by J. V. Jones
Melli unplugged the knot hole for the tenth time that day. She told herself it was to check on the progress of the storm. But the storm was coming from the east, and Melli’s gaze was to the west. Almost blinded by the whiteness, Melli searched for movement from the direction where the second man had headed.
• • •
Tavalisk lifted the cloth from the cheese and inhaled deeply. Perfect. Amateurs might first check the look of the cheese, seeing if the blue veining was substantial but still delicate. He knew better. It was the smell that told one all one needed to know. Blue cheese should have no mincing, milk-maid odor. No, this most regal of cheeses should smell like a king. Preferably a dead one. Unfortunately not everyone appreciated the smell of delicate decay wrought by the millions of spores that burrowed their way through the virgin cheese.
Yes, mused the archbishop, the smell was everything. Sharp, tantalizing, challenging, never subtle. It should rise to one’s nostrils like a whip to the back: unwanted at first, and then, as one grows accustomed to its particular pleasures, welcomed for all the delights it could bestow.
Tavalisk was a surgeon at his table as he cut into the cheese. With his little silver knife he freed himself a sizable wedge. Once its rind was breached the odor from the cheese became even more intense. It was almost dizzying. The archbishop was, at such times, as close to religious ecstasy as he was ever likely to get.
A knock sounded upon the door.
“Enter, Gamil.” Tavalisk now found that he could tell which of his various aides were awaiting his pleasure just by the sound of their knocking. Needless to say, Gamil had the most annoying knock of all: timid and impatient in one.
“Good day to Your Eminence,” offered Gamil, a little less humbly than usual.
“What news this day, Gamil?” Tavalisk did not deign to turn from his cheese.
“Your Eminence will be most interested in the news I bring. Most interested, indeed.”
“Gamil, your job is merely to keep me informed. My job is to decide what is interesting.” Tavalisk raised the crumbly cheese to his mouth. The sour taste of the mold met his palette. “Come now, Gamil, out with it. Stop sulking like a maiden with no new dress to wear at the dance.”
“Well, Your Eminence, do you remember the knight?”
“What night? Was it moonlit or overcast?” The archbishop was beginning to enjoy himself.
“No, Your Eminence. The knight of Valdis, Tawl.”
“Oh, you mean the knight. Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Of course I remember the knight. Handsome chap. No liking for the whip, though, if I remember correctly.” Tavalisk was contemplating feeding his cat some of the cheese.
“Does Your Eminence remember we were having him followed as he made his way north?”
“Do you think me a toothless dotard? I most certainly remember. There is nothing,” the archbishop showed his teeth, “nothing, you hear, that I ever forget. You would do well to remember that, Gamil.”
“Please accept my apologies, Your Eminence.”
Tavalisk could not resist. “I will accept your apologies, but I won’t forget your impertinence.” He cut a portion of cheese and held it out to his cat. The creature took one sniff and then beat a hasty retreat. “Carry on with your news, Gamil.”
“Well, as you suspected, the knight was headed to Bevlin’s cottage.”
“Do we know what transpired in that meeting?” Tavalisk was now crouched down by the base of the couch, trying to tempt his cat to eat the cheese.
“We do now, Your Eminence. One of our spies made haste back to the city just to tell us.”
“He came himself? This is most unusual. Why could he not send a messenger?” The archbishop had now caught the cat by its neck and was trying to force the cheese into its mouth.
“He deemed the news so monumental, Your Eminence, that he could not risk sharing it with another.”
“Hoping for a promotion, is he?”
“I think when Your Eminence finally hears what I have to say,” a touch of frustration could be heard in Gamil’s voice, “that you might indeed wish to reward the man in some small way.”
“Oh, might I? What news could this possibly be? Has Tyren been struck by lightning? Has Kesmont risen from the dead? Or has the knight himself turned out to be Borc incarnate?”
“No, Your Eminence. Bevlin is dead.”
