The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  Jack was surprised; he hadn’t reckoned on this. “Is there any other way? Why can’t I take him by surprise when he’s away from the garrison?”

  “You won’t get near him. He never goes anywhere without a score of guards. They’d have you down in an instant.”

  Logical, but some shred of instinct deep within Jack warned him to doubt the smuggler’s word. “I could pick him out with a bow.”

  Rovas shook his head. “No, lad, you’re no archer. One misplaced arrow and the captain’s guard would be down on you like vultures. My plan’s best. Catch him when he’s vulnerable. Sneak in, sneak out.” The smuggler was up to his elbows in blood. “Besides, I know the garrison like the back of my hand; there’s a couple of useful tunnels in there. Help you escape real fast, they will.”

  Jack was still suspicious. “If they’ll help me escape, why won’t they help me enter?”

  “Tunnels like that are always bolted on the inside.” There was a trace of woodenness in Rovas’ voice, as if he’d uttered a set piece from a play. Perhaps aware of this himself, he hurried on in a more natural tone: “We’ll pick a feast night, that way all the soldiers will be the worse for ale. Spring Blessing begins next week, so everyone’s guard will be lowered by drink. It’ll be perfect.”

  Wary, but not sure why, Jack tried to throw Rovas off guard. “Tarissa told me the reason why you wanted the captain dead.”

  The smuggler looked up from his work. “Did she, eh? Well, it wasn’t her business to.”

  Jack was tempted to tell him that he knew Tarissa was supposed to kill the captain, but he stopped himself. Saying the words would only make him angry, and for the moment he was after information, not conflict. “So you and the captain were business partners?”

  “Aye, and then the bastard got greedy. I pulled out of the arrangement, and now he’s stooped to blackmail. Ten golds a month it costs me to stop him from running to the authorities.” All the fish were now glowing with health thanks to the pig’s blood, so Rovas wiped his hands on a cloth. “He’s bleeding me dry.”

  “And the night of Spring Blessing you’ll be rid of your problem.” Despite the warning voice in his head, Jack was excited. The time was drawing near. Only when the Halcus captain was out of the way would he be free to live his own life, to go where he wanted and to do whatever he chose. He already knew where he wanted to go: Bren. His thoughts kept returning to the city. Even before Rovas had told him about Catherine of Bren’s marriage to Kylock, Jack had felt a desire to go there. Sometimes in his dreams he saw a city with high battlements, nestled by the foot of a great mountain. It was Bren, he was certain of it.

  “Any news of the new king?” asked Jack.

  “There’s rumors he’s planning a full-scale invasion. If it’s true he’ll probably wait for full spring.” Rovas rolled his phlegm, then spat. “No one in the north is taking any chances, though, especially Halcus. Smithies are making more money than’s good for them, and every wisp of a lad over thirteen is busy practicing with a sword. The garrisons have been overrun with men wanting to join up and have a go at the kingdoms.” The smuggler ran his hands across his beard. “Or Bren, or both.”

  Jack helped Rovas load the baskets of fish onto his wagon. The sun broke through the clouds and the wind died down to a breeze. “So war is coming?” asked Jack.

  “The minute Kylock invades Halcus there’s no going back. Powers will line up on both sides, and once that happens war is inevitable. The scale of the thing is the question. If it’s just a dispute between northern powers it might be settled, but if cities like Camlee and Ness become involved, then they’ll drag the south along with them.” Rovas sat up on the wagon and took hold of the reins. “The south has been looking for a chance to crack down on the knights for over a decade now, and a northern war will provide it with a convenient opportunity.”

  “So the war could spread south?” Jack felt foolish; he had no idea that matters in the Known Lands were so sensitive. He was beginning to realize just how isolated the kingdoms had been.

  “Not so sure of that,” said Rovas. “The south will be hoping that the war can be contained in the north. They won’t like the idea of any of their dainty white cities being sullied by carnage.” The smuggler pulled on the reins and the wagon lurched forward. “Mark my words, boy. We’re being led as surely as lambs to the slaughter, and there are those who would shape an empire from our blood.”

