The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  “Very well, two rooms, but make them small—put the boy in a cupboard if you will.”

  “You have made a wise decision, sir. You and your boy will wake more refreshed in the morning because of it.” The innkeeper glowed with the knowledge of additional profit. “And now, would you care to partake of a spot of supper? We have boiled pheasant, pike in butter, roasted veal, and lamb, of course.” From the drop in his voice at the end it was obvious that lamb was the cheapest item.

  “We’ll take the lamb.” Tawl noticed disappointment on the innkeeper’s face. “I’ll also have a flagon of ale.”

  “The special brew?” asked the man hopefully.

  “No, the plainest brew.”

  When he and Nabber were comfortably settled near the huge fireplace in the dining hall, he turned to the boy. “What’s all this about two rooms?”

  “I’ve got more than enough coinage to cover the additional cost.” Nabber helped himself to a mug of ale.

  “That’s not what I asked.” Tawl took the mug away from the boy. “What have you been up to today besides prospecting?”

  “I met up with someone.” Nabber was defiant.

  “Who?”

  “A girl. That’s all. A girl with red hair and freckles—pretty she was. She said she knew you and asked me to do her a favor.”

  “What favor?” Tawl’s voice was deceptively calm.

  “Well, she said she wanted to surprise you in your room.” Nabber blushed. “She said she wanted to be alone with you and that I should take a separate room. Told me not to tell you. Gave me a kiss she did, for all my trouble.”

  Tawl leaned back against the wall. It was a ploy. The girl was in league with Tavalisk or Larn or Borc knows who else. She, or more probably, whoever she worked for, planned on either killing or taking him in the night. He was a little disappointed; he had thought she was just a nice girl. He was disgusted at his own naivete. He stood up.

  “Where you going?” asked Nabber warily.

  “It’s about time I got myself a decent weapon.”

  A few hours later he was in his room oiling his new blade. The blacksmith he found had been most reluctant to fire up his forge so late. Tawl was not to be put off so easily and surprised the man by offering to buy the sword that was displayed upon the wall. The smith protested saying he could never sell it. He swore it was the first sword he’d made as an apprentice that had met up to his master’s high standards.

  Tawl could see it was a plain but sturdy sword, just the kind he favored—he had no love of embellishment in a weapon. He’d managed to persuade the man to part with the sword for the extortionate price of three gold pieces. The smith appeared somewhat remorseful at having charged such a high price, for as Tawl walked out of the building he ran up to him. “Here take this,” he said, handing a soft pig-skin scabbard to Tawl. “My wife makes them. I’d like you to have it.” The smithy then hurried back inside, his guilt suitably assuaged.

  Tawl decided it was time to bed down for the night. He pulled the covers over his fully dressed body. His new sword lay flat against his belly, the handle firmly in his grip. His knife was tucked in his belt. He blew out the candle and prepared to wait.

  Some time later, when the moon drew long shadows across the room, Tawl heard the door creak open. A figure paused in the doorway and then crept toward him. Tawl’s body tensed, ready to spring. The figure loomed over the bed. Tawl sprang up, sword in his hand. He grabbed the figure and flung it down against the bed, raising his blade to its throat.

  “Stop! Please!” cried a female voice. So the girl had come herself!

  “Who sent you?” he demanded, pressing the blade into her flesh.

  “No one sent me. I came alone.” The girl was almost hysterical. “Please let me go.”

  Tawl frisked the girl for weapons with one hand, holding the blade to her throat with the other. He found no dagger. He lit the candles with a flint so he could search the room—she must have dropped her weapon.

  The light revealed the face of the girl to him. It was as he expected: the cloth merchant’s daughter. Tears of terror coursed down her cheeks. She was a fine actress. “Don’t move or I’ll kill you,” he hissed as he looked for her blade. He searched the room but could find nothing. He turned to the girl, who was cringing with fear on the bed.

  “Where is your weapon?”

  The girl looked confused. “I don’t know what you mean.” She was sobbing uncontrollably.

