The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  “So they’ll be on their guard?”

  Rovas gave him a shrewd look. “Not stuck out here in the east, they won’t. They’ll be so busy training and recruiting and putting edges on their blades that they wouldn’t even notice Borc himself arriving for his second coming.”

  Jack took a sip of his ale to give himself time to think. Rovas was downplaying the dangers. He couldn’t really blame the man for doing so; after all, there was no way he would agree to steal into the garrison if he thought twenty score of soldiers would be armed and waiting. Still, it gave Jack cause to be wary: what other perils might Rovas choose to minimize or ignore? “How many men are set to guard at night?”

  “Outside there are four pairs. One pair mounts the garrison, two guard the main gate, and one guards the service entrance at the rear.” The smuggler spoke with assurance and Jack had no cause to doubt him.

  “How are they armed?”

  “The ones on the battlements have crossbows. All the others have spears and short swords.”

  Jack nodded. “What about inside?”

  “That’s more difficult to say.” Rovas pulled in his cheeks and made a slight sucking sound. His face was red and peeling. Too much ale, sun, and wind had caused the blood vessels to break on his nose. “I won’t lie to you, Jack,” he said, endowing his deep voice with a measure of affection. “There could be as many as ten pairs. And I can’t say for certain where they’ll be stationed. They could be practically anywhere.”

  Jack wondered when he had become so suspicious. To him, Rovas’ attempt at disarming truthfulness seemed calculated to win his trust. Strange to think that only a few months earlier, when he was working as a baker’s boy in Castle Harvell, he had taken everyone on their word. Trust was now a thing of the past.

  It was easy to forget what Rovas really did for a living. He was a smuggler, a con artist, and a thief. He preyed on people who were poor and hungry and sold them goods that were an insult to their meager purses. Rovas liked to project an air of rakish good humor, but he wasn’t a rake at all. He was a villain.

  He had tried to force Tarissa to murder a man. The same man whose murder they now sat around the table plotting. Rovas had found someone else to do his dirty work for him. Jack shifted to the edge of his seat. He needed to be wary of every word that left the smuggler’s lips. “So what’s the best way to gain entry?”

  “The service entrance. There’s no need to force your way in. I’ll give you a barrel of ale with the mark of the local inn upon it.” Rovas leaned forward as he told Jack of his plan. “It’s Spring Blessing, so they’ll be wanting all the ale they can get. There’ll be all sorts passing through that door tomorrow night: whores, cooks, musicians. You don’t say a word. That accent of yours will give you away in an instant. Simply turn up at the door with the ale and they’ll let you through. No one will pay the slightest attention to a dumb and unarmed tavern boy.”

  “Unarmed?”

  “Aye, you’ll be a stranger to them, so they’ll search you for sure. Your weapon will be strapped to the inside of the ale barrel! It’ll be a little wet, but deadly nonetheless.” Rovas was looking rather pleased with himself. “O’ course you’ll have to find a pick or a bar to get inside the barrel, but that shouldn’t be difficult. At worst you can simply smash it against a wall. If anyone comes, just pretend you dropped it. Chances are that everyone will be so drunk that they won’t even care.”

  The plan sounded feasible, yet Jack found it hard to accept that it would be so easy. On feastdays at Castle Harvell, the guards who were on duty were strictly forbidden to drink. “Everyone won’t be drinking, though?” he prompted.

  Rovas moved back and the light from the candle fell from his face. “The only ones who won’t be tippling will be the four pairs of external guards.” He looked straight at Jack from the shadows, challenging him to question his word.

  How much could he believe? Rovas was a practiced liar: anyone who could pass off fish painted with blood as a fresh catch had to have a tongue that dripped oil. Yet Jack knew he had no choice but to accept what Rovas said. There was little chance he was going to catch the man out, and, all things considered, the smuggler did want Vanly murdered. So why would he lie about the dangers?

