The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  “But, master, it is the duke’s daughter,” said Crope, obviously worried about turning away such an elevated visitor.

  “Send her away.” Yes, let her sit and worry for a while. She would be most anxious that he not reveal last night’s little episode to her father. After all, there could be only one reason why she wanted the duke’s champion to win the fight. Sweet Catherine was not as innocent as she looked. Baralis managed a wisp of a smile. Things may have turned out for the best: he now had a measure of power over the duke’s daughter. The fact that she had turned up at his chambers so early in the morning was a sure sign that she was worried he might use it.

  Crope returned. Every heavy step reverberated in the tender tissue of Baralis’ chest. “She has gone, master, but she begged me . . .” the huge giant struggled over the exact wording “. . . she begged me to give you her deepest sympathy.”

  “Good.” He had expected no less. A fit of coughing wracked his already frail body. The pain was distant, like a scene viewed through mist. Although the drugs were strong, they could only mask, not heal. There was so much to be done; the betrothal was due to be finalized, the marriage date had not been set, the court of Bren was still nervous of the match, and at any moment Kylock could take it into his head to invade Halcus and put everything in jeopardy. Now more than ever he needed to be fit to fight.

  Baralis cursed the knight. Anyone else would have succumbed to the drawing, either that or sent it back in its original amateurish form. Absorbing such a blow would have left Baralis with nothing more than a headache and a mild chest pain. Instead he’d ended up with a section of skin burnt from his body. When he’d watched the man die in Hanatta, the original drawing had been strong and true; not so with Catherine’s feeble attempt. The knight must have a strong fate indeed to send it back with such force. It suddenly occurred to Baralis that he didn’t know the outcome of the fight.

  “Crope,” he called, too weak to raise his voice above a whisper. “Who won the fight last night?”

  “The knight did, master. Blayze was beaten good and proper.” Crope smiled, pleased to be a source of information. He busied himself preparing a mixture of wine fortified with herbs. For the first time Baralis realized that his servant had probably been awake all through the night tending him.

  “Go take some rest, Crope,” he said.

  The man shook his head adamantly. “No, master. I stay here until you’re better.”

  “Very well, but you must sleep later. Tomorrow I will need your special help.” If he was going to perform a quick healing, he would need Crope to find him a victim. It could wait for a day, though; he was not strong enough just yet to perform the necessary drawing.

  Baralis’ thoughts returned to the knight. “How did the duke react when his champion lost?”

  “He made the knight his new champion on the spot.”

  A small piece of the puzzle fell into place: the knight was obviously fated to be the defender of the duke’s heir. He would need watching. Who could tell what part he might have to play? Baralis tried to keep his mind focused. His job was to search out anyone or anything that might have some bearing on what was to come. He cast his thoughts back to the instant when the power had hit him. The memory was fire and brimstone, yet amidst the pain something was revealed: a glimpse of the man who had shaped the sending. Every hair on Baralis’ body prickled against the sheets. Powerful people were involved in the knight’s fate. Tavalisk, Larn, Bevlin. The three emerged like ghosts from the backlash.

  What did it mean? Bevlin was a name he hadn’t heard in over ten years; a mystic who spent his days sifting through old prophesies and predicting doom with spiteful glee. Larn, a place of power and seering; and lastly Tavalisk, the greatest mischief-maker in the Known Lands. How did they all fit in with the knight?

  Baralis shifted impatiently against the sheets. He needed to be well; people needed contacting, motives had to be discovered. Nothing could be left to chance. Never in his life had he felt so frustrated. The only thing he could do today was rest. How he despised his own frailty. “Bring me the red-stoppered jar,” he called to Crope. In it was his most potent sleeping draught; if he couldn’t act, then he might as well be insensible to the world. When he next woke up, he would be stronger, able to work as well as think. His hand trembled as he brought the jar to his lips. Never had there been so much for him to do.

