by J. V. Jones
So here they were, guests of the good duke himself. It was an improvement on the stables—anyplace that didn’t contain horses was better than there—but it was sorely lacking in profit potential. Ever since he’d left his sack at Madame Thornypurse’s, Nabber’s mind had been on his contingency, or rather his sad lack of it. He needed to be out doing business, filling his empty coffers, and helping Bren’s cash to circulate properly.
The palace was probably full to the rafters with loot, but the snag was the guest obligation. You couldn’t rob from your host; it just wasn’t honorable. Swift, who himself had played host to many fellow villains in his time, had warned Nabber most strongly about the sacred bond between guest and host: “You can drink him dry, insult his good name, and even rollick his wife, but you must never, ever, steal from your host.” It was a touching sentiment and one that never failed to bring a lump to Nabber’s throat. Robbing from the palace, therefore, was out of the question.
If he’d been here under another pretext, it would have been a different matter altogether. Nabber scratched his chin as a rather sneaky possibility occurred to him. Swift had never mentioned anything about taking a nosy around your host’s abode to see where he kept his valuables. No, there was definitely no rule to cover that one. Perhaps later he might do a little reconnaissance, purely out of professional interest, of course, nothing more. A man could learn a lot from a casual stroll past a strong room.
Nabber was interrupted from his reverie by the door being flung open. A young woman stood in the doorway. It was the same one who had begged him to stop the fight two nights back: the girl in the portrait. She saw Tawl lying asleep on the bed and walked into the room, closing the door behind her. As she came closer, Nabber saw that there were tears streaming down her face. “How is he?” she demanded.
Nabber brushed down his tunic and slicked back his hair. Judging by the way she was dressed, she was a great lady indeed. The other night she had been wearing a plain wool cloak; today she wore satin and pearls. “Not well, miss. He slept all of yesterday.”
A small, anguished sound escaped from her lips. She lunged toward Tawl. It took Nabber a second to realize that the object that glinted in her hand was a dagger. Quick as a flash, Nabber sped to meet her. He grabbed hold of her wrist and forced the blade from her grip. Her breath smelled of brandy, and there was a stain running down the front of her dress. Her muscles had no strength to fight him. Bursting into a fresh rush of tears, she mumbled over and over again, “I hate him, I hate him.”
Nabber had a good idea of what must’ve happened: Blayze had probably died.
After a moment the girl seemed to pull herself together. She wiped the tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her dress and crossed the remaining distance to Tawl’s bed. Nabber watched her warily, ready to spring if she tried to harm him in any way. She shook the knight’s shoulder. Tawl’s eyes opened. The legacy of the sleeping draught could clearly be seen in his slowly focusing gaze. Drawing her face breath-close to his, she whispered softly, “I will see you dead for what you did the other night.”
Nabber held his breath. Tawl looked into the eyes of the girl. “I am already damned, my lady,” he said. “Death can only bring me peace.”
The girl spat on him.
Nabber caught hold of her arm. “Leave him alone, he’s been through enough,” he cried, trying to pull her away.
She shook herself free of his grip and turned back to face the knight. “You have not seen the last of me, Tawl of the Lowlands.” The words chilled Nabber to the bone. She stood for a moment, trembling with the force of her own hate, and then swung around and stalked out of the room.
Tawl sat up slowly. He brought his feet to the floor and pushed back the covers. “In Borc’s name, what have I done?” he said.
Nabber could think of no reply. There was no explanation. Tawl had beaten a man to the point of death and sworn an oath that he had not been free to swear. Nabber didn’t know much about the Knights of Valdis, but he knew that Tawl must have broken some terrible law by vowing to be the duke’s champion. He had forsaken the knighthood and there was no going back. Nabber wished with all his heart that the fight had never been fought.
The door opened for a second time—did no one knock in Bren? In walked the duke himself. His lean body was cloaked, ready for a journey. His face was cold and unreadable. “What was my daughter doing here?”