  The wagon trundled away. Jack was shaking, and he hardly knew why. Rovas’ words had stirred something within him. An empire of blood. The world began to spin around him. The sky came close and formed an arc above his body. He stumbled to the ground, sick, disorientated. The snow burned his fingers and the sun burned his soul. An empire of blood. Colors ran: green, blue, white; they all bled to crimson. Jack brought his hand to his eyes and tried to keep out the light. Madness came to fill the void. A thousand images beat like tiny insect wings. An empire of blood. A city with high battlements. A man with golden hair. A baby crying in a locked room. And Melli, Melli was there, but just as quickly, she was gone. So many more sights impossible to define: blood the only common thread.

  Wet, his hands were wet. Panic brought him round. He opened his eyes and forced the sky back to its place. Colors refocused and the snow was cool beneath him. Tears, not blood, streaked across his palms.

  Jack braced himself to stand. Nausea rose up like sorcery, both bitter to the taste. He had to concentrate to keep his legs from bending at the joint. Step by shaky step, he made his way toward the cottage. It felt as if the world had softened and shown its middle. His heart was still racing at the sight. An empire of blood. Yet what did it have to do with him? He was a baker, not a savior. He stopped in his tracks. How could he think, even for a minute, that he had some part to play in what was to come? Yet the images he’d seen had the unmistakable feel of a message. Or a warning. Surely warnings were only sent to people who could make a difference?

  Sighing heavily, Jack tried to dismiss it all as nonsense. The fight with Rovas, followed by the bloodstained fish—it was easy to see how his mind might have deluded him. The latch on the door seemed impossibly heavy. It finally gave way and he found himself in the warmth of the cottage. Magra and Tarissa both looked up from their work. As soon as they saw his face they rushed toward him. Jack fell into Tarissa’s arms. She pulled him close to the fire, and her words of gentle comfort were the last thing that he heard.

  • • •

  Melli paced the length of the room. Her reflection drew her eye despite her attempts to ignore it. She looked pale and older. The bones on her face had sharpened to angles and subtle lines traced her once-smooth brow. Nineteen this spring, but there would be no treats or fancy ribbons to mark her anniversary. A slight smile thinned her lips. Her father would miss giving her gifts. That was the one thing he delighted in more than anything else; he would buy her dresses, hand mirrors, carved boxes, slippers—all chosen with no thought to cost. If nothing else, he had always sought to please her.

  She wondered where he was now and what he was doing. Probably at his estate in the Eastlands preparing for spring planting. Well, that was what he officially did, anyway; in reality he got drunk every night and went off hunting every day. The overseer saw to the land. Melli caught another glimpse of her reflection: there were tears in her eyes now.

  She missed her father. She missed his proud, possessive love.

  Scolding herself for her frailty, Melli brushed away the tears before they had chance to fall. She was strong—Maybor had given her that—and she had a low tolerance for weakness, both in herself and others. Strength in a person attracted her more than looks or titles or money. Looking back, she began to realize why the young men of the court had failed to catch her interest: they had no power, no experience, no guile.

  Her thoughts turned before she could stop them. Baralis. There was a man to put others in the shade. Even now, months later, Melli could still feel his breath in her lungs. She had been breathing it ev
er since. Once she had heard a physician say that air became flesh in the body. Did that mean part of her was created by Baralis?

  Melli carefully avoided her reflection this time; she was afraid of seeing a flush upon her face. Why did her mind insist on coming up with such nonsense? Trying to divert her thoughts as far away from the subject of Baralis as possible, she found herself thinking of Jack. What had become of him? He was alive and well; she knew it as surely as she knew her own name. Fate hadn’t chosen him to let him die amongst the enemy.

  Melli took a deep breath as her thoughts raced toward the very thing she had been trying to avoid for days: Alysha’s words to Fiscel when they both thought she was asleep: “Where I come from, we call people like her thieves. Their fates are so strong they bend others into their service. And what they can’t bend they steal.” Had fate chosen her, as well?

