by J. V. Jones
“Eastward is the usual route.” The captain shrugged. “Whatever way, it is no concern of yours.”
“How so?” Melli was beginning to feel anger at his smugness.
“Spoils of war, my dear. You’re mine to do with how I please.” With that the captain executed a singularly contemptuous bow and walked over to the door. “And it pleases me to make a healthy profit.” He stepped from the room and closed and locked the door behind him.
Melli’s hand stole toward her side. She felt the fabric of her dress and then the hardness of the boned corset. Just above her waist, her fingers found what they’d been searching for: the knife. It was still there, pressed against her rib cage. Blood-warm and metal-smooth, it was now her only comfort; whatever happened next, at least she had a blade.
Four
Rotten lamb! Rotten pork! Bring your rotten meat here!”
Nabber was intrigued by this call and pushed through the crowds toward the man who was shouting. “What d’you want with rotten meat?” he asked. Nabber was always open to the possibility of a new ploy.
“Have you got any?”
“No.”
“Well, don’t stand around wasting my time then.”
“I could get some, though, if you make it worth my while.”
“Don’t be stupid, boy. There’s no money in rotten meat. It’s charity. For the lepers.”
“You give your lepers rotten meat?” The man nodded and Nabber continued, admiringly, “You treat your lepers well in Bren, we give ’em nothing in Rorn.”
“The duke is famous for his good works.” The man smiled the smile of the morally superior and urged Nabber along.
Nabber was beginning to like Bren. At first it had seemed like a cold fish of a city when compared to his beloved Rorn, but it was beginning to grow on him. Now that he’d been in the city for a few days, he realized he had been wrong about there being no smell. Bren did have an odor: a subtle festering. Once his young nostrils finally picked up on this he began to feel decidedly more at home. In fact, he was now starting to think that there was really little difference between the two cities. Bren was just cleverer when it came to hiding its flaws.
Of course the cold was an entirely different matter. He just wasn’t born for the snow. True, a man could wear a most handsome cloak in the cold, but it just wasn’t enough. Thanks to a well-to-do but unsuspecting salt merchant, he had managed to procure some rather fine pigskin gloves. They were far too big, however, and hung limply on his hands like just-milked cow’s udders. So he didn’t wear them. He prided himself on being well turned out: Swift would have expected no less.
He had the beginnings of a healthy contingency once more. Bren was an affluent city. The traders’ market was proving to be fertile ground. Oh, Bren had pockets of its own, but from what he’d seen, they were sadly lacking in finesse. A quick snatch and grab. What skill was there in that? Swift, had he been dead—which was quite possible, given his risky line of business—would have turned in his grave.
Nabber forced his way through the crowds. Due to his diminutive size and the great clamor of people, he couldn’t see where he was going. This was only a problem when he bumped his shin painfully against a stone fountain. “Borc’s breath!” he muttered, rubbing his leg. “What’s the use of all these fountains?” Since he’d been here, he’d noticed that there was hardly a street corner that didn’t boast a fountain or a decorative pool. Only they didn’t look very decorative with their dark, bird-dropping-stained stone. In fact, they looked rather depressing. Doubtless the man who’d built the city had a great love of water, either that or he took a fiendish delight in placing fountains just where they’d cause the most inconvenience. Like here.
Nabber was beginning to feel a little annoyed; his shin was throbbing and he was having no luck locating Tawl.
The trouble was that tall, golden-haired men just weren’t as rare here as they were in Rorn. He’d asked people if they’d seen a golden-haired stranger and had been sent on various forays to all four corners of the city. So far he’d found a sheepherder from Ness, a fortune-teller from Lanholt, and a pimp from Dourhaven. But no Tawl. The pimp had been most accommodating, though, even offered to help him look. But the man hinted at the time-honored tradition of a favor for a favor, and Nabber didn’t think he’d be willing to oblige with what might be asked.
So that left him nowhere. Well, more exactly, it left him at the foot of an inconvenient and ugly fountain.
