by J. V. Jones
The night had not gone at all as she planned. The knife was still in its place by her side, yet not once had she considered pulling it out. The very idea seemed ludicrous. The duke was much more solid and intimidating than she had counted on, not to mention the fact that his chambers were obviously well guarded. There would be no chance for a quick escape. Her plan would need rethinking. Still, it had been an interesting encounter: the most powerful man in the north was no fool, yet she had managed to fool him all the same. She was not surprised that Jack hadn’t liked talking about his family, for the mention of the word bastard seemed to bring most inquiries to a halt.
The guard led Melli to her room. The minute the bolt was drawn on the other side of the door, she threw herself on the bed. Melli hugged the pillow to her body. It had been exhilarating to trade words with the most powerful man in the north.
• • •
The tavern was emptying out for the night, only drunks and fools remained. Bitter smoke rose from cheap tallow and the rushes were alive with vermin. Traff crushed a rat beneath his boot; the bones made a pleasing cracking noise when kicked. The creature landed on the opposite side of the room. Right by the feet of the man he was going to murder.
He hated the Halcus. They were dirty, dog-eating scum. A week back he had been jumped, and the bastards had stolen his horse. They beat him and left him for dead. Now it was time to return the favor. Already this evening he’d eaten a large and overpriced meal, drank three skins of ale, and had just ordered a bed for the night. What he needed now was the money to pay for it. And that fat and greasy Halcus merchant slouching drunkenly across the room was the one who was going to oblige.
Traff stood up and made his way to the merchant’s table. “Good evening, my friend. Fancy a cup of ale?”
The merchant looked him up and down. “Not from round here, are you?”
Traff nodded as he sat down. “From Silbur originally.”
“What you doing here, then?”
He wanted to put his fist into the man’s fat, nosy face. “Looking for action against the kingdoms or Bren.”
“You’re too far east for the kingdoms,” said the merchant, “and it’s too early to tell if there’s a war coming with Bren.”
Dangerously close to losing his temper, Traff said, “You caught me out, my friend. I’m on a mission for a certain wealthy lord.”
The merchant’s interest visibly increased. “Which wealthy lord?”
“Can’t say, but there might be something in it for you if you can help me out a little.” Traff moved closer. “I’m looking for a woman.”
“What is she to the lord?” The merchant’s breath reeked of onions.
“Trouble, if you get my drift.” Traff waited until the man nodded and then continued. “She’s pale skinned, dark haired, talks with a kingdoms’ accent.”
“Is she tall?” asked the merchant, becoming excited. “And comely?”
Traff nodded. “A rare beauty. Why, have you seen her?”
“A girl matching her description was in town about three weeks back. She stopped the night in this tavern. I saw her with my own eyes. Caused quite a scandal, by all accounts. The man she was traveling with murdered a soldier, and she was caught by Captain Vanly.”
Traff worked to conceal his excitement. This was the first word he’d heard of Melli since he left the kingdoms. “Where is she now?”
“Vanly sold her.” The merchant drew excited little breaths. “It was the talk of the town. He made quite a profit, you know—because she was a virgin.”
“Who bought her?”
“Flesh-trader, name of Fiscel. Last I heard, he was traveling east.”
“Toward Bren?”
The merchant shrugged. “He’ll probably pass that way to pick up a few extra girls, but I doubt if he’ll stop. There’s more money to be made in the Far South.”
“What happened to the boy she was with?”
“Got clean away.” The merchant’s eyes narrowed. “What about that little something for myself you promised?”
Traff had been waiting for this. “There’s five golds if it’s her that you saw. Outside in my wagon I have a portrait of her. Come and take a look at it and then we’ll call the matter settled.”
The merchant nearly leapt from his chair. On the way out of the door, Traff called to the tavern maid, “Back in five minutes.”