  “You came here to kill me, don’t deny it.” A thought suddenly occurred to him and he flung open the door to his room; there was no one in sight. “Where are your accomplices?”

  “Please, I don’t know what you are talking about. I didn’t come here to kill you.”

  “What did you come here for then?” Tawl’s voice was cold and insistent.

  “I came here to seduce you!” cried the girl, breaking into a new fit of sobbing. Tawl took a deep breath. The girl was either a consummate liar or telling the truth. He placed his sword in the scabbard.

  “Why did you want to seduce me?” he asked brusquely, still skeptical.

  “You seemed like a romantic stranger, almost like a knight with your golden hair and noble manner.” The girl was now blushing and crying simultaneously. Tawl didn’t know what to say to her. He was beginning to think he had made a mistake. He handed her a linen cloth to dry her tears. She snatched it from him and blew her nose vigorously.

  “You seem a little young to be seducing strange men.”

  “I’m past seventeen summers.” The girl smoothed down her skirts.“You have certainly put me off seducing any others.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” said Tawl with a grin.

  “I thought you would be glad I came. Instead you jump on me and almost kill me.” Kendra’s spirit was returning. “I think you are quite mad! You are lucky I’m not calling the bailiffs.”

  “And how would you explain to the bailiffs your being in my room?” The expression of indignant rage on the girl’s face made him want to laugh.

  “I could tell them you lured me here.”

  Tawl went and reopened the door. “If you hurry, you might catch one before he retires for the night.”

  “You are insufferable! I don’t know what I ever saw in you.” She was angry but made no move to leave the room. Tawl closed the door.

  “I’m sorry I startled you.” He came and sat beside her on the bed.

  “Are you always in the habit of trying to murder women who seduce you?”

  “I thought . . . never mind.” It seemed ridiculous that he had ever thought the girl was an assassin.

  “Is someone trying to kill you?” Kendra was quite calm now and seemed excited at the prospect of being involved in danger and intrigue. “I knew you were an adventurer the moment I saw you. Are you working for the duke of Bren?”

  “Why d’you say that?”

  “Oh, everyone knows he has men all over the place up to no good.”

  “No, I don’t work for the duke of Bren.”

  The girl looked a little disappointed. “But someone is trying to kill you, aren’t they? That’s why you attacked me—you thought I was the one.” She eagerly awaited his reply.

  “I mistook you for someone else, yes.” Tawl suddenly felt very tired. “I think you had better go.”

  The girl moved over to him and kissed him on the lips—a gentle, tentative kiss. Tawl kissed her back, softly at first and then, as desire came upon him, his kiss became hard and unyielding, forcing her lips apart and searching out the succulence of her tongue. He placed his arms firmly around her waist and drew her to him. His fingers searched her body, feeling for the swell of breast and hip. He pulled at the strings of her bodice—they would not give, so he ripped the fabric. He slipped his hands under her skirt, seeking the smoothness of thigh. Kendra pulled away, her face flushed. Tawl let go of her and they sat for a moment staring at each other.

  He stood up. The girl tried to stop him by catching his arm. He gen
tly took her hand away and moved across the room. For the third time that night he opened the door. “Go now, Kendra, before I do something we’ll both regret.” There was a hard edge to his voice and she obediently got up and walked toward the door. As she left, she looked at Tawl with a mixture of fear and desire.

  Twenty-six

  Baralis was tired of waiting on a summons from the queen. The deadline for the wager had passed by two days now and yet she had still not called him. She was playing a game with him, forcing him to wait until she was ready, seeking to gain some small advantage in the battle of wills. It was high time he forced her hand. He had meticulously planned for years, and he was not about to be put off by simple delay tactics. “Bring me my robe,” he called to Crope. “I am about to pay the king a visit.”

  Once he was suitably dressed, he picked up a small jar of oil and slipped it into the lining of his cloak; it was to be his prop. He made his way to the royal quarters, his silken robes rustling gently in his haste. The guards let him through unchallenged. He passed the queen’s chambers and the guards there drew spears, indicating that the queen was in attendance and that he was not to enter. Baralis ignored them and walked on—he knew it would only be a matter of time before one of them reported to their mistress who they had seen walking the royal corridors.