It was early morning, and the day offered thin light and sharp breezes. Bren was yet another city of early risers, and the streets were already crowded with people going about their business. Commerce was the great and invisible bond that held the city together. Nabber could feel its pull, and it was like a caress to him. He hurried on his way to the traders’ market.
The pickpocket’s art lay in its subtlety. The secret was in the touch, and the trick was to make your victim believe that it was purely accidental. The touch could range from a gentle brushing of an arm to a plunderous fall into the crowd. Body contact was what counted. Nabber could turn a pat on the shoulder into a delve into a tunic, an arm outstretched to steady himself into an exploration of a purse. The art of the pocket was similar to that of the magician: it was all sleight of hand. A magician had his flick of the wrist, a pocket had his furtive fingerings.
The most important skill to those who valued their art—and Nabber, having been taught by an expert, counted himself among their number—was the lift. If a man had a goodly weight of coins nestled in his tunic, he would feel their loss as keenly as a missing tooth if the lift wasn’t done right. The pocket must withdraw swiftly, but also carefully. He mustn’t lift the package too quickly away from the body. The pressure should be gradually diminished, lest the body detect the sudden change.
Of course, a distraction round about this time helped, and Nabber made a point of picking a mark who was either engrossed in conversation, in a hurry to be on his way, or watching a spectacle. Pretty young ladies were the most reliable spectacle. A man will forget what time of day it is when a shapely figure walks past.
There were other techniques: ways of slipping rings from fingers and bracelets from wrists, ways of taking knives from scabbards and fur from collars. There was more than one way to rob a mark.
The best thing about pocketing to Nabber was the way no one was hurt. It was not a violent or threatening crime. It didn’t even deprive a man of all his worldly goods, like robbing his house would. It just left a man short of coinage and trinkets. And to Nabber, it was a matter of honor that he always picked people who could well afford to replace both.
By midmorning his tunic was sporting some unusual but profitable bulges. Nabber could tell from the soft clink of metals against his belly that gold had been acquired. Gold had a sound all of its own, and music could be heard in its janglings.
Once he’d confirmed this supposition—a quick trip down a long alleyway—he decided a fine breakfast was in order. He had a fancy for nice surroundings and a blazing fire. He spied a group of rich-looking merchants, one of whom was familiar and would doubtless find himself short later in the day, and decided to follow them. The plump ones always knew where the best eating was.
He was led to a well-kept inn name of Cobb’s Cranny. A rosy-cheeked man came forward to greet the merchants. He was all welcomes and solicitudes, bringing warm blankets and hot toddies, ordering the fire to be bellowed and the tables to be laid. His air of genial supervision led Nabber to conclude that the host was none other than Cobb himself.
Once the merchants were settled to his satisfaction, the innkeeper turned his attention to Nabber. “Servants round the back, boy.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, sir,” said Nabber. “I am no servant. But I will gladly take my business elsewhere, though I’ve heard the name of Cobb’s Cranny on many a well-fed man’s lips and was hoping to try your famous special.” Nabber knew he was on a safe bet with the famous special. There was not an inn or hostelry
in the whole of the Known Lands that did not boast a famous special.
The innkeeper relented. “I must ask to see your money first, young man.” Nabber pulled out one gold coin. The innkeeper nodded. “Now would you care for the special boiled or fried?”
“I’ve been told fried is best.”
Nabber settled himself in a comfortable upholstered chair that was as close to the fire as he could manage, since the merchants had formed a barricade around it. He poured himself a glass of bitter and foamy ale and settled down to enjoy himself.
Now, quite apart from his skills as a pocket, Nabber had another accomplishment he was proud of. He had what was known in Rorn as “big ears.” That is to say, he had the hearing of a fox. His time as a lookout had honed this skill to a fine art. Everyone knew lookouts should be more accurately termed listenouts. Down in the darkened streets of Rorn, under the mantle of the night, you heard a man before you saw him.