Tavalisk released his hold on the cat. He stood up slowly, his weight almost too great to bear. In silence he walked to his desk. Selecting the finest brandy that waited there, he poured himself a brimming glass. It did not occur to him to offer Gamil a cup. Only after he had taken a deep draught of the potent liqueur did he speak.
“Are you sure of what you say? How reliable is this man?”
“The spy in question has worked for you for over ten years, Your Eminence. His loyalty and professionalism are beyond repute.”
“How did Bevlin die?”
“Well, our spy turned up at Bevlin’s cottage in the early hours of the morning. He looked in through the window and saw the wiseman dead on the bench. Stabbed in the heart. Anyway, he watched and waited, keeping a low profile, and then our knight came into the room. He found the dead body, and then went over the barrel, as they say.”
“Over the barrel?”
“Lost his senses, Your Eminence. According to our man, the knight crouched there with the dead man in his arms for over four hours—rocking him back and forth like a baby. Our spy was just about to leave, when the young lowlife who was traveling with the knight came in the room. The boy helped him up and so forth, but then, as soon as he left the knight alone for a minute, the knight was off: galloping into the sunset. The next day, having buried the body and secured the cottage, the boy followed him west. Our spy then made haste to Rorn.”
“Who killed the wiseman?”
“That’s the strange thing, Your Eminence. Our spy had been watching the cottage from a distance all night. No one came or went after the knight and his boy arrived.”
“Our man didn’t see the murder?”
“Alas, Your Eminence, even spies must sleep.”
The archbishop rimmed his glass with his finger. The smell of cheese, which was being wafted his way due to an open window, was for the moment distasteful to him. He covered the blue-veined round with the cloth, damping the odor.
“So, Gamil, are you saying it was the knight who did this?”
“Yes and no, Your Eminence.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that his hand might have been upon the blade, but his actions were not his own. His distress when he found the body must attest to the fact that he was an unwilling accomplice.”
“Larn.” Tavalisk spoke quietly, more to himself than Gamil. “Larn. The knight was there less than two months back. The elders of that island have long had their own agendas, and the most ingenious ways for carrying them out.” The archbishop mustered his lips to a plump parody of a smile. “Bevlin has finally paid the price for his interference.”
“Larn bears a long grudge, Your Eminence.”
“Hmm, you’ve got to admire them for that.” Tavalisk settled back in his chair. “Still, it seems a rather vindictive act. I can’t help thinking that there is more to this meal than flavor alone.”
“How so, Your Eminence?”
“Larn knows too much for its own good. Thanks to those damned seers, it has a decidedly unfair advantage when it comes to gleaning intelligence. I think that doddering old fool Bevlin was up to something they didn’t like.”
“If you are right, Your Eminence, then perhaps the knight has some inkling of Bevlin’s intent.”
Tavalisk nodded slowly. “Are we still tracking him?”
“Yes, Your Eminence. I expect to know in a day or two where he was headed. Bren seems the most likely of places at the moment. If he is there, our spies will keep us informed of his actions.”
“Very good. You may go now. I have much to think on.” The archbishop poured himself
another glass of brandy. Just as his aide reached the door, he called him back. “Before you dash off, Gamil, could you do me one small favor?”
“Certainly, Your Eminence.”
“Close all the windows and build me a fire. I am chilled despite the sun.” Tavalisk watched as his aide went about piling logs upon the hearth. “No, no, Gamil. That won’t do. You must first strip the logs of their bark. I know it will be time-consuming, but there’s no point doing a task if you’re not prepared to do it properly.”
• • •
Baralis was among the last to crest the rise. What little protection the slope of the hill had afforded was snatched away, and the north wind cut deeply once more. Absently, he massaged the gloved fingers that held the reins. This journey was yet another toll upon them. The frost had worked its insidious trade upon his joints, robbing him of precious mobility. It seemed that his hands always paid the highest price for his actions.
