by J. V. Jones
He picked the most becoming of his companions, a young woman with generous hips and gray eyes. He patted her rounded bottom. “You are indeed a pretty one, my poppet,” he said, trying hard not to slur his words. The girl looked at him coldly, but Maybor was not to be discouraged and gently squeezed the curve of her breast.
“Lord Maybor! Please take control of yourself!” admonished the girl, scowling at him. Maybor was oblivious to this warning; he was more interested in feeling the wealth of flesh on her curvaceous posterior. He grinned at the girl and pressed his hand deep into the folds of her dress, grabbing one of her buttocks. The girl spun around angrily and dumped the contents of her cup all over Maybor’s face.
“You bitch!” he shouted, looking wildly around for some sympathy. People were either staring at him coldly or openly laughing at him. He looked down at his precious robes, soaked in sickly fruit punch.
He had been humiliated in front of the entire court. He was a laughingstock. He would have to leave the celebration and get out of his sticky, sodden robes. The gray-eyed vixen had ruined them! He would never be able to wear them again. Maybor beat a hasty retreat from the hall, the crowds parting to make a path for the raging, drunken lord.
Baralis was aware there was an incident happening at the front of the hall, but could not make out what it was. Probably some drunken lord making a fool of himself, he thought with contempt.
He was about to bring his golden cup to his lips, when he heard the faint rustle of satin behind him. In that flutter of an instant, he knew what was happening.
Without another thought he wheeled around, unleashing the great forces of his power. He saw a man with a knife about to strike. The man’s face filled with terror as the first waves of Baralis’ discharge tore through him. He screamed in agony as his eyeballs were scorched by the fury. He dropped his blade and raised his hands to protect his head. It was too late: his face contorted grotesquely as his skin was burnt black by the heat. His clothes blazed into flame and his body became a torch.
The satin curtain caught light and the man staggered back, grasping at a face that was no more. Baralis had no control over the furious forces that he released. He watched grimly as the man’s blackened body was consumed by flames.
He felt the backlash of power hit him, searing his skin and singeing his hair. He stepped backward to avoid further damage, and as he did so he was overcome by tremendous weakness. Never before had he released so much power. He tried to draw it back into himself, but it was too late. Trembling and exhausted, impelled only by the sheer force of his will, he staggered away from the blaze.
Bevlin was enjoying a late supper of greased duck when his bowels turned to water. He felt the wave that accompanied the drawing of great power. He dropped his knife, and a trail of grease streaked unnoticed down his chin. The hair on his arms and neck stood up and he shuddered, suddenly cold. He could not remember the last time he had felt the unleashing of such force.
Whoever had drawn power this night was mighty indeed. However, Bevlin perceived the power had failed to be drawn back; it had been allowed to continue and dissipate. The wiseman slowly shook his head: a man who drew such power and failed to repossess it would be so physically depleted, he would be in danger of collapse . . . or worse.
The wiseman suddenly felt very tired. He got up and closed the book he had been reading, then retired to his bed, the duck grease left to slowly congeal. He had lost his appetite.
* * *
Maybor was in his chamber. He had relieved himself of his wet and stained robes and was now lying on his bed. He was not feeling very well. Apart from being as drunk as a newt, his throat was burning and he was finding it difficult to breathe. He called feebly for his servant.
Crandle duly arrived. “Yes, Lord Maybor.” The servant looked shocked at his master’s appearance.
“Why are you looking at me that way, fool? Have I grown two heads?”
“No, sir. You just look a little flushed and there is a slight rash around your face and throat.”
“What do you mean, slight rash?” Maybor was finding it harder to speak. “Get me some water, and bring me a sliver of the mirror so I might look on myself.”
“Yes, sir.” The obedient Crandle rushed off. Maybor brought his hand to his throat—it felt hot and fevered. When the servant returned with the shard of glass, Maybor snatched at it eagerly. He was horrified by what he saw. The skin around his nose and mouth and on his neck was red and inflamed.
“What is this?” he cried, bewildered and distressed by the sight. His servant brought over water, but seemed reluctant to get too close to his master.