  A soft knock on the door was a welcome interruption. “Enter,” she called, falling into the old habits of a court lady. Bailor walked in the room. He was dressed more finely than the last time she saw him. The silks were well tailored, but the overelaborate style suited neither the roundness of his belly nor the spindliness of his legs. He looked toward the empty food tray that rested upon the bed.

  “A healthy appetite, I see.”

  “If you’re worried about my figure, bring me less next time. Like a good milk cow, I eat all that’s set in front of me.” Gone was Melli’s nervousness of the day before. She was ready to challenge anyone or anything that came before her. Plenty of food, a good bed, a night of total privacy, and the absence of Fiscel and Alysha had all combined to invigorate her flagging spirit.

  “No, no, my dear,” said Bailor. “You misunderstand me; it was a compliment. The duke is fond of women who eat with their bellies, not their waists.”

  Melli had encountered men like Bailor before; although servants, they were used to being treated well by everyone, including noblemen. They gained power over courtiers by discreetly supplying them with whatever illicit commodities or diversions were currently in fashion. Castle Harvell boasted more than its fair share of such enterprising individuals.

  “So when will I meet His Grace?” said Melli with what she hoped was a pretty smile. It would do her no harm to befriend the man.

  The smile provoked a little anxious vanity on Bailor’s part. He sucked in his stomach and smoothed down his tunic. “That’s what I came to talk to you about. Tomorrow night there is a big event happening in Bren. The duke’s champion is fighting the mysterious golden-haired stranger—half the city will be watching. His Grace will be in attendance with two important foreign dignitaries. Usually after such affairs the duke likes to retire to his chambers for . . . how should I put it? A little feminine comfort.”

  “So bloodshed whets his appetite.”

  “I wouldn’t put it quite so crudely,” said Bailor.

  “No. That wouldn’t be your style.” Realizing that she had spoken before thinking, Melli worked quickly to mend her error: “You’re a man of too great a sensibility to stoop to such coarseness.”

  Bailor seemed pleased with the compliment. The belly receded even further into the silk. “And you’re a lady of obvious breeding. Tell me, who are your family?”

  A strong warning flashed through Melli’s mind. He was trying to catch her out: she had already told him where she was from. She cursed her foolishness. Here she was acting like a great lady when she was supposed to be a minor nobleman’s bastard. No one must find out she was Maybor’s daughter. She had already shamed her father enough by running away; she would not shame him further by claiming his name. Another thought occurred to her: Bailor was exactly the sort of man who would blackmail her father if he ever discovered the truth. Maybor would pay dearly to prevent the news of his daughter’s disgrace reaching the ears of the court.

  Remembering the lie she used on the Halcus captain, Melli said, “My father is Lord Luff of the Four Kingdoms. My mother was a servant girl from Deepwood.”

  “Aah.” Understanding dawned on Bailor’s face. “I see, I see. The kingdoms, eh? Your king looks set to marry Catherine.”

  “King?” Melli felt a deep hollow in the pit of her stomach.

  “Yes.” Bailor beamed. “Didn’t you know? Lesketh is dead, and Kylock is now king.”

  She had to sit down. Her first thought was for her father. He would be taking this hard; by all rights his daughter should be a queen this day. She should be a queen this day. Melli tried to shrug it off, but the reality was so weighty it bore her down. The power that could have been hers! Regret wormed its way into her brain and she was helpless to stop it. Only months earlier she had assumed that Kylock and Maybor would divide up whatever power was bestowed upon her. Now she realized that power was never given, it was taken. By leaving the castle she had stopped her father from controlling her destiny. She had taken the power for herself. If she were queen today, it would be more than in name alone.

  The image of Kylock worked to slow her regrets. No, she didn’t want to be married to him. His dark and handsome face had never displayed anything except scorn, and his lips were molded for cruelty. Catherine of Bren was welcome to him.

  “My dear Melli,” said Bailor, “are you all right? You look quite pale.”

