by J. V. Jones
“Very well, Fiscel,” the man was saying. “I’ll take her for eight.” He looked Melli up and down one final time. “Are you sure she’s a virgin?”
Now the deal was done, Fiscel was at his most humble. He bowed profusely and the good half of his mouth came close to a smile. “She was tested by my girl, Alysha, who’s from the Far South.”
This explanation seemed to satisfy the man. Obviously women of the Far South were famous for more than just duplicity and facial hair.
The man left the room, closing the door behind him.
“Made a handsome profit out of me, didn’t you?” Melli realized she now had nothing to fear from Fiscel. “If I were you, I’d take it straight to a surgeon and ask him to sew up the slack side of your mouth.”
The flesh-trader grabbed hold of her hair. He pulled on it so forcefully that Melli’s neck snapped back. “If you try and run away from here, I swear I will hunt you down and slay you.” There was a world of malice in Fiscel’s good eye.
Melli pulled away from him, hardly caring if she left a fistful of hair behind. She looked at him coldly, and said, “What makes you so sure I won’t do the same to you?”
The door opened again and Melli turned her back as the gold changed hands. The true magnitude of what was happening to her was beginning to sink in. The two men in this room were buying and selling her! She, Maybor’s daughter, once promised to a prince, had been bargained for like a bolt of Marls’ silk. Running away from Castle Harvell had proven fruitless, for here she was, hundreds of leagues to the east, in a city she had no knowledge of, in a position a thousand times more degrading than being married against her will.
“Farewell, my precious.” It was Fiscel, acting the part of a benevolent patron. “I trust you will remember my advice.”
“Don’t worry, Fiscel,” said Melli, “I will never forget a single thing you said or did to me.”
The flesh-trader sent her a warning glance, but Melli didn’t deign to acknowledge it. The moment the door was closed, she turned to the stranger. “So, who paid a king’s ransom for me?”
The man smiled; he seemed relieved to be rid of Fiscel. “Why, you are honored, my dear. You will be sent to His Grace.”
Melli was confused. His Grace was a title usually given to younger brothers of kings, yet in Bren there was no king . . . only a duke. Comprehension dawned, and the stranger nodded in delight.
“Yes, my dear, you belong to the duke of Bren.” Gently, he took her hand. Melli was almost glad of it. The shock of hearing she had been purchased by the most powerful man in the north had sent her head reeling. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Bailor, head of the duke’s household. And what is your name?”
“Melli.” She leaned against him for support. This seemed to please him and he patted her arm gently.
“Melli from where?”
“Deepwood. Melli of Deepwood.”
“Aah.” The syllable was hung with doubt. “Well, Melli of Deepwood, as long as you’re good and do what I tell you, your stay here will be a pleasure for both of us.” A slight leer spoiled Bailor’s attempt at pleasantry. “Now, I’ll show you to your room and let you have a little rest.”
Melli was relieved. For the first time in many days, she would finally be alone.
• • •
“So, Your Grace, when do you intend to set a marriage date?” Baralis brought the cup to his lips, but no wine met his tongue. They were in the duke’s chambers, a sparse set of rooms with no rugs to cushion the stone, nor linen to soften the light. Baralis was determined to have answers. He was not prepared to let the Hawk circle cautiously any longer. It was time he came to land.
“The betrothal has not yet been finalized.” The duke didn’t even bother with the pretense of drinking. His cup lay untouched on the table.
“The betrothal can be formalized by proxy. We can settle this matter here and now.” Baralis altered the tone of his voice, mixing grit with the oil. “Unless you care to ignore your court’s affirmation of the match.”
The duke stood up and pulled his sword from his belt. He drew the blade to the light and began to examine the edge. “Quite a politician, aren’t you, Baralis? But here in Bren we value strength, not smoothness of tongue.”
“In the kingdoms we value straight answers.”
To Baralis’ surprise, the duke seemed pleased with this retort. He put down his sword and then swung around. “Well, seeing you value straight answers, you might like to give me one. It is true that Kylock is planning a new offensive on Halcus?”
