The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  “Aye, Grift. If the weather holds, we’ll be in Bren in two days time.”

  “It’s when we reach Bren that the real drama will begin, Bodger.”

  “How so, Grift?”

  “Well, no one in Bren knows yet that Kylock is now king. If you ask me, Bodger, the people there will get mighty jittery when they find that out. Betrothing a girl to a prince is an entirely different matter than betrothing her to a king.”

  “I thought it would be more of an honor, Grift.”

  “Bren’s not a city that likes to be upstaged; it needs to be the dominant force in any alliance. Mark my words, Bodger, there’ll be trouble when we reach our destination.”

  • • •

  The sun disappeared behind a bank of clouds. Night was pushing its suit and the day would soon succumb.

  It was cold in the garden and the snow crackled underfoot like long-dead leaves. The breath of the two men could be seen whitening, crystallizing. When they drew close, which they did from time to time, there was a certain intimacy in the crossing of their breaths.

  Jack was amazed by Rovas’ stamina. Although the man was possibly twenty years older than himself, he moved with the speed of a stag and fought with the endurance of an ox. Jack was feeling at a distinct disadvantage. They were fighting with long staffs—a weapon that tested a man’s strength more than his reflexes. Jack was beginning to realize how very little he knew about combat. Up until this point his only weapon had been a pig-gutting knife, and although it had helped him kill a man, it had been frenzy not skill that had placed the blade.

  The wood came together with a blunt cracking sound. Once again Rovas pushed him back. Jack turned his staff. His opponent was faster and the wood met again. Rovas chuckled. “Waste of a blow, boy. Shouldn’t have bothered.” With a lightning quick movement he disengaged his staff, took a step back, released his fore-grip, and used the staff as a spear. He slashed at Jack’s shoulder. Jack was totally unprepared and went down, his head meeting rocks beneath the snow.

  “You said I had to hold the staff with both hands.” Jack got to his feet, brushing the snow from his tunic.

  “Did I?” Rovas was nonchalant. “Well, that just goes to show that you should play by no man’s rules except your own.” The huge man looked quite alarming; his face was bright red and he was sweating with gusto.

  “So I should trust no one.”

  “Just one person: yourself.”

  Jack handed Rovas his staff and the two made their way back toward the cottage. It had been an exhausting day. Rovas had woken him at dawn and they’d spent most of the light hours in the garden fighting. The bearded smuggler was a good teacher. He had a vast stock of weapons ranging from the leather-bound clubs favored by the Halcus, to the seemingly dainty—but Jack had learned deadly—thin-bladed swords of Isro. There was not one weapon in his collection that Rovas couldn’t use or offer some useful advice on.

  Rovas stopped by the small outbuilding that was attached to the cottage. “Fancy helping me stuff the kidneys?” he asked. “The women can’t abide messing around with the internals.”

  Jack tried hard not to look bewildered.

  Rovas laughed heartily and opened the door, pausing to strike up a lantern. The smell of newly butchered meat filled Jack’s nostrils. The light gleamed upon the offal. Liver rested in platters pooled with blood. Kidneys waited coyly in baskets, scenting the air with their distinct perfume. “Beautiful, eh?” prompted Rovas.

  Jack was beginning to think that Rovas was slightly mad. How could a man possibly find such a sight appealing? He nodded his head slightly, in what he hoped was a noncommittal manner.

  Rovas smiled brightly, showing teeth as large as pebbles. “There’s loot in this room, boy. There’s people around Helch who haven’t seen as much as a single sausage all winter. They’ll pay good money for a pound or two of prime offal.”

  So that was it. Rovas wasn’t mad after all, merely greedy. “Where did all this meat come from?” asked Jack.

  Rovas beckoned him closer, and when he spoke his voice was a theatrical whisper. “From a good friend of mine, name of Lucy.”

  Lucy. Jack reeled at the sound of it. His mother’s name. Such a common calling. Hundreds of girls in every city in the Known Lands answered to its light, musical sound. Strange how he’d gone so long without hearing it spoken. It brought back a yearning for the past, for a time when he’d rest his head against his mother’s chest and the world held no secrets, just promises.