  It took Melli a moment to settle herself; her mind was spinning around the throne. “Yes, just a little dizzy. You know how women are.”

  Bailor nodded his head. “You’re not called the delicate sex for nothing.”

  Melli quickly scanned her repertoire and came up with a simpering smile. “When will the marriage take place?”

  “Not for many months, I should think.” Bailor headed toward the door. “Anyway, there’s no need to concern your pretty head with such matters. I expect you to be prepared if I call on you tomorrow night.”

  Melli wasn’t ready for him to leave, there was something else she wanted to ask him. “Is there any chance that I might take a walk in the grounds? The fresh air will improve my looks.”

  Bailor waggled his finger. “I don’t think so, my dear, not just yet. Let’s wait and see how you and the duke get along first, before we talk of favors.”

  Melli couldn’t quite muster a second simper. “Never mind, it’s too cold for walks at the moment.”

  “I know.” The look Bailor gave her was an unmistakable warning. “I’ll be off now. If you need a new dress or any other baubles, ask the guard to send for Veena; she will get you what you need.” He closed the door behind him and Melli clearly heard the sound of the bolt being drawn on the other side.

  Damn, he’d seen right through her! A walk in the grounds. How could she have been so stupid? Bailor’s use of the word guard was no coincidence. Now he was going to watch her like a hawk. Angry at herself, Melli stamped her foot and looked for something to throw across the room. She took a pewter cup from the tray and was just about to hurl it at the mirror when she caught sight of her reflection: she looked just like her father. Face red, chin tilted, eyes flashing—it was Maybor through and through.

  Melli let the cup drop from her hands and fell on the bed. She’d run a long way only to find that her father had been with her all the time. Smiling gently, she curled up in the covers. Her thoughts darted like mayflies and it was a long time before she found any rest.

  • • •

  Tawl entered the stall and threw two full skins of ale on the floor. Straight away he crossed over to Nabber, and without saying a word, he unwrapped the bandage from around his neck. He looked at the wound, felt around it for bloating, and then took a leather pouch from his tunic. Scooping a portion of the herb and grease mixture in his fingers, Tawl proceeded to smear it around the wound. Once finished, he retied the bandage and then turned his attention to Nabber’s injured arm. “Does this hurt?” he asked, lifting it gently.

  Nabber squawked indignantly. “Are you trying to kill me? Of course it hurts.”

  Tawl laughed. “You’ll live. That arm will be back to normal in a few days.”


  “Better had be, my friend, that’s my pocketin’ arm.” Nabber was feeling a little annoyed at being poked and prodded. Tawl was taking the physicianing too far. “Thanks to you I’ll be needing to do even more prospecting when I’m better. How could you save me and not my sack?”

  “What was in your sack?”

  “Why, loot of course. Gold, coinage, jewels—all good stuff.”

  “No, Nabber,” said the knight softly. “Not all the good stuff.”

  “What d’you mean? Was anything saved?”

  “Something more valuable than gold.” Tawl sat down in the hay. Nabber prayed that he wouldn’t reach for one of the skins, but he did. He took off the cap, but didn’t bring it to his lips. “What you did in the brothel was worth more than the greatest treasure: you risked everything to save a friend.” The knight looked Nabber in the eye. “Nothing matters in life as much as protecting the people you love.”

  The words burned Nabber like a flame. He couldn’t look any longer into the knight’s face. The truth of Tawl’s pain was too unbearable to see. It was too naked, too revealing. Nabber suddenly felt very small. His first reaction was to deny himself: he didn’t deserve any praise. “I was the one who got you into the whole thing in the first place. If it wasn’t for me, you would never have been poisoned—”

  Tawl shook his head. “None of that matters. What counts is that you were there.”

  “If doing one good thing can cancel out a hoard of bad stuff, then why aren’t you trying to find the boy?” The second the words were out of his mouth, Nabber knew he’d gone too far. With one simple sentence he’d raised Bevlin from the grave.

  The knight surprised him with his gentleness. “No longer a boy, Nabber. Five years is enough to make a man.”