Nabber could never pass up an opportunity to practice this skill and had been an uninvited party to countless conversations in taverns too numerous to mention. You could never tell when a casual remark between two companions might prove profitable. Not that profit was his only motive, though it was the only honorable one. The truth was that Nabber was just plain curious.
He sat back in his comfortable chair and listened to the conversation between the merchants. They were talking about the proposed marriage of the duke’s daughter.
“I tell you, Fengott,” said the fat one, “I’m not so sure about the whole thing. What do we want with a prince from the Four Kingdoms coming here and ruling our city? Bren’s doing just fine without him.”
“The duke seems set on it, though. I must say, I don’t think he’s got any intention of letting Prince Kylock come here and take his place. As I see it, the duke intends to use the kingdoms as his personal stockpile. Grain and timber we’ll have aplenty.”
“Aye,” said the third one. “A marriage for the duke’s convenience, that’s all.”
“From what I’ve heard that prince will be getting quite a handful.” The fat man looked around and then lowered his voice. “ ’Tis rumored that Catherine’s no blushing virgin.”
“I wouldn’t say that in the duke’s hearing, if I were you, Pulrod,” said the one named Fengott. “A man would be sent to the gallows for such talk.”
“Aye, but not before he’d been tortured first,” chipped in the third one.
Nabber lost track of the conversation as the innkeeper brought him a huge steaming bowl of fried goose feet. Goose feet! His stomach turned at the sight of them. All that talk in Rorn about northerners being barbarians was obviously true.
“Eat up,” said the man who could be Cobb. “There’s plenty more where they came from.”
Nabber wasn’t generally a fussy eater, but he drew the line at trotters, tongues, and feet. The innkeeper hovered over him, anxiously awaiting his first taste. Nabber took a deep breath and buried his face in his hands.
“What’s the matter, my boy?” The innkeeper was instantly concerned.
“It’s the goose feet,” said Nabber, shoulders shaking. “I thought I’d be able to face them after all this time, but the sight of them reminds me too much of my dead mother.”
“She had feet like a goose?”
Nabber buried his head deeper. “No, she used to cook them for me—just like this. They were my favorites. The sight of them is more than I can bear.”
The innkeeper ordered the bowl to be removed. He placed a comforting hand on Nabber’s shoulder. “I understand, my boy. I’ll have something else prepared, no extra cost.”
“Thank you, kind sir. I’m most grateful. Could you make sure it’s pork or lamb?”
Goose feet! What sort of place has goose feet as its special? Nabber took a draught of ale and waited upon his second course. His ears strayed back to the merchants.
“The pits have been dead this season,” said the one named Fengott. “It’s hardly worth placing a bet. I haven’t seen a good fight all month.”
“You’re right. There’s been no decent challengers to the duke’s champion for half a year now. They’re all fighting like women who don’t want their dresses creased.”
“I did see someone who might be promising,” said the fat one.
“When?”
“Just last night. Big golden-haired fellow, not from round here by all accounts. He fought like a madman. Tore his opponent’s arm off right before my very eyes.”
“What’s his name?”
“No one knows. Some say he’s a knight. He keeps a rag bound to his forearm. You know, the place where knights are branded with their circles.”
“He can’t be a knight,” said the third one. “They’re not allowed to fight for profit.” The other men grunted in agreement.
“Where was he fighting?” asked Fengott. “I wouldn’t mind taking a look at him.”
“Chapel Lane is where I saw him, but I think he’s a free lance, so can fight where he pleases.”
“Well, I’ll keep an eye out for him. I’m always looking for a fair wager.”
“Here, have you seen that new road they’re building . . .”
Nabber withdrew his hearing and sat very still. Before him a dish of spiced lamb went unnoticed. The fighter was Tawl. He was sure of it. But where there should have been gladness, there was despair instead. What had become of his friend? The man he knew would never fight in a pit like a mercenary. Nabber knew it was time he faced the truth. Tawl had murdered Bevlin. He had stowed this fact in the deepest recess of his mind, hoping it would eventually be forgotten. But truths, particularly ugly ones, burrowed like worms and eventually found their way to the surface.
