The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  There was a noise on the other side of the door. Jack heard the bolt being drawn back. He looked around, desperately searching for something to use as a weapon. The room was bare, the wooden bench its sole contents. Quickly, Jack slipped to the side of the door. It swung open and Jack, who was now behind the door, heard a man step into the room. Before the man had the chance to take another step, Jack pushed the door back with all his strength. The heavy door slammed into the man, knocking him off his feet. The man started to cry out. Jack rushed forward; desperate to quiet the man, he kicked him violently in the head. Blood rushed from the guard’s nose and mouth. The man tried to get to his feet, but Jack kicked him hard in the kidneys and he crumpled to the floor again.

  Jack wavered for a second, wondering what to do. He caught sight of the guard’s sword tucked under his belt. He grasped the hilt and pulled hard. The guard reached for his sword but he was too late; he grasped the blade not the hilt, and as Jack drew the sword the blade cut deeply into the soft flesh of the palm of the guard’s hand. The sight of so much of his own blood frightened the guard and he began whimpering. Jack’s heart was pounding excitedly: he had the sword. He stood over the guard, sword poised, and found he could not stab him—the guard looked too pathetic.

  Jack knew he had little time; he could not be sure if the man’s cries had been heard. He gave the guard one last kick to the head, hoping to knock him out. It didn’t work; the man was still conscious. Jack carefully took the blade in his hand and swung the weighted hilt down on the head of the guard. He had intended to get the back of the man’s head, but the guard looked around at the last moment and the hilt hit him full in the face. Jack drew back, horrified as the man’s face turned into a bloody mess.

  Jack fled from the sight, appalled at what had happened—a clean blade to the innards would have been a kindness compared to what he had done. He had intended to draw the guard’s unconscious body into the room and close the door, hoping to give himself more time for escape, but the sight of the guard’s ruined face sent him into a panic. He began to run. He paid no heed to where he was heading. Down stone passageways he fled, each one looking the same as the next.

  After some time he grew short of breath. He slowed down, gulping for air. He listened to see if anyone was pursuing him, but the only sound he could hear was the blood pumping through his veins. He had not realized that he was being held in such a maze of tunnels. Forcing himself to think, he decided what to do next. He looked back in the direction he had come from; he would not return that way. By sheer luck, it seemed, he had managed to avoid the guard room.

  Jack walked on a short way and was presented with a choice as the tunnel he was in branched off. The passage running straight ahead was long and dark, and was not lit by torchlight. Jack did not like the thought of walking where he could not see. He decided instead to take the second tunnel.

  The path that Jack chose took a sharp turn and he found that it was no longer lit. He paused on the verge of darkness. Should he go on? His eyes strained against the blackness. He had no way of telling how long the tunnel was. He stepped forward into the dark.

  * * *

  Baralis was pacing his chamber. As he walked to and fro, he worked the curative oils into his hands; they were causing him great pain. The rains had come this morning and he felt the ensuing dampness working on his stiffening fingers. Baralis hoped that Bringe had managed to damage the orchard the previous night; it would be a shame if they missed the benefit of all the rain.

  The oils were doing no good. He dried off his hands and went over to his desk where he kept his painkilling drug. He carefully measured a portion of the white powder and transferred it into his glass. He poured a little wine to wet the mix, raised the glass to his lips and drank it dry.

  The interrogation of the boy yesterday had disturbed him deeply. It left him physically and mentally exhausted. He felt sure the boy had spoken the truth—he did after all have his own ways of ascertaining such things. There was more to this, though. There had been a point when Jack had nearly driven him from his mind. He, Baralis, forced back by a mere boy.

  It meant something. The boy’s mind was closed as surely as a locked chest. For a brief instant something was there—a vision, almost a message: a woman, and behind her a man. He’d tried to dig deeper but was repelled, meeting blankness once more. Baralis had searched the minds of hundreds of men to get where he was now, and not one had resisted him like the baker’s boy.