The night was cold and clear. Their breaths plumed smoke in the air. As they rounded the comer, Traff drew his knife. Seeing no wagon, the merchant turned, puzzled. Seeing the blade, he made to scream. The sound never left his lips. With one hand Traff grabbed the man’s forelock and yanked his head back, with the other he slit his throat. The body stiffened for an instant and then fell backward. Traff caught it and drew it to the ground.
He took a quick look around. It was too late for passersby. Tearing at the dead man’s clothing, he started looking for loot. He couldn’t find any. The body was heavy, awkward, hard to move. In his anger, Traff took his knife and sliced the man’s clothes to ribbons. As the bloodstained tunic fell away, Traff spotted a pouch tied below the dead man’s belly. He seized it eagerly. It contained a couple of golds, five silvers, and a large, finely cut ruby. A fair haul.
His intention had been to hide the body and spend the night in the inn, but that now seemed too risky, and the idea of moving the fat man didn’t appeal to him at all. He kicked the corpse a couple of times for good measure and then made his way out of town. Bren was his destination. He’d be able to pick up Melli’s trail there.
Traff whistled a tune as he walked. It was a fine night; his betrothed was alive and well and still a virgin. He couldn’t hope for anything more.
Sixteen
Jack was woken by Rovas shaking him roughly. “Sleeping a bit late, aren’t you?” he said.
Jack was thrown into an immediate panic. Where was Tarissa? Where were her clothes? What sort of state had they left the kitchen in? Had they even bothered to close the shutter? Jack scanned his surroundings. Everything was as it should be: his pallet was neat, the kitchen was tidy, and the shutter was firmly closed. A sigh of relief escaped him. Too late he realized Rovas was watching.
The smuggler’s eyes narrowed sharply. “Were you up in the night?”
“What makes you say that?” His second mistake: answering a question with a question.
“The fire has gone out. Someone has stirred the life out of the ashes.”
“Oh, that. It got a little cold about midnight.” Jack stood up and splashed some water on his face. Although his back was toward Rovas, he could tell that the man was looking at him. He didn’t feel in the mood to play games. What had happened last night was too precious, too intimate, to be spoiled by ugly suspicions. Jack turned on Rovas. “If you have something to say, come out and say it.”
The smuggler regarded Jack coolly. “I do have something to say and this is it: keep your hands, your eyes, and your mind away from Tarissa.”
“Or else?”
“I’ll kill you.”
Both men turned as the side door opened. Tarissa walked in, carrying a basket of washing. She took in the scene and walked straight over to Jack. Slapping him hard on the face, she said, “You kept Mother and me awake half the night with your pacing around. Next time you can’t sleep at least try to be quiet.” She was magnificent: eyes flashing, cheeks flushed, her whole body trembling with anger. Jack wanted to kiss her. He could see the effect her outburst was having on Rovas. The man looked first astonished, then confused, and finally decidedly sheepish. “I don’t know what you’re smiling about, Rovas,” she said. “It’s normally your snoring that haunts my dreams.”
“I don’t snore, woman,” he replied.
“No, and you’re a good and honest shopkeeper, too.”
All three of them laughed. Rovas patted Jack on the shoulder in way of an apology. Jack’s first instinct was to pull away, but Tarissa flashed him a warning glance. She had not gone to the trouble of putting on a pe
rformance for it to be ruined by the supporting cast. He made an effort for her and accepted the smuggler’s touch. Looking up, Jack saw Magra in the doorway. Her face was an unreadable mask.
“Well, I’ve got to be off,” said Rovas. “There’s a man in town who’s spent the last three days carving peppercorns out of wood, he should have enough by now to double my pepper weight and triple my profits.” He tucked a loaf of bread in his belt and made his way toward the door. “I’ll be back before dark.”
As soon as the door was closed, Magra said to Tarissa, “I suppose you’re rather pleased with yourself. You were having quite some fun making Rovas look a fool.”
“Mother I—”
Jack interrupted. “It’s not Tarissa’s fault.”
“I know.” The older woman looked suddenly tired. She sat down by the fire and poured herself a cup of mulled holk. “Jack, we owe Rovas more than you can imagine. Over twenty years ago, when he was not much older than a boy himself, he took us in: me a hated foreigner and Tarissa just a babe in arms. We can never repay him for that. Never.”