  She had worked so hard. Even now he could smell the ash, see its grayish bloom upon her face and touch the burns upon her fingers. She had been an ash maid in the kitchens; raking through the cinders in the morning, banking down the embers at night. The staff was merciless, it was always:

  “More wind in the bellows, Lucy.”

  “Lucy, bring more logs from the pile.”

  “Clean the ash from the grate, Lucy, and while you’re about it, make it shine.”

  Only Lucy wasn’t her real name. Jack could never pinpoint the exact moment when he discovered this; it was more a gradual realization.

  From as early as he could remember he spent his days in the kitchen. He tried to be as “quiet as a mouse and as little trouble as a laying hen,” for when he got into trouble his mother was punished for him. He’d totter under one of the huge trestle tables, find the rind of an apple, or the scrape from a carrot to chew upon, and settle down to view the goings-on. The kitchen was a place of wonders; cooking smells filled his nostrils, the clang of copper pots and complaints filled his ears, and the sight of food tempted his young eyes.

  He’d spend hours lost in daydreams. The butcher’s cleaving knife became Borc’s ax, Master Frallit’s apron would become the Knights of Valdis’ banner, and the stool by the fire where his mother sat became a throne.

  When his mother grew tired, as she did more and more the year before she took to her bed, Jack would help her with the fires. One time when they both had their backs to the kitchen, scrubbing the burn from the grate, the head cook called out: “Lucy, clean the stove when you’ve finished there.” His mother never looked round. The cook called again, louder. “Lucy! The stove needs a cleaning.” Jack had to shake his mother’s arm to get her attention.

  From that day on he watched her more closely. There were many times when she failed to respond to her name. Later, before the end, when he was older and she was weaker, Jack challenged her about it. “What are you really called, Mother?” he asked. He’d chosen his time with cruel precision. She was too ill to feign surprise—he felt ashamed of that now.

  She sighed and said, “I will not lie to you, Jack. Lucy is not my given name, it was chosen for me by another later.” He tried to get her to say more, pleading at first, and when that failed, shouting. Sick as she was, her strength of will remained firm and her lips remained closed. Rather than lie to him, she had told him nothing instead.

  Rovas, bearing offal, brought Jack back to the present. He was glad of it, there were too many questions in the past.

  “The trouble with the kidneys, Jack,” he said, “is that they’re a little . . . how should I put it? . . . a little light.”

  “Light?”

  “Too many to a pound, if you know what I mean.” Rovas smiled like a guileful child.

  “So you intend on making them heavier.” Jack was beginning to catch the man’s meaning.

  Rovas nodded enthusiastically. “You’re a bright boy,” he said. “Now this is what we do.” The smuggler placed a kidney upon an empty platter and then whipped out his knife. “One tiny cut, here, just above the tendon.” He opened the kidney like a surgeon, and then held the incision open with the knife-point. “Just pass me that jar over there, boy.” Rovas indicated a large container on a shelf. “Careful, it’s quite a weight.”

  Jack swung the jar from the shelf and nearly dropped it. Master Frallit’s baking stones were heavy, but at least they were large. “What’s in this?” he asked.

  “Lead, of
course. Heavy as a mountain, soft as a good cheese. Reach in and grab me a chunk. A fair-sized one, mind. We don’t want it getting stuck in anybody’s throat.”

  Jack handed Rovas a piece of the gray metal, and the man wasted no time inserting it into the middle of the kidney. He carefully closed the cut, molding it back to its original appearance, and then gave it to Jack to feel. “Not a bad job, if I do say so myself.”

  “This could kill a man,” said Jack, testing its weight in the palm of his hand.

  “So could going without meat all winter.” Rovas shrugged. “A man’s got to make a living, and the chances are the metal will be found before the kidney reaches the pot.” He caught Jack’s disapproving look. “It’s the way of the world, boy. If I didn’t do it, someone else would. Halcus has been through some hard times since the war with the kingdoms started, and things look set to get worse. It won’t be long before Bren is pushing us from the other side. If someone like me comes along and brings supplies to people who wouldn’t normally get them, then it’s only fair I take a decent profit for my troubles.”