Nabber hid his surprise well. The duke’s daughter? That was certainly unexpected. Before he could think of anything to say, Tawl stepped in.
“She came here to inquire about my health,” he said.
He should have expected no less. Even now, with his ties to Valdis newly broken, Tawl still had the instincts of a knight: gallantry, protectiveness, a lady’s honor to be saved at all cost. For some reason Nabber felt his spirits picking up.
The duke seemed to accept this explanation. “And how is your health?”
“Better for the skill of your physicians.”
“Good.” The duke turned his back to the wall. “You fought hard the other night. More than anything else, I admire a man who refuses to give in to defeat.”
“Blayze was a worthy opponent.”
“Yes, he served me well. He died early this morning. It is fitting that he is gone; there would have been no future for him here. Bren does not look upon failure lightly.” The duke was silent a moment, his gaze cast down to the floor. “I admit that I was reluctant to take your oath, but now I see that it was for the best. You won. You are the better man.” He spun around to face Tawl. “I will never ask you why you left the knighthood, but hear this: your first loyalty is now to me, and I will be no cheap second to Valdis.”
“My oath stands. I am yours to command.” Tawl’s voice was firm and true.
“I am well pleased,” said the duke. “Now, I am about to leave for a short hunting trip. When I return I expect to find you ready to take your place at my side.”
“It will be so.”
The duke held out his hand and Tawl clasped it. The two stood together for a moment, and then the duke turned and left.
For the first time since he’d come to Bren, Nabber began to think that there was hope for his friend. It had been a long time since he’d last seen Tawl so resolute.
• • •
Maybor knocked at Baralis’ door. He was due to accompany the duke on a hunting trip to the mountains and was therefore anxious to do two things: first, he wanted to make sure that Baralis had not had a miraculous recovery in the night; and second, if the king’s chancellor did come round, he wanted him to be made aware of the fact that the duke had issued him a grave insult. No exclusive mountain trip for Baralis, not even an invitation.
Receiving no reply, Maybor knocked again. It really was quite delicious. “Just a few trusted companions and myself,” the duke had said. He, Maybor, had been honored amongst the few. Baralis, in turn, had been dishonored by the omission. Maybor considered it his duty to deliver the cutting blow. Too bad it wouldn’t be a fatal one.
A couple of days hunting was just what he needed. Fresh air in his lungs, a fine mount between his thighs, and a well-tooled spear in his hand. It was the perfect chance to show off his skill at the chase. Just yesterday his new wardrobe had been delivered from the tailors; it boasted a fine selection of cloaks and tunics that were sure to impress all who looked upon them. The hunting trip would be a great personal success.
He was anxious to get a look at some mountain game, as well. The kingdoms didn’t have anything as exciting as mountain lions. He certainly hoped it wasn’t too early in spring for them.
Where was that imbecile Crope? One final knock, and if there was no answer this time he was going in.
The door swung open and the great man’s servant answered. He was holding a pot in one hand and what looked to be a linen undershirt in the other. Maybor had dealt with Crope in the past and knew that there was little point in trying to force his way through. “How is your master?” he demande
d.
“Sleeping.”
“No, you idiot, I want to know how he is.”
“He is sleeping.”
Maybor was coming close to losing his temper. He spoke very loudly, as if talking to the deaf. “I want to know if there has been any improvement in your master’s health.”
“He has been sleeping since yesterday morning.”
Borc, but the man was ugly! His face was as slack as a drawstring purse, his eyes were beady and close, his whiskers were the size of matching broomheads, and his nasal hair was a startling shade of red. Specimens like him should be strangled at birth. “What happened to your master on the night of the fight? What made him collapse?”
Crope considered for a moment. “He was taken ill, sir.”
He was stupid as well as ugly. There was little point in pursuing the subject any further. Crope was too well trained to give anything away. “If your master awakes, inform him that, unlike myself, he was not invited to hunt with the duke at his private lodge in the mountains. Have you got that?”