  • • •

  Melli had found a large beetle scurrying across the floor of her room and was busy making its life miserable. She was decidedly bored. What had her life come to when the only way of passing the time was to torment a poor unsuspecting insect? There was always eating, of course. She let the beetle scurry off and turned her attention to the breakfast tray. The bacon and sausages had all been eaten while hot, and only cold roast fowl remained. That and some rather soft and yeasty-tasting bread. The jug of wine was well watered, so there was little chance of getting drunk to relieve the tedium. All in all, it was not a very appetizing selection. The kitchens of Bren were sadly lacking in creativity.

  So was the person who’d furnished her room: bare stone walls and floors, a bed, a chest, a mirror, and a washstand. From the circular sweep of the walls, Melli judged that she was in a tower, or a turret. There was a high, narrow window, but the view was of nothing but sky.

  Tearing off a chunk of the loaf, Melli fell back on the bed and began to chew on the moist and doughy bread. Last night had proven quite entertaining, indeed. The duke had not been what she expected. He was arrogant, yes, but also rather interesting. She liked the way he dressed plainly, not indulging himself in satins and silks. Growing up with her father, Melli had grown used to men who spent as much time and money on their appearances as the greatest of court beauties. In fact, all of Queen Arinalda’s court had been centered around the importance of show. Not so with Bren. The duke didn’t seem interested in finery. His clothes were plain, his rooms were bare, and if the food was anything to go by, his staff was not chosen for their skills at the hearth.

  Melli had to admit that she was a little impressed with his knowledge of the kingdoms, and perhaps a little intimidated, too. With all his charts and lists, he had been like a merchant keeping stock of his assets. He was obviously expecting to take the leading role in the alliance. And he was the sort of man who got what he expected.

  The bolt whirred softly and then the door swung open. “Quite an appetite, I see,” said the duke.

  Melli, who had been lying spread-eagled on the bed, scrambled to compose herself. In the split second that it took her to sit up, surprise turned to indignation. “How dare you walk in here unannounced!” she cried. Her words were not quite as cutting as she hoped due to the mouthful of bread she was still chewing.

  “I dare because I own this palace and all that is in it, including you, my lady of Deepwood.”

  “Is paying the only way you can get a woman?” Melli was up off the bed in an instant—if he was going to slap her this time, she was not going to make it easy by being a sitting target.

  “I see a good night’s rest has failed to mellow your tongue.” The duke was cool, perhaps even a little amused. It was difficult to tell.

  “I see a good night’s rest has failed to improve your manners.” Now that she had recovered from the shock of him actually visiting her, Melli was beginning to feel rather exhilarated. It was a welcome change from taunting beetles. “To what do I owe this pleasure? Have you come here to interrogate me about my homeland? Perhaps I know the locations of some forests you failed to circle.”

  The duke smiled. “I doubt it.” He walked into the room. Although not a large man, his presence seemed to fill the remaining space. Melli felt as if she could barely move without touching him. “I have come to apologize.”

  Melli actually laughed. The idea of this imperious, unemotional man apologizing to her seemed ludicrous. “For slapping me, I suppose?”

  “No, you deserved that. I came to apologize for dismissing you so abruptly, especially
after you appeared to be taken ill.”

  Taken ill? Melli was confused for a moment, until she realized he was referring to the few minutes that she’d spent fighting off the foretelling. The sight of her grabbing hold of the desk for support must have been a little strange, to say the least. Melli tried to play the incident down.

  “I was tired, nothing more.”

  “Aah,” said the duke. “If I remember correctly, your tiredness came on just after the mention of Bren’s armies.”

  “Did it? I really can’t recall.” Melli didn’t like the way the subject was progressing. “Anyway, I accept your apology. Though I think you owe me another one for barging in here without as much as a knock to reveal your approach.” The apology was just an excuse, she was certain of it. The duke didn’t strike her as a man who would waste his breath on such a trifle.

  “A second apology is out of the question,” he said. “I rarely have cause to regret my actions.” His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. It seemed strange that a man would wear such a keen blade and not shield it with a scabbard, unless, of course, his aim was to intimidate. The duke looked around the room. “Bailor told me that you asked if you could take a walk in the grounds.”

