but he told himself it was probably to establish a specific day for the betrothal. Time was becoming short. He must have his daughter found in the next day or so, or all would be lost.
The first effects of the sweet wine were beginning to make themselves felt and Maybor turned his thoughts to less worrying details. What would he wear? The queen and all the highest nobles would be in attendance at the dance, so he must look his most magnificent. His mind sorted through his wardrobe. It must be something red, he thought. But more than red, it must have gold embroidery and tassels and jewels. His wealth would be the envy of the court on this auspicious night.
“Crandle!” he shouted to his latest servant. The meek Crandle entered the room of the great lord.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Fetch me my robe. I would dress for this evening.”
“Which one, lord?”
“The red with the golden embroidery and the pearls. I would look like a king on this fair eve.” Crandle went off to find the robe in question. Some minutes later, he returned with the requested robe in one hand and a dead rat in the other.
“What is this!” boomed Maybor, motioning to the rat.
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know how it got into your wardrobe, but it seems to have died before it did any harm.” Maybor was not at all pleased with the idea of a rat, dead or otherwise, in his precious wardrobe.
“You fool!” He searched his mind for a suitably threatening punishment. “If this happens again, I will have your ears torn off.” His servant looked acceptably contrite, and Maybor regained some of his good humor. “Very well, Crandle, help me dress. I don’t think I’ll bother bathing—that sort of beautification is for dandies and priests.”
The servant helped Maybor from his robes. “Be careful, you idiot!” cried Maybor as Crandle accidentally stepped on his foot. “Or I will have your toes pulled off as well as your ears.”
* * *
Melli was once again being laced into the tight, red dress. She was not at all pleased when the sallow-faced Keddi gave the lacings one last strong pull, for it had the effect of pushing her breasts up so high she was sure if she as much as breathed deeply they would pop out.
“Keddi, what has become of my own dress?” she demanded.
“Mistress Greal said to throw it out, said as she didn’t want you wearing no drab, cover-up dress while you were here.”
“Keddi, I will not be here past today. I fully intend on leaving this town tomorrow and I will leave it wearing my own dress. Now run along and find it for me.” The girl rushed out, and some minutes later Mistress Greal entered the room.
“Your old dress has been torn apart for rags. You’ve got no choice but to wear this one. If you’re a good girl, I might see to buying you a new one at some point.” The woman circled the indignant Melli. “I must say, though, I’d be inclined to get you another red. Shows your skin up just right. Men like nothing better than pale, creamy skin.”
“Mistress Greal, I have no wish to cater to the taste of men. You are somewhat mistaken in your belief that I will be staying here. I must tell you now, I will be leaving in the morning.” Mistress Greal did not seem concerned by Melli’s outburst.
She moved close to Melli adjusting her hair and dress. “You could do with a little rouge, though, deary. Your cheeks are too pale.” With that she pinched Melli’s cheeks hard. “There, that’ll do the job for now.”
“How dare you pinch me!” Melli attempted to slap Mistress Greal, but she was not fast enough. The woman caught Melli’s arm.
“Come, come, deary, there’s no need for this. Let us adjourn for a sup, it’ll calm your nerves. You’re far too highly strung if you ask me.”
“I will not go and sit in that wretched tavern again.”
Mistress Greal showed her sharp, uneven teeth. “Come along, deary. You can’t stay in your room. Keddi’s got to clean it up.” She guided the reluctant Melli out of the room, and practically forced her down to the tavern.
Once again Mistress Greal insisted they sit at the center table. It was early evening and the tavern was much busier than it had been when Melli was there the day before. It seemed to Melli that as they sat down, all eyes were upon her. Mistress Greal duly noted this and said: “See, these men appreciate a pretty girl when they see one.” She waved and greeted many of the men. “I don’t think we’ll have to buy our own drinks this evening.” Melli did not know what her companion meant by that remark, until a group of several men approached their table, one of whom she recognized as the man she had been introduced to the day before.
“Joy to you, Mistress Greal.” Edrad bowed with exaggerated courtesy. “How are you and your lovely companion on this fine evening?” Melli tried hard not to breathe, for when she did so her breasts pushed out alarmingly.
“My dear girl and I are most agreeably well, Edrad,” said Mistress Greal inclining her head graciously. “But we are a little dry.”
Edrad was immediately penitent. “Oh, please forgive me, ladies. What a thoughtless creature
I am!” Edrad called for drinks.
“My girl and I don’t care for the rough stuff, Edrad, we want the reserve.”
“The reserve it will be, then.” Mistress Greal seemed well pleased. “Would you mind if my companions and I sat a while with you charming ladies?” Melli was alarmed to see Mistress Greal willingly agree.
“These are my two good friends, Larkin and Lester.” The two men nodded at Mistress Greal and leered at Melli. Edrad then addressed his companions. “And this is the admirable Mistress Greal and her lovely companion Melli of Deepwood.”
“Deepwood?” questioned the one called Larkin.
“Yes, Deepwood. It’s far south of here, isn’t it, Melli?” said Edrad mischievously.
“I’ve never heard of a Deepwood,” persisted Larkin.
“Nonsense, it’s just past Highwood.” Edrad winked slyly at Melli.
Mistress Greal decided to move the conversation along. “Of course, you can tell my dear Melli isn’t from these parts. Who around here has such pale coloring and perfect skin?”
“None that I’ve ever seen, Mistress Greal,” replied Edrad, giving Melli’s bosom an admiring look.
“Nor I,” agreed Larkin. The one called Lester chose not to speak.
A short time later the drinks arrived, and Melli was glad to have something to divert attention away from herself. She took a deep and unladylike swig of ale. Mistress Greal gave her a warning glance.
“The reserve is strong stuff, Melli. Seeing as you’re not used to ale, I would go easy.” Melli found a small pleasure in deliberately ignoring the woman’s words and taking another deep drink. The action may have displeased Mistress Greal, but it drew cries of pleasure from the men.