Baralis cursed Maybor. Yesterday they both received messages from the kingdoms, and it appeared that the man had wasted no time telling the duke about Kylock’s intentions. “So the king is seeking to strengthen his borders. What is wrong with that?”
“It sounded more like an invasion,” said the duke, cool as ever, “than a simple border defense.”
“Who can blame Kylock for wanting the border dispute to be settled once and for all? It’s raged for over five years now. He wants to present his new bride with a country both prosperous and secure.”
“A fine sentiment, Baralis.”
“Catherine will be a queen, Your Grace.”
“Would you have her an empress, too?”
There it was: the heart of the matter. How much did the Hawk suspect? And if he did guess at the plan for a northern empire, how willing was he to go along with it?
Baralis decided it was wise to back away from the subject. The duke was not the sort of man to be fooled by fine words of glory. “Whenever two powers join as one, there is always a risk of what is created being called an empire.”
The duke drew his thin lips to an even thinner line. “Before I set a marriage date, certain stipulations need to be agreed upon.”
Baralis did not permit himself even the tiniest show of relief at the duke’s apparent willingness to drop such a dangerous subject. “Those are matters for the lawyers, Your Grace.”
“Surely you and I can decide upon a few things among ourselves, King’s Chancellor.” The use of his title was almost a challenge.
Although wary, Baralis had little choice but to ask: “What things, Your Grace?”
“Timber and grain tributes to start with, and then perhaps you could give me a written guarantee that the resources of Bren will be used in no war that is not of our own making.” The duke smiled, his first of the meeting. “Your powers of proxy can surely cover these little details.”
The duke was shrewd. Asking for timber and grain tributes was nothing short of blackmail. It also gave him something tangible to show to his people—a direct benefit of the match. As for the other matter—a written guarantee—well, he could have one. Who would be around to enforce it once His Grace had died a painful death? “What level of resources do you require?”
“I realize it’s difficult to transport grain and timber over the mountains, so I will limit the tribute to three times a year. Say, five thousand bushels of grain and nine hundred weight of timber.”
Baralis brought his cup to his lips and actually swallowed. The amount the duke was asking was too high. “I agree,” he said. Nothing was going to prevent this marriage from taking place.
“And the guarantee?”
“I will have it drawn up by the morrow.”
“Good,” said the duke. “I think that’s everything, so I will let you take your leave. You may consider the betrothal formalized.”
A young girl, ravishing to behold, with hair red and pale skin, entered the room. She saw the two talking and quickly left. Before she closed the door, Baralis spied a large bed in the adjoining room.
“And the marriage date?”
“Let’s wait and see the ink upon the paper before we engrave the date in stone.”
Baralis was becoming impatient. “Keep the groom waiting too long and ardor might cool.”
“Push the bride too quickly and she might frighten and run away.” The duke came and stood beside him. “I will give you a
date within the month. Now, I have other matters to see to.” He bowed slightly. “I trust you will come and watch my champion fight the night after tomorrow. ’Tis put on in your honor.”
“Of course, it will be interesting to see the best that Bren has to offer.”
“You won’t be disappointed,” said the duke.
• • •
Tavalisk was eating brains. An overrated dish that required a lot of sauce to make palatable. The archbishop was his own cook today, and he suspected the brains were slightly overdone, for he’d been chewing the last piece for several minutes and it still wasn’t ready to swallow.
He hated fast days. The Church recognized about forty fasts a year. They were supposed to cleanse the spirit, elevate the mind, and expunge the body. In reality, they just drove everyone to sin. Only prisoners and zealots fasted on holy days. But, as in everything, appearances had to be kept up; the kitchens were deserted, the butcher’s blocks were dry, and behind shuttered windows a city full of people ate furtively in the dark.
Tavalisk glanced over to his lyre. Yesterday, in a fit of temper, he’d stepped on it. The action, while producing his best ever note, had sadly flattened the instrument, rendering it unplayable. The tambourine had met a similar, but slightly more rewarding end, and his cat was now limping because of it. He’d finally given up on music. Food had tempted like a courtesan, and music’s charms had paled under its lure.