  “What do you mean about Bren pushing from the other side?” Jack wasn’t about to challenge Rovas on his way of doing business. The man would never admit he was doing anything wrong.

  “Haven’t you heard? Your country is joining with Bren, and if you ask me, it means trouble for more than just us here in Halcus. Annis, Highwall, even Ness—everyone’s nervous. People are afraid that Bren is using the Four Kingdoms to help them dominate the north.” Rovas spat reflectively. “Just this morning I heard news that Highwall is busy training an army in readiness. That’s one city that won’t wait for an attack like a rabbit down a hole.”

  This was the first Jack had heard about a war. The kingdoms joining with Bren? Events had moved swiftly since he left the castle. “Kylock is going to marry . . .” Jack struggled to remember the name of the duke’s daughter, “Catherine of Bren?”

  Rovas nodded. “War’s acoming.”

  War. It might never have happened if Melli had married Kylock as she had been supposed to. She would never have been killed, either. Jack put the kidney on the platter and tried to wipe his hands free of the blood. The stain smeared and thinned, but would not come off. Looking down at his bloodied hands, Jack couldn’t help feeling that he was somehow responsible for what was to come. It was foolishness, he told himself. He’d never influenced Melli in any way; she had already decided not to marry Kylock before they met.

  Feeling guilty, yet not understanding why, prompted Jack to attack Rovas. He wanted to share the blame. “You should be pleased if war breaks out,” he said, his voice rising in anger. “More fighting will mean more profit.”

  For one brief instant Jack thought Rovas would hit him. The man’s body became tense, his hand moved abruptly from his side. He controlled himself, though. Jack could clearly see him working to regain his good humor. With an effort Rovas shrugged and said, “Skirmishes along the border are one thing, boy, a full-blown war is quite another. Yes, there’s more money to be made, but there’s more chance of being killed before you spend it!” By the time he’d finished the last sentence, Rovas was back to his old self. Jack was almost sorry; he wanted a fight.

  “Here,” said Rovas, distracting Jack’s thoughts by handing him the platter of kidneys. “Stuff these for me. I’ve had enough of war for one day. I’m off to get my supper.” With that he left the hut, shutting the door behind him.

  The thought of war had stirred something within Jack. The kingdoms joining with Bren? Why did the news matter so much? And why did it make him want to pick a fight with a man who would surely have beaten him? For the first time since leaving the castle, Jack felt restless. The familiar yearning to take off and leave everything behind was upon him. The platter felt like a dead weight in his hands. The smell of the kidneys was unbearable. He shoved the platter away and opened the door.

  The chill night air cooled Jack’s face. The familiar yearning, but also the familiar frustration. He had nowhere to go.

  Rovas’ footsteps formed an arc in the snow. Jack’s eye followed the curve to where it ended: the entrance to the cottage. The people inside were his only connection to the world: Rovas, Magra, Tarissa. They were not what they seemed. Magra and Tarissa had secrets to keep. The same thing that made the mother bitter had made the daughter strong. Then there was Rovas, who only minutes earlier had nearly slipped and shown the edge beneath the padding. They had the look of a family, but not the feel of one.

  Even the cottage had the look of home about it: candlelight slipping out from the shutters, smoke spiraling up from the roof, the polished door offering a welcome. It was no place for him to stay. Jack suddenly felt tired. He couldn’t foresee a time when he’d ever have a proper home again. Traveling with Melli had made him forget how alone he was. As long as she was with him all his worries had been for her. Keeping Melli safe and warm and well fed was all that mattered. Now that she was gone, his thoughts turned inward once more.

  For many months now his destination had been Bren. There was no reason behind it other than it felt right to head east. Now more than ever, with the news of war still ringing in his ears, he felt the need to be there. But he wouldn’t go. Not yet, anyway. He wasn’t ready. He had no skills at fighting, and if he were going to a place of war, it would be better to be prepared. And then there was Melli. Jack couldn’t bear the thought of going without trying to make amends; her death was too important to be casually forgotten. Leaving now would diminish her. Nearly ten years ago, when his mother died, he’d carried on as if nothing had happened, barely sparing a breath to mourn her. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

  Jack closed the door and the expanse of the night retreated. He would stay and learn. Rovas was using him—the man obviously had his own reason to want the Halcus captain dead—so he would use Rovas. He would learn all the smuggler could teach.

