The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  “Here, drink this,” he said.

  Maybor downed the concoction in one gulp. It tasted just like his first wife’s holk: fishy and lacking the sting of a decent drink. He yawned. “What’s this foul brew good for?”

  “It’s a sleeping draft. It’ll make you drowsy in no time.”

  Maybor felt his lids growing heavy. Suddenly worried, he hobbled back to the stretcher. Laying himself down he said, “Am I that bad that I need to sleep like an old man on his deathbed?” Maybor’s eyes began to close of their own accord. Just as he fell into a warm dark trance, he could have sworn he heard the physician reply:

  “No, you’ll survive either way. But with this method I’ll get some peace.”

  Two

  Bren, the fortress city. The rock of the north. Set between the mountains and the great lake, Bren was built only for war. The mountains flanked the west and south, the lake lay to the north. The only clear approach to the city was from the eastern plains. And never was there a more carefully constructed site than Bren’s eastern wall. It was designed with one basic function: to promote fear in the eyes of all who approached. Its granite towers pierced the clouds, issuing an unspoken challenge to God in his heavens. The mountains, from their position behind the city, seemed to back up this challenge like sentinels.

  The outer wall was as smooth as a blade; the individual stones almost undetectable. The mason’s art had reached its highest pinnacle in Bren. The walls gleamed with arrogance. They mocked all who approached, saying “scale me if you dare.” Cleverly designed recesses caught shadows in the morning sun. A sharp eye could detect their presence, but a keen mind only guess at their uses.

  Probably for pouring hot oil and the like, thought Nabber. Or to conceal a well-placed archer. He whistled in appreciation. They had no such fancy stuff in Rorn.

  The boy joined the throng of people lining up to enter the city. He took off his cloak, reversed it so that the scarlet lining was on the inside once more, and put it back on. He had need of some coinage, and at such times it was best not to be too conspicuous.

  He did a quick scan of the people waiting to walk through the gate. Not much prospecting here, that was sure. A distinctly mottled and poor-looking lot; farmers and beggars and worse. Not a plump and well-fed merchant among them. Just his luck, he’d picked the wrong gate.

  “Here you,” he cried to the tall, lanky guard who was on his side of the gate. “Yes, you, string-o-beans.”

  “What d’you think you’re doing addressing the duke’s guard in that manner?”

  “Sorry, my friend. I meant no offense. Where I come from, calling a man string-o-beans is considered a compliment.” Nabber beamed brightly at the guard and waited for the inevitable question.

  “Where d’you come from then?”

  “Rorn. The finest city in the east. A place where men who are as unusually tall and lanky as yourself are in great demand with the women.”

  The guard’s face registered interest and disbelief in equal measure. He sighed heavily. “What d’you want?”

  “Information, my good friend.”

  “Not a spy, are you?”

  “Of course I am. Been sent by the archbishop of Rorn himself.”

  “All right, all right. None of that lip, or I won’t let you pass.”

  Nabber smiled his winning smile. “Where do all the merchants enter the city?”

  “What’s that to you?”

  “I lost my gaffer, that’s what.” Nabber was never caught short of a quick story. “Fur merchant, he is. I wondered where the best place to look for him is.”

  “The northeast gate is where all the merchants pass. Two courtyards south is the traders’ market. You might find him there.”

  “I’m in your debt, my friend,“ said Nabber. “Though I wonder if I might impose upon your extensive knowledge of the city for a moment longer.”

  The guard fell for the flattery. “Go on.”

  “Well, situated as you are, in a most important post, you must see a lot of the people who enter the city?”

  “That I do.”

  “Well, there’s an acquaintance of mine, whom I have good reason to believe may have come this way. I wonder if you might have seen him.”

  The guard’s face hardened. “I’m not supposed to give out information like that to foreigners. Who passes these gates is Bren’s business, not yours.”

  “Suppose I was to tell you that this man has robbed a great deal of money from my gaffer? We both know that there ain’t anyone more wealthy or generous than a fur merchant.” Nabber resisted the urge to speak further and allowed the guard to come to his own conclusions. Which he did.