Still, Tawl was his friend, and friendship was sacred. At the tenderest spot in his still young heart, Nabber could not believe Tawl had acted willingly.
He laid a gold coin on the table—more than enough to cover the cost of the geese feet as well as the spiced lamb—and took his leave. He asked a passerby the way to Chapel Lane and set his path accordingly.
• • •
Jack sat alone on the straw-filled pallet that was now his bed. They had given him a room of his own; judging from the furnishings it was normally the women’s bedchamber. He didn’t know what they wanted with him. He suspected he’d merely been caught up in some internal squabble between the Halcus. None of that mattered. Melli was dead.
“She’s dead,” the girl had said. Her voice cold and without compassion. So similar to the last time he’d heard those words.
His mother had died when he was nine summers old. A growth forming first in her breast and then spreading to her lungs. She coughed up blood for a full year before her death. She tried to hide the bloodstained rags from him, stuffing them deep within her embroidery basket while he slept. Only he wasn’t asleep. He couldn’t fall asleep until he’d seen the rags and made sure they were no more bloodied than normal. But too often they were. So he would wash them for her; rubbing the stain against the stone by the light of a midnight candle. The next morning he’d rise early and take the drying rags from the grate. After he’d softened them by rubbing the fabric against his palm, he’d slip them into her basket. When his mother wakened, she would find the newly cleaned strips, and they could both pretend for a while that there had never been any blood.
It got so bad near the end that rags weren’t enough, so he ripped up his tunics to give to her. At the very end, she was kept from him. Whispered words of warning barred her door. Jack’s only consolation was the light that stole from under the panel. As long as it shone, the candles still burned, and while they burned, she still lived.
Crope was the last to talk to his mother. Even now, Jack could remember the huge giant emerging from the doorway, tears in his eyes, hand in his tunic. How he hated Crope for being called to her side. No call came for him.
For three days he was not allowed to see her. And then there was nothing to see. The light disappeared from under the door. The cellar
steward’s wife came. “She’s dead,” she said. “No use getting upset. Make yourself useful by scrubbing those pots. You wouldn’t want to turn into a burden.”
So he’d scrubbed pots the day his mother died, and scoured the floors the next. It had helped, in a way, for a tired and aching boy, whose fingertips bled from using coarse brushes, had little time or strength to think of his mother. He realized half a year later that he could no longer remember what she looked like before the illness. He’d scrubbed the memory clean away along with the pots and the pans.
Jack’s fist came crashing down on the side of the pallet. The wood cracked and splintered. Melli was dead. He would not forget her with the same faithless haste. It was all his fault. He should never have left her to deal with the body. He should never have killed the man in the first place.
The girl called Tarissa stepped into the room. “What’s going on?”
Jack regarded her coldly and said nothing. She spotted where the wood had been punched. “You did that?” Her voice was flat, neutral in more ways than one. Neutral in its careful lack of emotion, and neutral in its dialect. She had neither the kingdom’s lilt of her mother, nor the Halcus accent of Rovas.
“Look, I’m sorry about the girl,” she said.
“Are you?” Her sympathy made him angry. “Or was it just part of your plan?” Jack could still feel the pressure of Melli’s last touch upon his hand. The memory of their final parting was new and painful, and he ground his knuckles into the splintered wood.
“Plan?”
Again Jack’s fist came down upon the wood. The girl stepped back, momentarily frightened. “Innocence doesn’t suit you,” he said. “Don’t expect me to believe that you and Rovas were up near the frozen pond for the good of your health.” The splinters drew blood. Why had they saved him, not Melli? His life was worthless. No one would mourn his passing. But Melli, she might have been a queen. She was beautiful and proud, and the day he’d turned against the mercenaries and blasted them with a mixture of rage and sorcery, she had saved his life. With his mind gone and his body failing, Melli had dragged him for leagues across the forest to find shelter.