“Maybe it’s just the drink, sir,” he said with little conviction. Maybor drank the cold water and it was like a balm on his painful throat.
“If this is the pox, Crandle, I will have your balls whipped off if you mention it to another living soul.” The pox was one thing that everybody at court feared catching; the mere rumor of it was enough to have the unfortunate person ostracized. So whenever anyone did catch it, they kept the fact well concealed.
“I will not breathe a word, sir.”
Maybor was beginning to struggle for breath. He motioned his servant to prop up the pillows, thinking that he would feel better if he were sat up. The reluctant Crandle was forced to drag Maybor’s heavy body up toward the pillows. Once placed there, his breath came a little easier.
“I will have missed all of the goings-on in the banquet hall,” he complained. “I only had chance to down a jug or two of ale.”
“Maybe it was just as well you retired early, sir. You wouldn’t have wanted anyone to see you looking as you do.” Crandle had not seen the stained robe and was unaware of the true reason for his master’s hasty departure.
“Don’t be so damned impertinent!” Maybor spoke with little fury as he was finding it difficult to breathe once more. He started coughing, his whole body shaking as he did so. With horror he saw that his undershirt was speckled with blood.
The sight of the tiny, scarlet drops filled Maybor with fear. What illness was this that stole upon one so fast? This very day he had been on his horse, riding over fields, feeling as healthy as ever. Now, only hours later, he was coughing up blood and short of breath. Frightened, Maybor settled down amongst his pillows and fell into a restless, wheezing sleep.
Crope heard a faint noise outside the door. He was in his master’s chambers, as was his duty whenever Baralis was absent. He wondered whether to see what the noise was—no one could enter the chambers without Baralis’ permission, so Crope was not worried about intruders. It could even be some castle children, the ones who liked to taunt him and follow him around. They might be outside the door, waiting for him to open it so they could throw sour milk at him, as they had done once before. Deciding that the faint noise had indeed been children, he ignored it and went back to looking at his books.
Crope could not read, but his favorite pastime was looking at pictures of flowers and animals. His master, noting the delight Crope took in this particular activity, had given him certain books to keep for his very own. These books, filled with beautifully rendered drawings of plants, insects, animals, and fish were Crope’s most treasured possessions. He looked through them countless times, always careful to clean his hands before he touched the precious pages.
Tonight he was looking at his favorite, the one with all the beautiful flowers in it. He immersed himself in his book, and it was some time before he heard another faint noise. This time it occurred to him that it was too late for children to be up, and so he opened the heavy wooden door. On the floor by his feet lay Baralis.
Crope wasted no time in scooping Baralis up in his arms. He hurried to the bedchamber and, with a gentleness surprising in such a huge man, laid his master down on the bed.
Crope wondered what to do next. He noticed that Baralis was trembling, and so he rushed off for extra blankets. He returned moments later and carefully laid them over his master’s body. Next, he fetch
ed water and a length of cloth and proceeded to dab his master’s fevered brow with cool water. Crope saw that his master looked as if he was burnt: the skin on his face and hands looked red and sore.
He tried to remember what to do for burns. Baralis, he recalled, had special ointments for such things. Crope went off to look in the library where some such medicines were kept. He returned minutes later with what he hoped was the right ointment. He poured a little on his hand to check. It was some kind of oil and felt smooth and cool. With great care he applied the ointment to Baralis’ burnt face and hands. It did appear to lessen the heat a little.
Finally, Crope poured a glass of rich, dark wine into a cup and, holding Baralis’ head up a little, poured a small quantity of the liquid between his master’s lips. Some of the wine dribbled down Baralis’ chin, and Crope patiently dabbed the excess away with a soft cloth.
During all of this his master had not stirred. Crope was beginning to feel worried; he was convinced that there was more wrong with Baralis than burnt hands and face. There seemed little more that he could do. He went over and stoked the fire, and then sat by his master’s bedside, once again wetting his brow. He would watch over Baralis through the night and hope his master became no worse.