  “Reward, is there?”

  “Ssh, my friend. Speak that word any louder and half the city will be after it.”

  “How big is this reward?”

  “I don’t like to mention exact figures, if you know what I mean.” Nabber waited until the guard nodded. “But suffice to say, there’d be enough to set you up real nice for your retirement. Even go to Rorn, you could. A man as handsome as yourself is wasted in this city.”

  “How do I know you’re speaking the truth?”

  “Do I look clever enough to fool you?”

  The only answer the guard could possibly give was “No.”

  “Right,” said Nabber. “This man I’m looking for is taller than you, but not as lanky. Broad, he is, and well muscled. Blond hair, blue eyes, handsome, if you like that kind of thing. Wearing a cloak like myself, he would be.”

  “What would he be doing wearing a cloak like yours?” The guard was suspicious.

  “He stole it from my gaffer, of course. My gaffer always likes to dress me like himself, says it makes for better business recognition.” Nabber sent a silent prayer of thanks to the fictional fur merchant who was turning out to be so useful.

  The guard took a step back, scratched his chin, looked at Nabber, looked at the ground, looked toward the east. Finally he spoke. “There was a man fitting your description. Entered the city on horseback about five days ago. Tall and blond, he was. Right mean-looking, too.” He thought a moment longer. “And come to think of it, he did have a cloak like yours. I remember the bright red lining.”

  It took all of Nabber’s considerable powers of self-control to stop himself from heaving a massive sigh of relief. The memory of Swift’s voice echoed in his ear: “Nonchalance, boy, never show interest. Let them think you’re a fool, rather than know you’re a rogue.”

  Nabber shrugged. “Could be our man. Do you happen to know which part of the city he headed for?”

  The guard looked a little disappointed at Nabber’s casualness. “There’s no way of knowing that, boy. In a city the size of Bren, a man might go unseen for a lifetime.”

  “Five days ago, you say? Is there anywhere in the city where a man with a strong arm and a skill for using weapons might head?”

  “In my experience, men like that blond no-hope end up in one of two places: the brothel or the fight pit.”

  “Where might I find either of those establishments?”

  “On any street corner in the west of the city.”

  Nabber was itching to be on his way. “So, my friend, give me your name so I can let my gaffer know who it was who gave me the tip-off.”

  “Longtoad.”

  “My, my. I see you have a name as handsome as your figure. Well, Longtoad, I’ll be sure to pass on the good word.” Nabber sketched a hasty bow and was about to retreat when the guard laid a hand upon his shoulder, gripping his flesh through the cloak.

  “Not so fast, you little devil. I want to know the name of your gaffer the fur merchant—and your own name, for that matter.”

  “Steady on the fabric, Longtoad. This cloak cost a fortune.” The guard relaxed his hold. “Now then, my gaffer’s name is Master Beaverpelt, and me, I’m known as Wooly-hair. Just ask any fur trader; the name Beaverpelt is a byword for quality throughout the Known Lands.”

  The guard released hi
s grip on the boy. “Beaverpelt. Ain’t never heard a name like that before. You mark my words, boy, if I find you’ve been oiling my rag, I’ll hunt you down, then string you up. Now move along sharpish.”

  Nabber saluted the guard and then slipped into the crowd. He crossed the threshold of the east gate and entered the city of Bren. The first thing he did was sniff the air. Nothing. Where was the smell? Rorn reeked of filth and the sea—where was Bren’s smell? He took another deep breath, drawing the air into his nostrils like a connoisseur. There was no smell. How could Bren call itself a city and yet have no odor of its own? Nabber had been to Toolay, Ness, and Rainhill: they all had their own unique smells. He was disappointed. The stench of a city was its signature; a way to tell the nature of the place and its people. To Nabber’s mind, there was something decidedly furtive about a city that had no smell.