  Of course he was far too skilled for the encounter to have caused him any harm. The boy had obviously suffered badly from the incident, while he’d come out unscathed. Still, there was something disturbing about the episode. The boy had access to a great amount of power. He probably spoke the truth when he said the loaves were the first thing he’d ever done. Such untrained might was dangerous. The boy turned back time in the oven! Baralis shuddered, almost against his will. He’d never heard of such a thing being done before. It shouldn’t be possible. To hold time in abeyance for even a second took the skill of a master. He himself could barely stay a tallow’s flame. And yet this boy from nowhere had done more, so much more, than that.

  Jack didn’t realize the magnitude of what he’d done. He thought it was just a case of turning burnt loaves to dough. It was time he turned, not bread. Only last week Baralis had returned to the kitchens. The aftermath could still be felt. That fool Frallit had been forced to change the baking slabs. They were acting strangely and the dough took hours longer to bake. It was Jack’s drawing that had done it. All sorcery left an aftermath of some sort: a trace of what had been. Only the most powerful kind still lingered weeks past its drawing.

  The boy had set something in motion that might take years to pass. The cinders from the oven had been ground for soap. ’Twould be a lucky lady who brought that lather to her face. At worst it might help preserve her looks, at best it might make them more youthful. The baking slabs might end up dumped in the middens—Baralis couldn’t imagine what the result of that would be.

  The loaves themselves had been destroyed. He’d at least made sure of that.

  He would have to think carefully on what to do about the boy. His plans were running smoothly at the moment; he wanted no spoiler, no wild card. He had a nagging feeling that Jack could turn out to be one. At a different time he would have kept the boy, experimented, dissected, made it his business to get to the bottom of the mystery. He had too much on his mind at the present, too much was at stake. He would have the boy killed.

  He was disturbed from his thoughts by the arrival of his servant. “Ahh, Crope. Just the person I was thinking of. I have a little job for you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, you know our two guests.”

  “Guests?”

  “The prisoners, you empty-headed numbskull! I want you to dispose of the boy.”

  “He’s gone.”

  “What do you mean he’s gone? Of course he’s not gone. I saw him with my own eyes yesterday. He’s guarded by ten mercenaries, he cannot have just gone.” Baralis was shaking.

  “Well, sir, I was just down at the haven, bringing some delicacies for the lady—she appreciates it when I bring her honey rolls and sweet wine.”

  “Get to the point, man!” roared Baralis.

  “Well, Traff comes running up to me and says the boy has escaped. Says he did some terrible damage to one of his men.”

  Baralis was frantic. “The girl? She has not escaped?”

  “No, sir, I saw her myself just a short while back. I made sure her door was firmly bolted.”

  “Do they know which way the boy headed in the woods?”

  “Traff said that they think the boy headed for the passages. He says that they would have seen him if he’d made for the way out.”

  Baralis thought for a while. It was a good thing that the boy had not headed for the woods; he might still be found. “Come with me,” he ordered, and the two men rushed from the room. Before long they were heading down the tunn
el that linked the haven to the castle, Baralis drawing light to illuminate the way.

  “Crope, go and tell that useless imbecile Traff to search all the tunnels and rooms. Have him put two men on the entrance, in case the boy doubles back.” The first thing Baralis had to do on reaching the haven was to check on the girl. He had seen that Jack had grown attached to her, and if he was in the tunnels he might try and find her. The boy had no bearing on his plans, he was merely a dangerous distraction, but he could not risk losing Melliandra. If the girl escaped he would forfeit his wager with the queen. The bolt on her door was no longer enough. She would have to be transferred to a room that could be securely locked.

  To her surprise Melli found that she liked Baralis’ huge, hulking servant. He treated her as if she were a fragile butterfly, bringing extra blankets when she was cold and special foods to eat, even rose water to splash on her face.