In walked Gamil without as much as a knock. The man was getting above himself. “Your Eminence, the rumors are true.”
“What rumors, Gamil? Rorn has enough of them to set a fishwife whispering for a year.” Tavalisk seasoned the brains in the pot. “Talking of fishwives, how’s your dear mother?”
“Long dead, Your Eminence.”
The archbishop fished out a portion of brain and tested it between his fingers. “Good, good. Give her my regards.”
“Lesketh is dead. Kylock is now king.”
Tavalisk dropped the brain back into the pot. “Fair or foul?”
“By all accounts, Your Eminence, the poor man died in his sleep.”
“Foul, then.” The archbishop poured himself a cup of wine. “Now when Catherine marries Kylock it will be a true joining of powers. Two such well-positioned points from which to dominate the north. Baralis is a clever dog, I’ll give him that.”
“How can you be so sure that is his plan, Your Eminence?”
“Marod predicted it, Gamil: When two mighty powers join as one.” Tavalisk took a long draught of wine. “We are witnessing the birth of the dark empire.”
“What can we do to prevent it from happening, Your Eminence?”
“More than you think, Gamil. There is nothing more vulnerable than a newborn.” The archbishop stirred the pot. “We can get the knights in trouble for one thing, make friends in Bren for another, and most importantly we can alert the other northern powers to Baralis’ ambitions—perhaps even offer our support if it’s needed.”
“But I don’t understand how stirring trouble with the knights will aid your cause.”
“Our cause, Gamil,” corrected Tavalisk. “Unless of course you fancy living in a world were there is no Church to pay your salary.” Tavalisk was feeling rather smug.
“I don’t understand, Your Eminence.”
The archbishop shook his head sadly. “Oh, Gamil, you do disappoint me. You’ve obviously never read Marod’s Book of Words. According to him, the dark empire will bring with it the end of the Church. ‘The temples will fall,’ he said.” Tavalisk looked quickly at his aide. That was quite enough for the moment; he’d let Gamil chew a little before giving him the full meal. “As for the knights, those hypocrites are in with the duke of Bren. Some of them even fought in his last skirmish: the massacre at Luncorn. That pathetic little town paid dearly for its attempt at independence.”
Tavalisk speared a portion of gray matter and dipped it into the garlic butter. With so many convoluted loops and folds, brains were made for sauce. “Goading Tyren is our best way to get the south interested in what’s happening in the north. The knights are aggressively pursuing our trade, and the duke is helping them all the way. If Bren becomes more powerful then so, by association, do the knights.”
The archbishop took the pan off the heat. The brains were now so tough that they’d be put to better use on the hull of a battleship. “Anyway, how is our four-city force doing? Slain any knights yet?”
“No, Your Eminence.”
“How unfortunate.”
“But there was an exchange, Your Eminence. Just north of Camlee. We seized eight wagonloads of goods.”
“Where are those goods now, Gamil?”
“They are being held in Camlee, awaiting further instructions.”
Tavalisk smiled, plump lips parting to show a glimpse of tiny white teeth. “Distribute the goods evenly between Camlee, Marls, and Toolay. Rorn will have none of them. Make sure the details of the split are well spread.”
“But I don’t understand, Your Eminence.”
“Really Gamil, like a tree you grow thicker by the day. Tyren is going to be looking to lay blame, and the cities that are holding the goods will look the guiltiest. I want Tyren and his northern playmates to think that all of the south is against him. With Marls, Camlee, and Toolay dividing the spoils, it certainly looks that way. And no one can say that Rorn instigated the whole affair as we haven’t got a bean to show for it.” Tavalisk took a sip of wine. “Everything is going beautifully. All we need now is a good slaughter. I’m thinking one knight is no longer enough. Let’s murder a troop of them.”
“I’ll pass on Your Eminence’s wishes.”
“Discreet as ever, Gamil.”
“Of course, Your Eminence. If there is nothing more, I will take my leave.”