Eleven
Tawl made his way down to the harbor. It was chill in the burgeoning dawn and he drew his cloak close. As he rounded a corner, salty air blasted his face, and he sighted the deep gray sea that Rorn considered its own.
Tawl, having reached the waterfront, now made his way north. His route took him past rows of ships and boats; there were many humble fishing craft, a few mighty warships, some elaborate pleasure barges, and a great number of cargo ships. Tawl had never seen such a variety: boats from the south painted exotic colors with pictures of fantastic sea creatures or naked women on their hulls, vessels from Rorn with yellow sails, ships from Toolay beautifully varnished but unadorned.
He soon found himself at the north harbor and hurried down the line of ships, aware that he was late—first light had been some time back. He found the boat he was looking for: two masts, The Fishy Few. Men were at work uncoiling the huge docking ropes. The Fishy Few was preparing to set sail.
Tawl walked up the gangplank and was immediately met with a harsh cry. “Hey, you, what d’you think you’re doing?” The voice belonged to a small, red-faced man with a head of hair to match.
“I’m here to sail to Larn. Captain Quain has already agreed to it.”
“Borc’s balls! So you’re the mad devil who wants to go there.” Tawl could only nod. “Come aboard then, quick about it.” Tawl boarded the ship. The red-haired sailor looked him up and down critically. “You ain’t gonna take to the sea. I can tell that just from looking at you.”
“I’ve sailed before,” said Tawl.
“When was that, eh? Dainty pleasure trip down the River Silbur.” The man spat in disgust. “No, you’re not a sailor. You’re the type who’ll be puking your guts up as soon as we’ve raised anchor.” Tawl had in fact sailed several times before, and although not enjoying the experience, had never been seasick.
“What you called, then?” asked the man.
“Tawl.”
The man spat again. “Tawl! I’d be ashamed to go to sea with a name like that.” The man eyed him with mild disdain.
Tawl decided he would ask for the captain. He had no intention of standing here and being insulted any longer. “I’d like to speak to Captain Quain.”
“Captain!” shouted the man in a voice so loud it set Tawl’s ears ringing. Moments later another man appeared, also red haired.
“You’re late.” He looked Tawl up and down.
“I didn’t realize the north harbor was as far as it was.”
“Excuses! The sea doesn’t care that for excuses.” The captain spat to illustrate his point. “Tell the sea you’re late.” Quain’s voice was scathing. “See if it’ll make an exception and keep the tide in a little longer just for you.” Tawl was wishing he’d never boarded The Fishy Few. The captain then shouted in a voice rivaling that of his crewman in loudness. “All hands on deck.”
The ship became a flurry of activity—there were ten crewmen. The captain noticed Tawl counting them and said, “I’m a man short because of you.” He was obviously waiting for Tawl to ask why, and so Tawl obliged.
“Why is that, Captain Quain?”
“I’ll tell you why. Eleven crewsmen and me, plus you, would make thirteen. No man in his right mind would set sail with thirteen aboard. Sailing to Larn is lunacy itself. Sailing to Larn with thirteen would be suicide. And let me tell you now, boy, gold’s not worth losing my ship over. First sign of danger and we’ll be heading back to Rorn so fast the seagulls won’t be able to shit on us.” The good captain then turned on his heel, leaving Tawl to contemplate what had been said.
He decided the best thing he could do would be to go belowdeck. Seeing the man who had spoken to him when he boarded, he asked where he would find his cabin.
“Cabin! Listen to this, mates.” The man was now shouting to the other sailors. “He wants to know where his cabin is. Not happy with makin’ us sail to the godforsaken isle of Larn, now he wants a cabin. The next thing you know, he’ll be asking us to bake him cake.” Tawl decided he would take no more of this taunting, but before he could say a word another man chipped in:
“Let him be, Carver, anyone would think you’re afraid to sail to Larn.”
“I ain’t afraid,” said Carver defensively. “I’ve sailed to worse places than Larn in my day, I can tell you.”
“Well, if you don’t get on securing those ropes, we won’t be sailing anywhere.” Carver flashed the man a resentful look and moved on about his business. The man then turned to Tawl. “Good day, to you, friend. My name’s Fyler. Don’t worry none about Carver. He’s got a harsh tongue, but nothing more.”