  “And if I did?”

  “Tomorrow I will be leaving for my hunting lodge in the mountains. You will accompany me.”

  Melli didn’t know whether to be annoyed at his arrogance, or excited by the prospect of leaving the palace. Before she had a chance to decide how to react, the duke made his way to the door.

  He bowed—a curt, soldierly gesture. “Until tomorrow,” he said, and then left.

  The jug of wine was in her hand before the bolt had been fully drawn. Watered or not, she needed a drink. It was without a doubt the most insipid mix she’d ever tasted, and it required a good half a jug to produce any effects.

  What was the man up to? An apology? Very unlikely. He had just ordered her to accompany him on a trip; if courtesy was his motive, then he surely would have taken the trouble to veil the order in the polite guise of an invitation. No. The good duke had another motive, and as the wine slowly worked its way into her bloodstream, warming her skin and loosening her thoughts, she began to realize what it was.

  A knock preceded the second drawing of the bolt. In walked Bailor. Melli didn’t feel inclined to right herself this time. Instead, she lounged on the bed, pouring the last of the wine into her cup.

  Bailor looked a little saddened at what he saw. “A pretty girl like yourself shouldn’t be drinking so much before noon.”

  “Your concern touches me deeply,” Melli said. “I’m sure the wine which accompanies my next tray will owe a greater debt to the well rather than the vintner.”

  Ignoring what she said, Bailor began to pace around the room. He was wearing a rather fine robe in green silk and it flapped behind him like a broken wing. “The duke appears quite taken with you, my dear.”

  Melli looked Bailor straight in the eye and said, “I know.” It was the only possible explanation for the lame excuse and the trip to the hunting lodge. Why hadn’t it occurred to her sooner? At Castle Harvell she had grown accustomed to the attentions of men, why should Bren, or for that matter, its duke, be any different?

  “He summoned me to an audience only this morning,” Bailor continued, rubbing his hands together in excitement, “asking about you. Who you are, where you came from. I wouldn’t be surprised if he called for you again today.”

  “He just left.”

  Bailor’s already prominent eyes bulged further. “He came here!”

  “Yes,” said Melli with a casual shrug. She was beginning to enjoy herself. “He just came by to invite me to his hunting lodge in the mountains.”

  “The lodge!” Bailor uttered the words as if he were referring to a holy temple. ”His Grace never invites women to the lodge.“ He took the jug from the table and raised it to his lips before realizing it was empty. “What did he say to you?”

  “First of all he apologized for his rudeness—”

  “Borc spare us all!” Bailor had actually joined her on the bed and began to fan himself with the comer of his robe. “The duke never apologizes. What have you done to him? Are you a witch?”

  Melli laughed; she was beginning to like Bailor a lot more now that his demeanor was less detached. She handed him her cup. There was still a little wine at the bottom. He took it from her and downed it in one go.

  “The duke is due to leave first thing in the morning. You must have some suitable clothes. I will send for Veena. Do you ride?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good, good. Do you hunt, by any chance?”

  How could the daughter of the greatest huntsman in the kingdoms not hunt? It was a point of pride to Maybor that all his sons and even his daughter were chasing boars before other children had learned how to sit a horse. “I have hunted once or twice. But surely there will be little game in the mountains?”

  “The lodge is on a slope forming part of a mighty valley. There is a lake and many animals gather there to drink: bears, mountain lions, deer.”

  “Who else is going?”

  “Not many, I think. It will only be a short trip—two or three days at the most. You will obviously be expected to keep a low profile. The duke does not like to draw attention to his personal affairs.”

  “I doubt if I’ll be hunting, then.” Melli was disappointed. It had been a long time since she last knew the thrill of the chase.

  Bailor stood up. “Hmm, perhaps he may be a little less guarded without the eyes of the court upon him. There’s no way of knowing, as he’s never taken a lady to his lodge before. Either way, I will make sure that he knows you can hunt. It will certainly come as a pleasant surprise to him.”