His position on top of the bluff did offer some consolation for the discomfort of the wind. It gave him a clear view down upon the whole of the column. He spied Maybor immediately. No drab traveler’s clothes for him. Even on a long and hazardous journey like this, the portly lord still insisted on being decked out like a peacock. Baralis tasted bile in his mouth. He was not one to spit it out, so he let it run its course upon his tongue, burning the tender flesh. How he hated that man!
He scanned the lay of the land. There were rocks beneath the snow; their jagged edges biting through the white. The downslope was more treacherous than the rise. The path twisted and dipped to accommodate the disorder of the rocks. Baralis could see that the men ahead were picking their paths carefully.
The time was right. Maybor was still only halfway down the slope. A fall from his horse at such a place, amongst a setting of rocks and sudden drops, would surely lead to death. The man’s thick and hoary neck would snap like tinderwood when it hit the cold hard earth.
Baralis checked his own path There would be a short time when he would be in danger, too. Such a drawing as he would perform required great concentration, and so he might need some extra guidance for his horse.
He looked to his flank. Crope was there, sitting miserably on a huge warhorse, hood pulled forward for concealment, not warmth. Baralis knew his servant was hating every minute of this journey. He was shy of people, a natural wariness springing from the way he was usually treated by them. People were afraid of him when alone or in small groups. Once they had a safe number, however, they began to despise him. Even on this trip, the taunting had begun. They called him “the stupid giant” and “scar features.” Baralis would have enjoyed burning the skin from their cowardly backs—no one demeaned anything of his—but now was not the time to use indiscreet force.
Now was the time for discreet force. He beckoned Crope forth and the huge man drew close. Baralis motioned to his reins and his servant took them. Not a word was said, not a question asked. They were at the rear with only the packhorses to tell of what transpired.
Once confident that Crope was in charge of his mount, Baralis felt safe to work his drawing. His sight found Maybor and then dropped lower to the man’s horse: a beautiful stallion in its prime.
Baralis reached deep within himself. The power, so familiar, yet so intoxicating, flared up to meet him. He felt a wave of nausea followed by the unbearable sense of loss as he forsook himself and entered the beast. The sour tang of horse sweat met his nostrils. Gone at last was the chill of the wind. He knew only warmth.
Pulsing, all-enclosing warmth. Through hair and skin and fat, through muscle and gristle and bone. Speed was of the essence: danger awaited those who lingered too long in a beast. Quickly he bypassed the belly and all its beguiling intricacies. Up toward the core. He felt the mighty press of the lungs and fought against their powerful suction. The heart beckoned him forth, using its rhythm as a lure. The rest of the body danced to its beat.
Bounded by muscle, snarled with tubes, terrifying in its strength: the heart.
He fell into the pulse of its contractions, became one with the ebb and the flow. Into the hollow he went. A frightening rush of blood and pressure rose to meet him. Through the caverns he traveled, along the channels he sped, until he eventually reached the last. The beginning of the cycle. He found what he came for: a stretch of sinew as tough as old leather, yet thinner, so much thinner, than silk. The valve. He reached out, encircling it with his will. And then rent forth.
Back he snapped like a sapling in a gale. It was so cold and pale, and finally so dark. He tasted the bitter residue of sorcery in his mouth, and then he knew no more.
• • •
Maybor was well satisfied with the way things were progressing. He was at the head of eight score of men, counting the attendants, and if he did say so himself, their loyalty—bar only two—was unquestioningly with him.
He saw the respect in the men’s eyes and noted their deference to him in all matters. It was just how it should be; after all, he did hold superior rank. He noticed the way the men admired everything from his judgment to his fineness of dress. Not for him a dull traveler’s gray. No. He was a great lord and it was fitting that he look the part at all times. Who could guess when they might chance upon someone in this white wilderness whom he might need to impress?
Traveling had definite drawbacks, though. The wind was a devil, and he was quite sure it was blowing the very hair from his scalp. He’d awoken on several mornings to find hair on his pillow. The thought of going bald terrified Maybor, and deciding that it was indeed the fault of the wind, he had taken to wearing a large, furry bearskin hat as protection. At first he had been a little worried about how he might look to his men in such a girlish thing as a hat. But now he’d decided that he looked like a legendary invader from beyond the Northern Ranges and fancied that it added to his mystique.