  Melli had to admit she was living in considerable comfort. She was, however, far from satisfied. She found herself thinking more and more about her time in the forest; she had been truly free then, no one to tell her what to do or how to do it. She supposed that at some point Baralis would have to let her go. He could not hold her indefinitely, and she could not believe that he would harm her in any way. He was, after all, the king’s chancellor.

  Melli popped a honey roll into her mouth, wondering what had become of Jack. She was startled when Baralis let himself into her room. She noticed that he seemed relieved at the sight of her. He caught her with her mouth full of food. She swallowed quickly and took a drink of water, slamming her glass down when finished.

  “It appears, Lord Baralis, that your servant has better manners than you. At least he thinks to knock before entering a lady’s room.”

  Baralis seemed to be agitated, and when he spoke his voice was lacking its usual mellifluous tones. “Does a lady usually run away from home and end up whoring in Duvitt?”

  “Does a gentleman usually hold a woman against her will?”

  “I don’t believe, my dear Melliandra, that I ever styled myself a gentleman.” There was something slightly different about Baralis this day: he appeared less controlled, less cultured than usual.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news. You will have to forgo these pleasing surroundings.”

  “Why?” Melli demanded.

  “That is no concern of yours.”

  “Where will you be taking me?” She was beginning to feel frightened.

  “Not far. Follow me.”

  “What about my things?” she said lamely, trying to forestall him. Baralis came close to her—he was barely a foot away. She could smell him: a heady, enticing scent. His fragrance drew her to him, a pull upon a thread. She leaned toward him. Their eyes met and she inhaled sharply; it was his breath that filled her lungs . . . it was potent like a drug. He raised his arm and drew his hand down her back, his fingers searching for the scars beneath her dress. The caress thrilled and stung, and her lips parted, relinquishing his breath and preparing for his touch.

  Baralis seemed to resist her compulsion and spoke, his words altering the texture of the moment. “All you will need for now, my pretty one, are the clothes on your back.”

  Melli stepped away from him. She felt unsteady on her feet and starved of air. Baralis held her gaze a moment longer and then turned on his heels. “Come now,” he said, his voice an impatient hiss. He led Melli a short way and then to her surprise, he stopped by the solid stone wall and felt the stone with his fingertips. Melli jumped back, startled, as the whole section of wall began to move. Baralis ushered her through the gap and into a large room. Several candles burned low and Melli could see it had been used recently; there was a flagon of ale resting on the table. There were a few chairs, a desk with manuscripts laid out upon it, and on the wall was an old, faded tapestry. The wall slid back into place and Baralis made his way across the room, pausing to take a key from his belt and light an oil lamp.

  There was a low, wooden door on the far wall and Baralis opened it with a turn of the key. “In here.” He beckoned her and she came forward, trepidation growing inside of her. The room was small and cramped, lined with shelves, obviously intended as a storeroom.

  Melli mustered her courage. “I refuse to step inside that place.”

  Baralis turned on her, gripping her wrist cruelly. The oil lamp swung dangerously. “You will go in there.” Melli looked to the lamp—the flame was close to her dress. She stepped inside, tugging her wrist free from his grip. Baralis came in behind her and set the lamp down on a shelf, then turned around and left the room. Melli was tempted to shout out as she heard the lock turn, but her pride prevented it. She would not have that man believe her frightened.

  Melli looked around the room, rubbing her arms. The place was cold and damp, water was running down the walls, and the floor was wet. There was no chair or pallet to rest on; she could not sit on the floor, so she was forced to stand.

  Her heart was still pounding uncontrollably. She could hardly believe she had let Baralis caress her back, welcomed the touch of his fingers down her spine. She could still feel the subtle pressure of his breath in her lungs. She shook her head vigorously, seeking to dispel the sensation. She had actually wanted him to kiss her. Absently, she rubbed her fingers across her lips. Baralis was rumored to have unusual powers, perhaps he had used them upon her. Her fingers stole into her mouth and she sucked gently upon them. No, she knew there had been no artificial inducement. Nothing save the pull of attraction—him for her and she for him.