  Finally, he came to the most elaborate door in the entire castle. Molded from solid bronze it showed scenes from the history of the Four Kingdoms: Harvell, Reskor, Granwell, and many other ancient kings were all there—shown taller and more handsome than they ever were in real life. Lesketh’s ancestors, thought Baralis dryly, were notoriously short and ugly men.

  “Halt!” cried the guard. “No one is permitted to enter without the queen’s permission.”

  “I suppose you know it is I who supply the new medicine for the king? The medicine that the queen values so highly.” The guard nodded, it was a well-known fact around the castle. “Well,” said Baralis softly, his voice gently coaxing, “I have a new oil that I have made, one that will bring motion back to the king’s shoulder. I would first try it out to ensure that it works before I inform Her Highness about it. I would hate to build her hopes up only to disappoint her.” The guard was nodding understandingly. “You would be doing both the king and the queen a great service by letting me through.” Baralis altered the timber of his voice slightly; it was now low and compelling. “I will do His Majesty no harm. Why, you can even be in the room with me the whole time if you prefer.”

  “Where is this oil?” asked the guard. Baralis knew he had him. He whipped the jar from out of his cloak. The cut glass sparkled with convenient mystery. “Very well, Lord Baralis, you may enter, but no longer than a few minutes.”

  The heavy door swung back with noiseless ease, and Baralis entered the king’s chambers. Lavish carpets and tapestries in vivid blues and golds dulled the sound of his footsteps. What a waste, mused Baralis, all this splendor for a bed-ridden king. The first room was merely a reception area, and he made his way across it and through to the bedroom.

  Two people hovered around the king’s bed: the queen’s wisewoman and the Master of the Bath—rather a grand title, Baralis considered, for the man who was responsible for emptying the king’s chamberpot. The two looked most surprised at his appearance. However, he was not about to give explanations to mere attendants.

  “Lord Baralis this is most unexpected,” said the Master of the Bath. The wisewoman knew her place too well to challenge his presence.

  “Unexpected it may be, but most beneficial I hope.” He pulled the lid from the jar, daring the man to question him further.

  “Lord Baralis,” said the wisewoman softly, “if you intend to use the contents of that jar upon the king, may I be permitted to see it first?”

  “Wisewoman, go brew some herbs!” Baralis approached the sleeping king; drowsiness was a fortunate side effect of the medicine.

  “Sir, I beg you not to disturb the king’s sleep. He needs all the rest he can get.” The Master of the Bath was beginning to look very nervous.

  “Nonsense, man, the king has slept for too long, that is his problem.” Baralis didn’t really care what he said; he was just biding time before the inevitable arrival of the queen. To speed this eventuality he began to shake the king awake, and his action had the desired effect: the wisewoman rushed from the room, undoubtedly to inform the queen of his presence.

  The king awakened, his slow gaze focusing upon Baralis. He mouthed some words, but no sound came from his lips, only spittle.

  “Lord Baralis!” came the queen’s voice, her words were charged with rage. “How dare you enter the king’s chamber without permission?”

  “Your Highness.” Baralis bowed low, his back arching gracefully. The queen moved to the bedside and checked the condition of her husband.

  “You have wakened him!” She turned on Baralis angrily. “Explain yourself.”

  “Your Highness pointed out that I had no permission,” he said smoothly. “But may I ask who is qualified to grant such permission?” Baralis knew the queen would be aware of one specific written law of the Four Kingdoms. The law that stated a queen had absolutely no rights of sovereignty, even in the event of the king’s disablement or death. Queen Arinalda was without any legal power, yet she ruled in the king’s place. It was a law that had been conveniently forgotten by the court in the interest of unity and continuity.

  “Lord Baralis, you are broaching a dangerous subject,” warned the queen.

  “Dangerous for whom, Your Highness?” Baralis’ voice held a warning of its own.