  Reaching for his knife, Jack turned back to the kidneys. He suddenly felt sorry for the Halcus; leaded meat was the least of their problems.

  • • •

  The stars were out in Bren. Bells, muffled by damp and darkness, tolled the hour of midnight. Oil lamps cast their light into the fray, gaining an ally in the snow, which reflected their magnified meager assault.

  The crowd was restless. They had been kept waiting too long. Blood was what they craved. They had come to see the golden-haired stranger fight. A man who looked like an angel yet fought like a devil. Rumors abounded: he was a nobleman who’d fallen from grace; he was a warrior from beyond the northern ranges; he was a knight on a quest. The blend of mystery, romance, and danger was a heady mix to the people of Bren. They turned out in unheard-of numbers to see the object of so much speculation.

  Nobles, taking tipples from silver flasks, rubbed shoulders with tradesmen swigging from tankards and peasants slurping from skins. There were even some women present, hoods pulled over their heads to hide their identities and thick cloaks pulled close to conceal their femininity.

  Nabber surveyed the crowd. Pickings were rich tonight. He was astute enough to know that the real cash lay not in the hands and pockets of the nobility, but in the pouches of the tradesmen. The nobles were notoriously tight of fist, whereas the merchants were eager to spend and came prepared. Although he’d made a promise to himself that he wouldn’t do any prospecting, Nabber found the pull of easy cash hard to ignore. He pocketed almost without conscious thought, as a man might scratch an itch. A few silver coins here, a jeweled dagger there. The peasants he left alone, never forgetting Swift’s words: “Only the lowest kind of scoundrel steals from the poor.”

  Still, he hadn’t come here tonight for financial gain. He’d come to keep an eye on Tawl. The knight was keeping the people waiting. His opponent, a man as broad as he was tall, was making his impatience known. He was already greased and in the pit, and Tawl hadn’t even shown up yet.

  At last there was a hush. The crowd parted and from their midst emerged Tawl. He made his way
to the foot of the pit and ripped off his tunic. Gasps of awe escaped from those nearby as his muscled but scarred torso was revealed. Nabber felt such pain at seeing his friend revealed in all his fallen magnificence before the crowd that he could hardly bear to look.

  “I’ve killed men before now for keeping me waiting.” It was Tawl’s opponent, shouting up from the pit in an attempt to bring the crowd’s attention back to himself.

  The crowd was pleased by this warning and looked to Tawl for a suitably menacing reply. When it came, they had to strain to hear the words:

  “Then you kill too lightly, my friend.”

  The crowd was silent. Tears came to Nabber’s eyes. He alone knew the anguish behind Tawl’s words—words that were more a reproach to himself than his opponent. Nabber, who had never aspired to anything more than a comfortable life, began to comprehend the tragedy of a man who had failed to live up to his own ideals.

  A cry went up, “Let the fight begin!” and Tawl jumped into the pit.

  The betting, which had been a lackluster affair before the knight’s appearance, began to take on the look of a feeding frenzy. As the two fighters circled each other, odds were shouted and bets were laid. Nabber took a moment to size up Tawl’s opponent. He was a large man, wide and well muscled, with no lard to slow him down. Someone nearby offered five golds on him to win. Nabber could not resist; in his eyes the fight had only one outcome. Tawl would prevail.

  “I’ll take you up on that, kind sir,” he said, feeling a twinge of guilt.

  “Done!” replied the man. They exchanged markers—notched sticks—and Nabber moved away.

  In the pit, the fighters were locked together. Taut muscles, perfectly balanced, strained for supremacy. Tawl’s knife was close to his foe’s belly. Nabber felt a ripple of indignation on spotting the knife of his opponent. It was longer than a hand knife, a fist longer. The man was not playing fair.

  “Ten golds on the scarred stranger,” he cried to no one in particular. It was his way of backing up Tawl.