  Jack was afraid. He was playing at being tough, nothing more. What had he ever done in his life that readied him for this? Oh, he could handle a blade now, but he was still happier kneading dough than attacking an opponent. Jack smiled despite himself; that wasn’t quite true anymore. It felt right to have a sword in his hand. He’d learned fast, almost as if it were second nature. Already he was developing the ability to know what his opponent’s next move would be even before he made it. Rovas had told him to watch the eyes of his opponent if he wanted to see what they’d try next, but Jack had learned that wasn’t quite enough. You had to watch the line of their muscles to see which were ready to contract, and you had to memorize all the moves that had gone before: a man was always anxious to pull something new from his hat.

  In many ways baking had prepared him for fighting: long hours had honed his endurance, working under Frallit had given him a strong sense of self-discipline, and kneading dough for six hours a day and hauling sacks of grain from the granary had given him arms of steel.

  Nothing had prepared him for stealing into a garrison, though. Nothing made him ready to kill a man in cold blood and then make an escape. Nothing. If it wasn’t for Tarissa, he might not have gone through with it. Melli was dead. Revenge paled beside that one, irrefutable fact. If anyone was to blame for her death, it was he, not Vanly. To kill the man in her name would be as good as a lie. So he would do it for Tarissa, instead.

  “How do I know the guards will let me into the garrison with the ale? They might just take it from me.” Jack knew his only safeguard with Rovas was to question every detail.

  “That’s easy. I’ll make sure you get a barrel with an Isro tap. No one except tavern-keepers know how to open them. They’ll have to let you in if they want the ale to flow.” Rovas smiled charmingly. “And believe me, they’ll want the ale to flow. There’s nothing like Isro Amber for putting a fire in the blood.”

  “Where will Vanly be?”

  Rovas’ whole face lit up at the question; he’d obviously been eagerly awaiting it for some time. “Aah, well, that’s where my inside information comes in. I know for a fact that a troop of dancing girls are currently on their way from Helch to the garrison. Now, these dancing girls are little more than whores, and one of them is said to be so beautiful that men fall to their knees at the very sight of her. Knowing the good captain as I do, he’ll be spending the evening trying to bed her.” Rovas winked merrily. “And knowing the dancing girls of Helch as I do, he won’t have to try very hard.”

  “So he’ll be alone except for this one girl?”

  “I’m almost certain of it. He’ll eat with his men in the mess hall about sundown. He’ll get drunk by downing a few skins of ale, and get randy by watching the Helch girls dance. Then he’ll retire for the evening with the most beautiful girl in the room on his arm.”

  “How do I find his quarters?” asked Jack. They were coming to the most dangerous part; entering the garrison wouldn’t be that difficult, but if he were caught wandering around the officers’ quarters it would mean certain capture. Or worse.

  Rovas spilled a heap of flour onto the table. He spread it out flat with the palm of his hand and then proceeded to draw a rough sketch of the garrison in the powder. “Here,” he said, tracing the outline of the south wall, “is the service entrance. You simply turn to your left, head along the east wall until you come to a covered arcade.” Rovas accompanied each word with a corresponding line in the flour. “At the end of the arcade is a set of double doors, pass through these, take the short flight of stairs on your right, and the first door you come to will be Vanly’s sleeping quarters.”

  Jack was not looking at the map. He was watching Rovas’ face instead, searching for the slightest sign that what t
he smuggler said was a lie. He didn’t find one. There was one glaring omission, though: the officers’ quarters were bound to be guarded. Jack didn’t believe that Rovas had innocently overlooked that fact. “What about guards?”

  Rovas shrugged. “There might be a pair of them guarding the double doors. If you wait long enough, you’ll be able to slip by when they change. Who knows, they might be so drunk that they let you sail past. With that long hair of yours they might even think you’re an officer’s friend—if you get my drift. Though you’re a little too tall and muscley for the normal type.” Rovas laughed at his own wit. “Anyway, the point is it’s Spring Blessing; wine and women will be on everyone’s mind, and those who aren’t thinking about merriment will be worried about the war in the west. We couldn’t pick a better time to make our move.”

  It was time for the most important question of all. “How do I escape?” Jack watched Rovas like a hawk. Of all the things the man was likely to lie about, this was the only one that really counted. Jack knew he would be at his most vulnerable once the deed was done.