  “Why did you come here?” The queen backed away.

  “I think Your Highness knows why. You are overdue on paying your debts.”

  “So you used the king to get my attention.” Her voice was filled with loathing.

  “It appears to have worked.” Baralis permitted himself the briefest of smiles.

  “I will speak with you no further this day, Lord Baralis.” It was a dismissal.

  “As Your Highness wishes, but I must insist upon an audience tomorrow.”

  “Insist! You forget who you are talking to, Lord Baralis.” The queen looked as if she would strike him.

  “My apologies, Your Highness, I meant of course that I hope for an audience.” He could see the queen did not believe him, but it mattered not; she would see him now.

  “Leave here at once,” she said haughtily, turning her back. Baralis made a great show of bowing to the king and then left.

  He sauntered back to his chambers at a leisurely pace. He was most pleased; the incident had gone as planned. Not only had he forced an audience, but he also had the chance to remind the queen just how vulnerable her position was.

  Tawl cursed the snow; it would delay his arrival at Bevlin’s for at least one more day. They had ridden from Ness two mornings ago and he’d known then that snow was on its way—the clouds had formed a gray blanket in the sky and the earth had softened a little underfoot.

  He was glad of his new cloak and tunic. If Kendra had sewn it as she claimed she would, then she had done a fine job. The workmanship was flawless, the seams straight as reeds, the fabric beautifully cut. The cloth merchant had taken the liberty of having the cloak lined in the very color Tawl had refused. Nabber had taken a great liking to the vivid crimson and insisted on wearing his cloak inside out.

  Tawl had been relieved when he picked up the clothes to find there was no sign of the girl. He found the idea of seeing her again unsettling. He had behaved badly to her. He had been ready in fact to force himself upon her. He’d had plenty of women in his time—but inexperienced ones were another matter and he usually stayed well clear of them. An inexperienced woman needed love and romance, needed wooing with care. They formed attachments quickly and were easily heartbroken. Tawl never stayed long in any place and he knew it would not be fair on such a woman to love her and leave her.

  So he found his comforts with more seasoned women. Preferably older women, for not onl
y were they more skilled in the arts of lovemaking, but they also felt the strong pull of physical desire that a young girl could only feign. Tawl liked his women to be willing and eager, and also worldly enough to understand when he moved on in the morning.

  As a knight he was pledged never to marry. Valdis saw women as a threat; a rival claim on the loyalty of their knights. When the order was first founded marriage had been allowed, but following the Fifty Years War when nearly five thousand knights died, many of them leaving wives and children, the powers that be decided it was best in the future to avoid the tragedy of families left with no one to care for them. So marriage was forbidden. What began as a device to save wives and children from starvation eventually became a means of control. A knight was supposed to repress his natural desires and put the energy of his passions into serving Valdis.

  Tawl, like so many other knights, found he couldn’t live without the comfort of women. It seemed to him that Valdis, by disapproving of lovemaking, was in fact condemning women. They were looked upon as faithless distractions, who only served to dilute and divert the noble intentions of the knighthood. Tawl had known many women in many towns, and he knew in his heart that Valdis was wrong. Women had just the same capability for nobility as any man, and a greater potential for love and kindness. Valdis had made a mistake by stopping its knights from marrying; a man with a family cherishes and nurtures humanity. And wasn’t that the founding precept of the knighthood: to protect the sanctity of human life?

  Tawl drew his cloak about his chest. None of this excused his treatment of the cloth merchant’s daughter. At very least, knights were expected to exercise self-restraint. The girl had obviously been a virgin, out more for adventure than seduction. He knew he shouldn’t have kissed her, but the worst part was that he had been close to losing control. He had hardly known himself. If the embrace had continued a second longer, he would have been in danger of raping the girl. It little mattered that the girl was half-willing. She was young and hardly knew what she wanted. Tawl turned his face to catch the chill breath of the north wind. It was not like him to do such a thing. The girl had been too young. It was true that she had been about the same age as Megan, but Megan had been matured by her time on the streets and was schooled in the ways of passion.