Tarissa was looking down at the floor. A flush of guilt rose up her neck. “I’m sorry, Mother.” She reached for Jack’s hand and squeezed it gently. It was a gesture intended to silence him. She didn’t want him contradicting anything that was said about Rovas.
Magra shook her head. “No, you were right to do what you did. It was for the best.”
Jack’s thoughts returned to the night when Rovas kicked the wood scuttle across the room. Magra was right: it was for the best. Not for himself—Rovas didn’t frighten him—but for the two women who had no choice but to live with the man. Jack wanted to take them away, both of them, and give them a home free of guilt and obligation. Rovas would stop at nothing to keep control of his makeshift family—blackmail, murder, coercion—and it was time someone brought an end to his twenty-year reign of terror.
Last night had changed everything. Tarissa had given herself to him. There was no other way to describe it; she had sensed his grief and in one beautiful, selfless gesture she used her body to ease the pain.
After need, came passion. How long they spent cradled between the rushes and the moonlight Jack would never know. It had seemed like an eternity. And later, much later, there had been hours when Tarissa lay sleeping in his arms. Yet she still had time to steal away, gather up her clothes, tidy the pallet, and close the reproachful shutter. This morning she had saved him again.
For the first time in his life he had a true debt to repay. Falk had given him gifts just as precious as Tarissa’s, but he had denied him the honor of repaying them. Not so with Tarissa. Jack’s mind raced forward. He would take her away from the cottage, work to give her a new home, good food, and fine clothes. There would be no trip to Bren, no wandering off to find action and adventure. That wasn’t important now.
Something had happened last night. He couldn’t begin to understand what, but it had changed everything. For months now he had felt as if he were being pulled forward, pulled toward events and places that were not of his choosing. This morning the tension had gone.
Other things mattered now. All his life he had wanted a family, and here, in front of his eyes, there was one for the taking. Why hadn’t he seen it sooner? Tarissa could be his. Once the Halcus captain was done away with, he would be able to do whatever he wanted. He could move to Annis or Highwall and get a job as a baker. With the money from that and a little scribing on the side, it wouldn’t be long before he could send for Tarissa and Magra.
As Jack was busy planning, there was a small part of his mind that stayed detached. It warned him that he was working to fill the void that had been created last night. So what if he was? Fate had set him free, and what he did with his life now was no one’s concern but his own.
• • •
“No, Bodger, the way to tell if a man has the staying power of a stallion isn’t by seeing if he eats his greens.”
“But Longtoad says the more greens a man eats, the better able he is to satisfy the wenches.”
“There ain’t no way that a man with the figure of a spring onion is going to be able to satisfy the wenches more than once in a bedding. No, Bodger. Take it from me, the true sign of staying power is nasal hair.”
“Nasal hair, Grift?”
“Nasal hair, Bodger. The more hair that dangles down from a man’s snifter, the better able he is to wear out the wenches. Take Master Frallit—he has more hair up one of his nostrils than the entire royal guard has under their armpits, and you’ll never meet a man whose loaf rises quicker after the first kneading.”
“I see you have quite a head growing up there yourself, Grift.”
“Thank you, Bodger. You wouldn’t do too bad yourself if you stopped trimming them.”
“But I’ve never trimmed my nasal hair, Grift.”
“Ah, well, your best hope then is to concentrate on quality rather than quantity.”
Bodger quickly hid his shortcomings by taking a deep draught of ale. “Do you think we’ll get into trouble for being in the chapel last night, Grift?”
“I don’t think so, Bodger. The chaplain set us to guard the door. He can hardly complain if we nipped inside for a quick toddle of holy spirits.”
“We did clean the floor as well, Grift.”
“Aye, you did a fine job with those tiles, Bodger.”
“When will the normal guards take over the watch, Grift?”