“Yes.”
“Repeat it back to me.” Maybor listened as Crope recited the sentence back to him. “Good. Be sure he gets the message.” He turned and was just about to walk away when an idea came to him. “Is that your master’s?” he demanded, pointing to the linen shift Crope was holding. As soon as the man nodded, Maybor leapt forward and grabbed it from him. Taken by surprise, Crope had no chance to stop him. Maybor smiled triumphantly at the bewildered servant and then began to walk away.
He tucked the shift in his tunic and pondered on what little he had learned from Crope. If Baralis had been sleeping all day, then the illness must be serious indeed. Knowing the king’s chancellor, though, he wasn’t about to die from it. His scrawny neck was too durable by far. Maybor wrapped his hands in his cloak as he made his way through the damp north wing. There had to be some way to get to the man. Baralis couldn’t be allowed to continue ruining his prospects and humiliating him in public. There was a growing list of debts that needed repaying: several attempts on his life, the death of his horse, the thwarting of his ambitions and, lastly, the disappearance of his daughter.
Maybor felt a tightness in his throat and slowed down his step. What had become of Melliandra? His precious, beautiful jewel. He had been a fool. He should never have tried to force her to marry Kylock. She was headstrong and stubborn and proud—just like himself—and he should have handled the situation differently. Maybor stopped by an arrow loop and stared out onto the calm gray waters of the Great Lake. Where was she? Probably somewhere far away, frightened to come forward because she feared his wrath. Traff was supposed to be looking for her, but Maybor wasn’t sure that he wanted his daughter to be found by Baralis’ ex-mercenary. The man was dangerous, unpredictable, and he believed that Melliandra was now his property.
How could he have promised his daughter’s hand in marriage to a mercenary? Maybor leaned heavily against the wet stone wall as he realized the full extent of his stupidity. It was all Baralis’ fault; once that man had started scheming, nothing else had mattered but beating him at his own game. What a mess he’d made of everything!
Self-recrimination was a new and painful experience for Maybor. He was not a man given to looking inward: action was what counted. An idea occurred to him: he would write to Kedrac and have him send messages out to every town and village in the Four Kingdoms. He would offer a reward of five hundred golds for information leading to his daughter’s recovery. No, he could do more than that; he would issue a public declaration, forgiving Melliandra for her disobedience and promising that if she were to come forward she would be received once more into the loving bosom of her family.
Maybor’s mind was racing; he would send the letter this day. He was determined to have his daughter back. She might not marry a king, but there were plenty of rich nobles here in Bren who would be pleased to have her. He could see her now: her blue eyes dark and fiery, her skin as pale as snow. Oh, she was a beauty, no doubt about it. After all, she’d been lucky enough to take after him, not her mother.
Having decided upon a course of action, Maybor could barely contain his excitement. Melliandra would be safely back at Castle Harvell within a matter of weeks. His step was light and he hummed a jaunty tune, the words of which had long eluded him. It was still early morning; if he hurried, he could get the letter written and sent before he left for the hunt.
Just as he was about to enter his chambers, someone cut in front of him. “Lord Maybor, may I have a word?”
It was Lord Cravin, the man who had sat beside him at the welcoming banquet. “Certainly. Step inside my chambers.”
Cravin shook his head. “No. I would prefer it if you would walk with me for a minute.”
That was telling. Obviously Castle Harvell wasn’t the only place where the walls had ears. Maybor nodded briefly, enjoying his sudden fall into the silk-lined pit of intrigue.
Cravin led the way. He was a distinguished-looking man. Like the duke, his nose was finely hooked. There was gray at his temples and his hair was cut close to the skull. Only when they reached a discreet tree-lined forecourt did he deem it fitting to speak. “The duke will be leaving the city for the next few days. I hear you are to accompany him?”
“And if I am?”
“ ’Twould be better if you stayed. There is bigger game to be had, here, in the palace.”
“Meaning?”