  A man jostled against him, muttering curses and warnings. He was tall and dark, his tunic stretching tautly across a finely muscled chest. Nabber couldn’t help himself. With one fast and fluid motion, he reached inside the man’s tunic. His hands closed around a bundle. He snatched his arm back and then turned into the crowd. He didn’t look back. Swift had warned him many times about the dangers of looking back. He didn’t speed his pace, either, once again heeding Swift’s advice: “Be a professional at all times, boy. The moment you break into a run is the moment you admit your guilt.”

  Nabber went with the crowd as far as it suited him and then slipped into a timely alleyway. Bren might have no smell, but at least it boasted some decently dark and fiendish passages. Nabber began to feel more at his ease as he walked through the gaps between buildings: this was familiar territory.

  He trod paths that had been trodden many times before by people more desperate than himself, and fell under shadows that had cloaked those with more need for concealment than a simple pocket from Rorn. Nabber was right at home. He came across other people lurking in the alleyways and either tipped them a nod if they looked friendly, or averted his eyes if they looked dangerous.

  Finally he came upon a suitably isolated recess. Crouching down, he reached in his sack and pulled out the bundle. This was the best part, right before the unraveling, when anticipation met need. With practiced hands he undressed the package. The cold glint of silver met his eye. He was disappointed; better the warm glow of gold. Still, coinage was coinage. Pity about the mark, though, for he had the look of one who held gold somewhere on his person. Probably strapped to his thigh, close to his vitals. Few pockets were ever desperate enough to venture there.

  Nabber sighed with the regret and rummaged through the contents of the sack. A lot could be learned about a man from the bundle he carried. This one would have eaten a cold—and Nabber discovered rather tasteless—game pie for dinner. However, the man was used to good things, for the bundle was lined with silk. He’d also been hoping to get lucky, for there was a sheep’s bladder beneath the pie, oiled and ready to use. The man either had an aversion for fatherhood or a fear of the ghones.

  Nabber pulled absently on the bladder, deciding its worth. There was no resale value, but he was loath to throw anything away, so he tucked it into his pack. Perhaps he could give it to Tawl when he found him. A handsome man like his friend always had women a’queing. Unfortunately the women who were the most willing were usually the most catching. A man had need of a sheath with girls like that.

  Nabber was just about to discard the bundle when something blue and shiny caught his eye. Closer inspection revealed a tiny miniature tucked away in the corner. He freed it from its hiding place and brought it into the light. He whistled in appreciation. The girl in the painting was quite a beauty: golden hair, blue eyes, lips as soft as freshly hung tripe. The dark man with the muscles had a fine taste in ladies, if not food. Flipping the miniature over revealed writing on the other side. Nabber was no scholar, so the text remained unread, but he could recognize crosses that marked kisses as quick as the next man. With a shrug, he pocketed the portrait and turned his eyes to the pie.

  Nabber finished it off and wondered what his next move should be. He had need of more money, as his contingency had been sadly depleted due to his stay in Rainhill. Dicing had ever been his downfall, that together with his tendency to order extravagant meals at even more extravagant inns, had rendered him penniless. He’d even had to sell his pony. Though, granted that wasn’t a great sacrifice. Never had there been a more mutually agreeable parting than the one between Nabber and his horse.

  So, he needed coinage. And a few well-worn silvers just weren’t enough for a boy with expensive tastes like himself. He also needed to find the knight.

  Tawl was somewhere in the city, he was almost certain of it. The guard at the gate had merely confirmed his suspicions. Nabber had followed the knight’s trail for over three weeks now, visiting villages that Tawl had passed through, following paths that Tawl had ridden on. Nabber had talked to countless strangers about the knight, and if they’d seen him pass they remembered a man with golden hair and dangerously blank eyes.

  Tawl needed him. It wasn’t in the boy’s nature to ask too many questions, so he didn’t dwell on the reason why. He just knew that the knight was in trouble and required rescuing. Nabber was the one who would step in and do the job.

  He knew that Tawl had been on some heroic quest, the sort that knights were always on, and he feared that his friend might have given up his duty. Nabber considered it his responsibility to put the knight back on track. It was different for him: once a lowlife, always a lowlife. He had no desire to be anything other than a pocket, unless of course it was to be a rich pocket. But Tawl, well, he was noble and honorable, and it just wasn’t right that he should go astray. Who could tell? By helping his friend, he might be helping himself. Quests were notorious money spinners.