  Rovas looked Jack straight in the eye. “There’s a tunnel leading from Vanly’s quarters all the way out into the woods.”

  “Why can’t I use it to get in?” Jack had already heard the answer, but he wanted to make sure anyway.

  “It’ll be bolted on the inside.”

  “How do you know about this tunnel?”

  “You forget, Jack. I used to be in business with the man. We used that tunnel all the time to take goods back and forth.” Rovas brushed his hands over the flour, cleaning the slate for another sketch. “It was built at the same time as the garrison. It’s not unusual to have escape tunnels situated in an officer’s quarters in case of the need for quick escape. If the garrison was ever under siege, it would be used to smuggle food and supplies through.” A fat finger traced the corner of the garrison. “Look, here’s Vanly’s quarters. The entrance to the tunnel is located under the bed. The floorboards are hinged and underneath is a barred trapdoor. Once you raise the trapdoor, you’re looking at an eight-foot drop, so be careful: don’t jump blindly, or you could break a leg. Lower yourself feet first. It’ll be pitch-black in there. You could take a candle, but it would just slow you down. Best to work in the dark. There’s only one way to go, so you won’t get lost.”

  Rovas traced a curved line leading out from the garrison. “The tunnel itself is about four feet high, so it won’t be easy going. It’s long, too. It doesn’t slant straight to the woods, because a stream cuts through its path, so the tunnel has to curve to avoid it. When you reach the other end, it’s going to take all your strength to shift the opening. A large rock lies atop the entrance. So don’t be fooled into thinking it’s just a case of raising another trapdoor. There are footholds cut in the timber; hike yourself up and push with all your might.”

  Jack found it difficult to doubt what Rovas was saying. The man seemed to have a lot of convincing details at his disposal. Still, he pushed to find holes in the man’s story. “I thought you’d be waiting for me.”

  “I will, just not in the woods. A patrol comes around about once an hour. It’s too much of a risk for me to wait—I have no way of knowing how long you’ll be.” Rovas poked away at the flour, indicating the woods. “See here at the edge, where the stream grazes the trees, that’s where I’ll be waiting with a spare horse.”

  “Won’t a man with a spare horse look suspicious?”

  “Aye, lad, you might be right. Though I’d hoped to go unnoticed, it’s a pretty remote area by the stream. The guards only patrol the center of the woods, because they know there’s a tunnel there.”

  “Then they’ll we watching the tunnel entrance?” Somehow, Jack knew Rovas would have a convincing answer ready. He wasn’t disappointed.

  “No, lad. Only the officers know the exact location of the tunnel. It wouldn’t do to have every soldier in the garrison knowing how to sneak in and out whenever they pleased.” Rovas rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Come to think of it, the guards might not even know there’s a tunnel. There’s no need to tell them the real reason why they have to keep an eye on the woods.”

  Jack searched for any lack of logic or inconsistencies in Rovas’ story, but could find none. But there was one way to call his bluff. “Take me to the tunnel entrance tonight.”

  Rovas didn’t flinch. “Very well, as you wish. We’ll have to wait until the small hours, though. If we were spotted, we’d have to call the whole thing off.”

  “It’s all right, it doesn’t matter.” Jack was satisfied—there was no reason to go there now. If Rovas had hesitated even for an instant, it would have been a different story. Feeling more relaxed, Jack asked one final question. “How do I know I can trust you, and that I won’t end up getting caught or killed?”

  Rovas’ light blue eyes looked straight into his. “Magra and Tarissa would never forgive me if you didn’t come back.”

  • • •

  Maybor was waiting by an open drain just off the butcher’s courtyard. Apparently the duke’s palace didn’t have need of a middens. All their chamberpots were emptied straight into the lake. A sorry arrangement if ever there was one. How was a man to conduct a discreet meeting without a ghastly smell to put off potential eavesdroppers? There was small consolation to be found in the fact that there was a distinctly unpleasant odor emanating from the drain. Blood and decomposing entrails might not smell quite as bad as a middens, but at least they drew the same amount of flies.