Tavalisk stood up and handed the pot containing the braised brains to his aide. “Seeing as no one’s working in the kitchens today, Gamil, just run down and prepare me a light dinner: meat, fish, pastries—you know what I like.”
Gamil hid his annoyance badly. He stalked out of the room, broth splashing from the pan. The archbishop tut-tutted; his aide would have to clean up the stains when he returned.
Thirteen
The steel drew sparks when it met. Rovas was fighting like a demon. His face was red, and sweat scattered at every turn of his head. “Thrust, thrust!” he cried. Air burned in Jack’s lungs. Frustration, not skill, was placing the blade. He was desperate to get near the man, and Rovas, well aware of this, was goading him to it. Again and again Jack lunged forward only to find his target had neatly sidestepped.
They were practicing in the meadow just south of the cottage. The blows exchanged had long since lost the caution of the training bout. The blood snaking down Jack’s arm was proof of that.
Spring was close and the snow no longer crackled underfoot. The sound of running water could be heard in the distance and green spikes of grass cut through the white. Jack had no time to appreciate the changes of the season. Rovas was bent on defeating him. “Come on,” he goaded. “Take a go at me.” Jack obliged the man. He thrust forward, bracing his body for the blow.
Steel screeched upon steel. Rovas was forced to step back. Jack remembered the smuggler’s words:“Press any advantage, no matter how small.” He snatched his blade upward, forcing Rovas to raise both arms in defense. Quick as a flash, Jack was in with the dagger. A rake across the wrist forced the man to drop his shortsword. Kicking it away, Jack ensured the smuggler wouldn’t get it back. The man was left with his dagger.
Jack considered his options. Rovas was fond of saying:“Surprise is the greatest weapon,” so surprise him he would. He flung his dagger toward the smuggler’s chest. His aim was bad, but that didn’t matter. The man was forced to turn to the side. Jack lunged forward and pressed the point of his shortsword to Rovas’ chest. Rovas was forced to raise both arms in a sign of submission.
Jack had to resist the temptation to smile. It was sweet indeed to see the smuggler at a loss
for both words and moves. “Do you surrender?” he said, voice betraying no emotion.
Rovas bowed his head and did not look up as he mumbled, “I do.”
Removing his blade from the man’s chest, Jack said, “Quite a fight, eh, Rovas?” He offered the smuggler his hand, but it wasn’t taken.
“Think you’re smart now, don’t you?” Rovas said. He walked over to where his shortsword lay on the ground. “But that was just a lucky trick, nothing more.”
Jack sat on the ground. He didn’t care that the wet snow soaked through his britches. His hair was plastered to his face and he brushed it back. The stretch of leather with which he normally tied it was nowhere to be seen. “Would you judge me ready?”
“With shortsword maybe. The longsword needs work and your bow skills are poor.”
Jack smiled. “You’re a great flatterer.”
Rovas smiled with him. “Flattery only leads to one thing in my book.”
“What’s that?”
“Fools.” They both laughed and the tension that had built steadily over the past week was broken. “You did good, lad,” said Rovas when they stopped.
“When do I get the captain’s name?”
Rovas stood up. “Come help me paint some fish and I’ll explain a few things.”
Jack followed him to the smuggler’s hut. This time the place smelled of fish rather than offal. “Here,” said Rovas, handing him a cloth. “Hold that against the wound.” He then turned his attention to the fish. “These need to be at market by noon.”
“Judging by the smell, they should have been there yesterday.” Jack winced as he pressed the cloth into the cut.
“No matter, it’s looks that count.”
Jack noticed a pig’s carcass had been set to hang, throat down. The blood had drained into a large bowl. Rovas took the bowl, set it on the table, and then plunged his hands into the blood. Hands dripping with partly coagulated blood, the smuggler brushed them against the fish. The fish, which had been a sickly flesh color, began to take on the look of a fresh catch.
“Now, about this captain,” said Rovas as he continued to paint the fish. ”He’s situated in a garrison that holds twenty score of troops, so he’s not going to be easy to get to. You’re going to have to enter the place at night, find him, do away with him, and then shift yourself out of there sharpish.”