  He looked up past the darkened buildings to the sky above. It was already past midday; time to get a move on. In his experience, it was at about this time that merchants, with a full morning of trading behind them and before they’d had a chance to spend their profits in the taverns, had the fullest pockets. Nabber struck a path toward the northeast gate, where, if memory served him, the traders’ market was held. Opportunity beckoned and he was never one to ignore the call.

  • • •

  “I’m just going out for a minute. I need to stretch my legs.” Jack knew Melli would protest.

  “But the blizzard’s still raging. You’ll catch your death,” she said. “Can’t you wait and see if it clears up a little first?”

  She was worried about him, he could tell from the set of her mouth: soft lips drawn to a hard line. Well, she would just have to worry; he needed some air. Four days holed up in a chicken coop had taken their toll. He had to be outside, see the expanse of the land rather than the enclosure of the walls. He needed to be by himself.

  He didn’t want to hurt Melli by telling her that, so he said, “Nature calls.”

  A flush came to her cheeks, but even her embarrassment at the mention of such an indelicate subject was not enough to forestall a warning. “Don’t venture far.”

  Jack couldn’t help but smile—a man could love a woman like that. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I won’t be gone long.” Their eyes met and, as if something in her gaze compelled him, he stretched out his hand. It hung in the air between them until her hand stretched out to meet it. Her fingers were cool and her touch light, but it was enough for Jack, who knew little of such things. He resisted the urge to squeeze and enfold her hand: he didn’t want to risk rejection. So he withdrew quickly and, he knew, awkwardly from her touch.

  They had been together many months now, and although shared danger had brought them closer, there would always be a distance between them. She was a noblewoman and he was a baker’s boy, and they could travel hand in hand for a lifetime and still end up a world apart.

  Night after night they had spent huddled close with only a stretch of blanket between them. Jack knew how she smelled in the morning; he’d seen
her laugh and shout, but never cry. He knew just enough about her to realize that she would never be for him. There would be no future in a relationship between them; love, there might be, but that wouldn’t be enough for either of them. He needed a girl who he could hug and kiss and fight with. A girl with spirit, like Melli, but one who didn’t make him feel as if he were a clumsy country boy.

  Jack turned to the door and began to force it back against the wind. A flurry of snow gusted forth into the chicken coop. Jack looked back at Melli before stepping out into the blizzard. She didn’t smile. She stood rigid with the gale blowing at her dark hair. Too beautiful by far for him.

  The door closed with the cut of the wind the moment he let it go. Biting, terrible cold assaulted him, rife and sparring snow blinded him. He’d only walked a few steps when his foot kicked something hard. He crouched down and felt what it was. The body of the man he’d killed four days ago. It had to be moved. For Melli. He wouldn’t let the first thing she saw once the storm passed be a dead man.

  Hands already graying with cold sought out the collar of the dead man’s tunic. The body was embedded deep within the snow and took all of Jack’s strength to free it. With grim determination, he began to drag the body along the ground. The snow was nearly two feet deep and the corpse cleaved through it like a plow.

  Another man dead. How many more would he kill? At least this had been a clean death. No taint of sorcery had marked this man’s end. He’d killed with a blade and there was more dignity in the death because of it. Or was he fooling himself? Did it make any difference to the Halcus soldier? Sorcery or blade, he was still dead. The mourning would be the same.

  Jack’s arms began to ache. His back felt like it would break. His hands had passed through gray to blue, and he knew enough about the cold to realize that frostbite would soon follow. Dragging the man’s body through the snow was his penance. Master Frallit had told him many times that a man should pay for his mistakes. If he cut too much butter into the dough and it baked closer to a cake than a loaf, the master baker would allow him nothing to eat for a week except the ruined bread. Jack had resented Frallit’s hard ways at the time, but now he grasped on to the idea of atonement with an eagerness born of self-reproach.