  Here was the man now. Lord Cravin did not look at all pleased to be summoned to such an inauspicious spot. Still, the man managed to step over the bloody carcasses with a certain amount of grace. He was wearing rather fine shoes, as well. Maybor saw Cravin’s discomfort as a personal advantage; he had successfully thrown the man off guard.

  “Well met, Maybor,” said Cravin a little testily. “If I’d known you had such a fondness for carnage, I would have suggested meeting in the sanitarium, that way you could have watched people having their limbs hacked off.”

  “No, farm animals will do just fine.” Maybor picked up a slice of what looked to be a pig’s ear with the toe of his boot and flipped it into the gutter.

  Cravin appeared to calm himself. “I trust you found the ladies to your liking?”

  “More than adequate, my friend.” Maybor was feeling rather superior. “Though the second girl was a little skinny for my taste. Her hips were like a lentil grower’s feast; pleasant enough, but lacking in meat. As for the first—”

  “Enough,” hissed Cravin. “I did not come here to discuss the female form.” He took a step closer, the right half of his face falling under the shadow cast by his hooked nose. “Hear my piece now, or walk away from this meeting with nothing but the blood on your boots to show for it.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “How well do you know Lord Baralis?”

  The question took Maybor by surprise. His first instinct was to be guarded. “I could tell you a thing or two.”

  “Then you’re aware that he’s a dangerous man with dangerous ambitions?” Cravin’s eyes shone shrewd like a hawk.

  Maybor, feeling uncharacteristically cautious, merely nodded.

  “The marriage between Catherine and Kylock is no spur of the moment affair. Baralis has planned for it for over a decade—perhaps even longer.”

  “And how would you know this?” Maybor had decided his policy: say nothing and let the lord from Bren spill his guts.

  “For ten years now Baralis has crushed, murdered, or suppressed any party who sought Kylock’s hand in marriage.”

  Melliandra! Maybor’s thoughts darted toward his daughter. Outwardly, he remained calm. “Go on.”

  “Has it never occurred to you to wonder how a prince of Kylock’s standing managed to reach his eighteenth year without as much as one formal offer of betrothal?” Cravin didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll tell you why, because Baralis, in his position as king’s chancellor, managed to stop any
proposals before they reached the ears of the king.

  “The duke of Highwall has a daughter approaching her fifteenth summer. When she was but eight years old, he opened negotiations with the kingdoms for Kylock’s hand. Baralis sent the girl a gift: a box of sugared delights. One week later she succumbed to brain-fever. One month later she couldn’t remember her name. To this day she lives in a tiny room in the duke’s castle, strapped to her bed to prevent her from injuring herself.”

  Maybor believed every word: Baralis had tried no less with Melliandra. “Did suspicion fall on Baralis?”

  “There were whisperings, but Baralis silenced most of them by stating that he was still willing to go ahead with the betrothal, regardless of the girl’s condition. Of course he knew the duke would never allow it, but it looked good all the same.”

  The stench of decomposing entrails seemed a fitting accompaniment to such talk. “What else have you heard?”

  Cravin stood and contemplated for a moment; his tough and wiry body all angles beneath his robes. “I myself once entered into negotiations with Baralis. It was many years ago now. My eldest daughter, Fellina, was a match for Kylock in age. I sent a letter to the king, outlining my proposal. He never sent a reply. Baralis did. He was most gracious, saying that he had heard tell of my daughter’s beauty and refinement; however, he said my letter had placed him in a difficult position as he had recently received a similar proposal from my great rival, Lord Gandrel. He pointed out that, while he favored Fellina’s suit, he was barred from choosing between us, as the king didn’t want to offend either party.”

  “Your daughter got off lightly,” said Maybor, surprised at the emotion in his voice.

  Cravin nodded grimly. “I am forever grateful for that. I learned a few years later that Gandrel had never considered marrying any of his daughters to Kylock. Baralis had invented the whole thing. He is a clever dog, he knew there was no way I could confirm Gandrel’s proposal; at the time I hated the man with a passion and never spoke to him except in anger.”