  Melli realized that she had gone up in value in Bailor’s eyes. The man was almost skipping around the room. She would have liked to ask him about the location of the lodge, but thought it best to hold her tongue. Bailor was no fool; he would be quick to guess her motives. Instead, she asked, “What else did the duke want to know about me?”

  “He asked about your parents, who your father was, how you came to my attention, that sort of thing.”

  Checking out her story. “And he never normally inquires about his purchases?”

  “Very rarely. It is a great honor to be singled out by him.”

  Try as she might, Melli couldn’t quite keep the sneer from her lips. She was daughter of the wealthiest lord in the kingdoms, nearly betrothed to a prince. The honor of being the duke’s latest dalliance was a dubious one at best.

  “Well, I must be on my way,” said Bailor. “I will see that Veena brings you all you need.” He looked almost too happy, and a thought occurred to Melli. “Does the duke have other women?”

  “He is a man with strong physical needs.”

  “What becomes of the women he is no longer interested in?”

  “Several things. Some of them are sold again, a couple stay on in the palace as ladies maids, and a few are given the freedom to go where they please.”

  “Yet first they go to you?” Melli took the fact that Bailor couldn’t meet her eye as confirmation. “Tell me, has the duke just bid farewell to his previous favorite?”

  “Earlier this morning he did express the wish that he had no desire to see Shanella again.” Bailor was clearly uncomfortable, as he brought the subject round to her again. “Another good sign for you, Melli, my dear.”

  “Not a bad one for you, either, Bailor,” said Melli as he closed the door.

  Seventeen

  Nabber hated mornings. The earlier in the morning, the more he hated it. As a pocket it was his time-honored duty to be up and about for the dawn markets, but never once in all his years of prospecting could he truthfully say that he’d enjoyed being up with the lark. Now, stuck in this dungeon of a palace, in a room close to the kitchens and the brewery, with an ear-splitting array of noises going in the background, and little chance of slipping out for a healthy spot of p
ocketing, he hated mornings more than ever.

  There was only one reason why he was putting up with such unpromising conditions: they were better for Tawl. There were physicians here; one had cauterized and bandaged Tawl’s chest wound, another had dressed the burn on his arm with a cooling herbal poultice. A third man had given him a sleeping draught that had kept him unconscious for nearly a full day, and a pretty maid kept bringing food and ale to fortify the patient’s strength. Not that Tawl got to see much of the ale, though. Well, a pocket had to have some compensations to make up for the boredom.

  The knight was sleeping now; it was probably for the best. The burn, the poison, the wound, and the fight had all taken their various tolls, and his body needed rest more than the cleverest of potions.

  If rest was what he was getting. Nabber had been awakened several times in the night by Tawl crying out in his sleep. He mumbled words in a foreign tongue, called out two names that sounded like Anna and Sara, and once, when the night was at its darkest, his whole body was racked with silent sobs. Nabber had sat beside him on the bed, put his arms around Tawl’s shoulders, and stayed with him until the sobbing stopped.

  Dawn slipped through the room like a thief, stealing the shadows from the comers and overpowering the light from the candles. Judging from the noise, the palace staff had been up for some hours. The smells of fermenting hops and freshly baked bread vied for the nostrils, and heat from the great ovens warmed the air like a long-lit fire.

  They had been brought here just after Tawl had sworn his oath. The knight had started to stumble away from the court enclosure, blind to all who were watching, blood soaking through his makeshift bandage. The duke made a small gesture with his arm and a man had stepped forward. Dressed in loose silks that didn’t quite succeed in hiding his huge belly, he was most insistent that the knight accompany him to the palace. Tawl didn’t have the strength to put up a fight. He let himself be led away. The fat man had no interest in Nabber, but by adamantly refusing to let Tawl out of his sight and threatening to scream at the top of his lungs if he was crossed, Nabber succeeded in having himself included in the invitation.