“With the duke away, we can talk freely. It is time we discussed our mutual interests.”
This was a dilemma for Maybor: he loved hunting. “Can we not talk on my return?”
“You can talk all you like,” said Cravin. “I, however, would never be foolish enough to say anything if I thought there was a chance that it could find its way into the duke’s ear.”
“To cancel my trip now may offend His Grace.” Maybor was tempted by the idea of secret liaisons and plotting, but he was even more tempted by the idea of ingratiating himself with the duke. A few good hunts’ worth of shared danger and they’d be friends for life.
“The duke will not notice your absence. His eye is on more unpredictable game than mountain lions.”
“Women?” Maybor could barely keep the longing from his voice. It had been a long time since he’d last felt the rounded belly of a well-proportioned wench. He had no idea how a man went about procuring women in a foreign city. All the serving girls he’d seen were either too old or too skinny.
“One woman in particular. I hear the duke’s latest dalliance has stirred his jaded fancy.” Cravin’s eyes narrowed. “Have you a wish for a little feminine comfort yourself, Lord Maybor?”
“I am a man of considerable appetites.”
“I could send several young ladies to your chamber tonight.”
That certainly shifted the balance. Hunting could wait. Right now the thought of a good bedding was much more appealing. “I will send my regrets to the duke. I feel a slight fever coming on.”
Cravin bowed his head. “I will contact you in due course.”
“Until then.” Maybor returned the bow, and then as an afterthought he added, “Be sure to send the women all at once.”
Acknowledging the request with the coolest of smiles, Cravin turned and set a course for the palace.
Maybor stood for a moment in the forecourt. The breeze from the lake was sharp but not cold. Things were getting interesting. He’d go back to his chambers, write a letter to his son concerning Melliandra, take a short nap to recover his strength, and then prepare for a night of lustful diversions. Intrigue would merely be spice for the joint.
As he made his way back to his chambers, Maybor remembered the bulge in his tunic: Baralis’ undershirt. He smiled broadly. There’d be mischief as well as merriment.
• • •
Despite her determination to be disdainful of new clothes, Melli couldn’t quite help admiring herself in the mirror. She had to admit that the color and style suited her rather well. Blue had long been her favorite
color, and the embroidery which chased along the hem of the dress was beautiful to behold. Seashells and starfish swam amongst a sea of silken thread. The work was obviously done in Toolay, so it must have cost a pretty penny indeed. Bailor was sparing no expense.
There was one problem with her new dress, though: its soft bodice made it difficult to conceal her knife. Melli sat down on the edge of the bed. Did she really need a weapon? The situation she now found herself in was so much different than she imagined. In many ways there seemed to be less danger. Although the duke was a powerful man, she couldn’t imagine him trying to force himself upon her. Surely he was too honorable for that? But then, Edrad at the inn in Duvitt had seemed like an honorable man, too. Melli began to bind the blade of the knife with a length of cloth. It was better to take no chances.
The old woman who lived on a pig farm, and whose name they never knew, had given her this knife. As long as she had it, Melli felt safe. By now, it was more like a talisman than a weapon.
She tucked the sheathed blade in her bodice and tried to position it where it would attract the least attention. For the first time in her life, Melli wished that she had a larger chest. Lady Helliarna’s daughter, Carinnela, had breasts the size of serving platters. She could probably conceal an entire armory down her bodice!
A soft knock was followed by the entrance of Bailor. He smiled broadly. “Good morning, my dear.”
Melli couldn’t help but smile back. He looked quite dazzling in his latest robe: a fully sheened silk of burnished gold. She could see her face in the fabric that stretched across his belly.
“A fine dawn this morning, my dear. It promises to be a perfect day for travel.” He reached over and patted her shoulder. “And you are looking quite lovely, I see.”
“So are you, Bailor.”
He seemed well pleased at the compliment. “Why, thank you, my dear. The silk came all the way from Isro.” Sucking in his belly a little for good measure, he briefly checked his reflection in the mirror.