Borc, but he needed a woman! Three weeks celibate! It was enough to drive a lesser man to perversion. Not him, though. If he couldn’t have a woman, then he preferred to drink himself into oblivion each night. Unfortunately oblivion had its price. His head felt dull and heavy from too much ale, and he had to concentrate to sit his stallion in the manner that befitted a lord.
To add to his troubles, the path they were traveling was steep and treacherous. He hated riding downward. He preferred not to see the perils, just take them blindly. However the way was so twisting and precarious that he was forced to bend all his concentration to the task in hand.
They had just come upon a particularly hazardous trail, and were forced to ride one man at a time, when Maybor felt his horse grow skittish. He pulled hard on the reins. This was not the time for the creature to misbehave. He advanced a few feet farther and then he felt the stallion tremble and lurch. The creature tossed its head and tried to buck the lord from his back. Maybor was having none of this and pulled on the reins with all his might. The horse became frantic and broke into a gallop. Maybor could feel the wild pounding of its heart beneath his thighs. Down the path it sprinted, forcing two other riders out of its way. Maybor was becoming scared. He held on as the horse picked up speed.
Then, suddenly, in a scintilla of an instant, the horse dropped beneath him. Maybor was flung forward by the force of his own momentum. He flew through the air and then down the hillside. His body was thrown against rocks and stones. Pain burst into his leg and back. Downward he careened toward a sheer drop.
He saw it coming and knew what it meant. He sped toward his end with a prayer on his lips. Then he hit a rounded boulder. The rock bounced him like a ball and altered his course. Instead of taking the drop, he landed, crash, in the middle of a growth of thorny bushes.
His head was reeling, his leg splitting with pain. Thorns bit into his flesh, perilously close to his vitals.
Then the men were upon him, helping him up and fussing and squawking. “Lord Maybor are you all right?” said one sap-faced boy.
“Of course I’m not all right, you fool! I’ve just been hurled down a hillside!”
And then, as two others tried to pull him up, “Careful, you idiots. I am not a wishbone to be pulled.”
“Is anything broken, my lord?” ventured one of his captains.
“How in Borc’s name would I know if anything is broken? Get me the surgeon.”
The captain conferred with a junior for a moment. “The surgeon is awaiting your pleasure where the ground is more stable.”
“You mean he is too lily-livered to risk his neck by coming down here.” Maybor slapped hard at the man who was trying to free his leg from the bush. “Tell the good surgeon that if he doesn’t get down here this instant, I will personally perform on him the only operation I know how to: castration!” Maybor made sure his last word had enough strength to carry up the hillside.
Eventually he was freed from the bush and placed on a litter. Two soldiers carried him back to the path. The party had halted and tents were being raised. The first tent up was the surgeon’s and Maybor was duly ushered in.
“So tell me, physician. Are there any bones a’broken?” Maybor was in considerable pain, but was not about to betray that fact to anyone else.
“Well, my lord, these things are hard to ascertain—”
“All you damned physicians are the same,” interrupted Maybor. “Mincing around the facts. Never committing yourselves to anything more than a maybe. Aagh!” The last syllable was uttered as the surgeon removed a long spiky thorn from the lord’s posterior. Maybor looked around in time to see a smug expression quickly concealed. “Are they all out, then?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Are you quite sure you wouldn’t like a conference to confirm that? It sounded suspiciously like a straight answer to me.”
The surgeon was impervious to Maybor’s sarcasm. “Perhaps my lord might like to try and stand?” He helped Maybor to his feet, where, to the lord’s astonishment, he found he could walk.
“It is as I thought,” said the physician. “No bones broken.” Maybor was about to point out to the man that he had thought no such thing, when the physician thrust a cup of foul-smelling liquid into his hand.