“We are the normal guards now, Bodger. The chaplain said we’ve got the job as long as we keep quiet about him being drunk as a pheasant every night before six.”
“He did tell us to keep out of the chapel, though.”
“Bodger, if you think I’m going to be spending every night hunkering down in a doorway, when I could be kipping in a pew, then you’re sadly mistaken.”
“What d’you think those two were up to last night, Grift?”
“It wasn’t midnight mass, that’s for sure, Bodger. If you ask me, I think there’s some kind of passageway from the chapel that leads somewhere high and mighty. That girl was too noble to be dallying with the shifty-looking chap who escorted her. She was obviously destined to keep company with a lord.”
“Did you notice anything familiar about her, Grift?”
“Like what, Bodger?”
“Well, I don’t know about you, but to me she looked the spitting image of Maybor’s daughter, the Lady Melliandra.”
“One day soon, Bodger, I’m going to have to give you my theory on men with bad eyesight. The girl looked nothing like her; you must have had a little too much of the chaplain’s extra-strong brandy.”
“I suppose you’re right, Grift. Anyway, what about men with bad eyesight?”
“Aah, well, Bodger, men with bad eyesight are notorious for . . .
• • •
“Master, there is a lady to see you,” said Crope.
Layers of pain peeled away and left raw and stinging flesh beneath. Each breath was a victory, each thought was a blade in his heart. He had taken the blow full on his chest. It had hit him like a flight of blazing arrows, searing through skin and muscle and precious tissue. The burning was intolerable. Even now, with perceptions dulled by precious drugs, he could feel it trying to claim his flesh for its own.
Oh, but it was worth it. He would not change a thing. The lady who waited to see him would be the most important woman in all of history and her life had to be saved at all cost. If Catherine of Bren had died last night, his plans would have faded to dust.
Such a foolish, arrogant girl to think that she could draw sorcery as easily as she exerted her will. A child playing with fire. Even now she probably had no idea of the risk she had taken. The backlash was devastating; it bore no relation to the initial drawing. It had been honed and focused like the edge of a blade. Going in, it had been a cheap trick, a mischief-making ripple, nothing more. Yet the golden-haired knight had altered its nature. By fighting the drawing, his body acted like a prism, condensing the pow
er to a fine point. Coming out it was a deadly force. And Catherine of Bren, who was destined to be queen of the Four Kingdoms, had been its target.
There was no doubt in Baralis’ mind that she would have been incinerated on the spot. The only thing that saved her was the speed of his reflexes. By sending his own drawing out, he had managed to divert the force. He had taken the backlash upon himself. There had been no other way; split seconds never made for clever strategy. With barely an instant to ready himself for the blow, he’d done what he could—the beginnings of a shielding, nothing more. Still, he had survived while Catherine would not have stood a chance. Survival wasn’t only in his blood, it was in every cell, in every nerve, in every breath of his body. It would take more than a failed knight with an actively fighting fate to finish him off.
The combination of pain and drugs was dizzying. His head reeled and his body protested even the slightest of movements. Under the covers lay bandages and under the bandages lay burns. The skin on his chest was seared like a piece of meat. It would take weeks, even months, to recover. Still there were options. He might be weak, but his powers of sorcery were already recovering. The drawing he performed last night was nothing: a tangent sent out to divert, a tilt upon a table. As long as he didn’t do anything too physical, too challenging, he might still draw upon his source.
There were certain techniques that he’d learned in the wild expanse of the Great Plains. Techniques that specialized in using a person’s life force as a stepping stone to recovery. A gentle drawing was all that was needed. The victim provided his own fuel. It had to be done; he could not afford to spend the next few months confined to a sickbed like an invalid. He needed new skin for his chest.
“Inform the lady I cannot see her now, Crope,” said Baralis softly. “Tell her I beg her forgiveness but I am . . .” He thought for a moment. Was it better to hide his weakness, or was there more profit to be gained from playing the martyr? “. . . too ill to receive visitors.” Catherine might emerge more pliable after she’d stewed a while in her own guilty juices.