  Her breast was rising up and down rapidly, she could not bear to think on the subject anymore.

  She looked around the small, damp room. How long would she be kept here, confined like an animal? She glanced down at her wrist where he had gripped her: a red mark was forming. Melli felt the pressure of tears behind her eyes. She would not give into them. After all, had she not been in worse situations? This room was a palace compared to the pit in Duvitt. She managed a weak smile, willing herself not to succumb to despair.

  She forced herself to think about more practical matters. She checked how much oil was in the lamp: it was less than half full. Melli turned it down; she had no wish to be plunged into darkness. She checked the shelves, looking for something she could use to keep warm. They were all empty save for a collection of dead and decaying insects, the unsuspecting victims of long-waiting spiders.

  Melli stood, leaning against the wooden shelves, hands hovering above the lamp for warmth, and wondered what had caused Baralis to move her. Perhaps her father had found out where she was, but somehow she did not think so. Something was obviously worrying Baralis, worrying him enough to lock her in a storeroom. Maybe it had something to do with Jack.

  Her mind dwelled on the baker’s boy. He had been good to her, tending her wounds, giving his portion of water for her to drink. She didn’t believe his story about running away from the castle. Jack did not strike her as a thief, and Lord Baralis did not strike her as the sort of man who would waste his time chasing one. What then was his interest in Jack?

  * * *

  Jack did not enjoy walking down the darkened tunnel; he had never been in a place so devoid of light. He had been forced to feel his way like a blind man. He’d walked for some time, only to find that the passage was a dead end. It seemed strange to him that a passage would lead to nowhere; he decided he must have missed an opening. He traced back his steps, all the time listening anxiously for the approach of guards.

  This time Jack was careful to feel both sides of the tunnel, moving from one side to the other with every step. This method required some time and Jack was afraid he would be caught. Suddenly his hands ran over a different texture than of stone. Wood. Jack spread out his palms; it was a door. He could feel no handle, so he pushed gently. The door did not move. He fervently hoped that it was not locked in some manner. He pushed harder and this time the door gave way, creaking loudly.

 
Jack stepped into more blackness. His leg smashed against a sharp object and he tripped and fell forward. He landed on something soft. He rested on the floor for some minutes, rubbing his throbbing shin, glad to have some time to think. It seemed to him that all the actions he had taken this morning had been performed with little thought, relying more on instinct. He now needed to plan, to decide upon his own course of action, rather than let fate decide it for him.

  He wondered how he could get above ground and out of this series of tunnels. There must be another exit other than past the guardroom.

  As he was thinking, he heard a faint rumble in the distance, and a pale light began to creep under the doorway. Jack quickly jumped to his feet, he had to hide. He could see no detail of the room, the only thing he could feel was the soft material beneath his feet. He felt around the area he had been lying on, it was a mound of old clothes or curtains. He could now hear distinct footsteps. Scrambling beneath the heap of fabrics, he raced to cover his arms and legs.

  The door swung open, Jack could make out light flooding the room. He heard a man’s voice: “See, Kessit, I told you there was no need to bother looking in here. No one’s been in this room for years. Look at all this stuff.”

  “Should we head back, then?” said another voice.

  “No rush, Kessit, let’s have a little rest, take a bit of snatch.”

  “Traff won’t be pleased if we dawdle.”

  “Traff won’t know if you don’t tell him.” The two men moved forward into the room. Jack could hear the sound of a tin being opened.

  “Come on, make yourself comfortable. A man can’t enjoy his snatch unless he’s relaxed. Settle down on that pile of old rags for a bit, take the weight off those enormous feet of yours.” To Jack’s horror, one of the guards sat on the edge of his hiding place. His leg was only a few layers beneath the man. Jack tried to keep his breathing to a minimum.