“I wasn’t worried in the least, Fyler. I was about to tell him I did fancy a bit of cake.” Tawl grinned at the seaman, who promptly slapped him hard on the back.
“You’re gonna do just fine aboard The Fishy Few, make no mistake about it. There are two things a sailor needs around here. First, he needs a sense of humor, and second, he needs to know how to swim.” Fyler winked merrily at Tawl. “How are you at cooking?”
“I’m not too bad.” Tawl wondered about the question.
“Good. We had to lose our cook to make way for you. You can do the honors. Course the good thing about being cook is that you get to sleep in the galley. Have it all to yourself, you can.” Fyler smiled broadly, showing gaps among his large, yellow teeth. Tawl got the distinct feeling he had been successfully snared. “Why don’t I show you to the galley. The men haven’t eaten all day, and there’s nothing like setting sail for increasing a man’s appetite.”
Fyler led Tawl belowdeck, down a narrow corridor and into a tiny room. “This is it, friend,” he said. “You’ll find the supplies under the table and in the larder. I’m off. Can’t sail a ship without its navigator.” Fyler left Tawl to the tiny cramped room. It didn’t look like any kitchen he had been in. There was just a long, wooden table banded around the edges to keep the various pots and pans in their place and a curious-looking brick stove.
Tawl had no idea how to light the stove and could find no wood to fuel it. The crewmen, he decided, would have to eat a cold breakfast. He looked under the table and found sacks of vegetables in various stages of sprouting: old turnips, carrots and parsnips. Tawl could think of no worse things to be eaten raw. He smiled mischievously. He’d show the sailors of The Fishy Few a good breakfast!
Tavalisk was soaking his plump, short-toed feet in a bowl of water. His hands were occupied with cracking open the shell of a huge, live lobster. With a dainty silver hammer he pounded viciously on the shell, eager to get at the tender, translucent meat. He was most annoyed when a knock came at his door.
“Enter,” cried the archbishop, venting his anger on the lobster by bashing its small legs off. His aide entered. “Y
es, Gamil, what is it?” he demanded testily. The lobster apparently still had some life in it, as it snapped at Tavalisk’s fingers with its huge claws. Tavalisk countered this indignity by smashing the lobster’s head with all the might in his chubby body, sending flesh and shell flying.
“I thought you might wish to know what has become of the knight, Your Eminence.”
“Say your piece, Gamil.” Tavalisk noted with pleasure that his last blow had taken the fight out of the lobster: all it could do now was flail its one remaining leg.
“Well, Your Eminence, it appears that our knight has had an early start this morning.”
“Yes, yes. Get to the point, Gamil.” Tavalisk was now looking around for the missing lobster legs; he wasn’t about to have their succulent meat wasted.
“Well, Your Eminence, our knight has managed to commission a boat.”
“A boat! What sort of boat?” Tavalisk decided that one last bash would split the shell open nicely and proceeded to hammer at the lobster once more.
“A small sailboat, two masts. Name of The Fishy Few.”
“The Fishy Few!” Tavalisk now put down his hammer and with skilled hands prized open the lobster’s shell, revealing the grayish, opalescent flesh.
“Yes, Your Eminence. I looked into it. Captain’s name is Quain. Ship usually cargoes fish from Marls.”
“Marls. How interesting, that’s where my little friend here is from.” Tavalisk motioned toward the ruined lobster, which was beginning to leak a greenish fluid onto the platter.
“Well, I’m not sure that the boat’s heading to Marls this time, Your Eminence.”
“You mean it’s set sail? With the knight aboard?” Tavalisk was now cutting himself a sizable chunk of lobster flesh, careful to avoid its unpleasant discharges.
“Yes, Your Eminence. It set sail just after first light.”
“Which way was it headed?” The lobster flesh was warm and salty. Tavalisk loved nothing better than freshly killed lobster. This one, however, was still alive: its leg continued to move slightly. The archbishop smiled and took up his hammer once more. It was most distracting to see one’s meal hanging on grimly for its life.