The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  He turned and walked away.

  Twenty-one

  Nabber watched from the shadows, hardly daring to breathe. Every part of his still small body was intent upon willing Tawl to pick up the letter, but he didn’t. The knight—for Tawl would never be anything except a knight to Nabber—walked away from the letter and never looked back. A very real pain constricted Nabber’s heart and a very real tear fell down his cheek. Swift’s words echoed in his ear: “That’s what you get for snooping where you’re not wanted.”

  How could he have let Tawl go out on his own, though? The knight was weak, injured, and obviously deranged: he’d poured a full skin of ale on the fire! A man like that needed watching, closely.

  Nabber had spied on Tawl from the moment he got up from his pallet, eventually following him out of the palace. The castle guards had given him a bit of trouble; they didn’t believe that he was a guest of the duke. Nabber snorted indignantly. He soon put them right, even had them apologizing and offering to share their supper. Round about now Nabber was wishing he’d taken them up on the offer: there was a hole the size of a decent pork pie in his stomach and it was getting bigger, and not at all quietly at that. There had been moments when Nabber thought his stomach had given the game away. It rumbled viciously while the two cronies had been talking to the knight.

  Nabber knew they were from the Old Man before they even opened their mouths. Their menacing mismatched forms were a familiar sight on the streets of Rorn. No one messed with them. Quite a pair, by all accounts, their specialty being beating up reluctant shopkeepers. Nabber couldn’t remember their names, but their faces were hard to forget.

  When he’d first spotted them, he thought they were going to slice Tawl to ribbons. There had been one hair-raising instant when he felt sure he was going to have to jump in and save Tawl. Again. Wasn’t to be, though. They’d come to talk to him. Seemed right friendly, they did. Nabber then decided they were going to kidnap the knight instead—particularly when the big one reached inside his tunic. But it wasn’t a knife he wielded, it was a letter.

  Nabber had quickly scuttled nearer. He wanted to catch what was being said. He was barely feet away, body pressed against a rotting timber, feet buried in a mound of . . . waste. Evil rats chewing at his toes, the smell of the abattoir on the breeze. It was just like home. He could hear everything. The letter was from Bevlin, and Tawl didn’t want to look at it. Although the knight was adamant, Nabber felt sure that he would pick it up once the Old Man’s cronies were gone. Only he didn’t. Two minutes ago he’d walked away, leaving the letter unopened on the ground.

  It wasn’t right. There was no way that he, Nabber, friend of the great thieves and one-time disciple of Swift, was going to leave that letter there on the street for any milk maid or barrow-boy to pick up at their leisure. No. It was private property. And if Tawl didn’t want it, then he certainly did.

  A quick look left and then right, a sharp sniff of the air, and then he waded through the waste and onto the street. He went straight over to the letter and slipped it in his tunic. Strange, but in all his life Nabber had never really considered himself a thief; pocketing was more of a pastime than a crime, yet now, as he made his way back toward the palace with the letter resting against his chest, he felt for the first time that he’d taken something that wasn’t his to take. He vowed he would never open it. The letter belonged to Tawl, and it was his duty to keep it for him.

  • • •

  As soon as Rovas dropped him off in the cart, Jack realized he had no idea how to carry a barrel of ale. Wider than a man, it wouldn’t rest well on his shoulder, and it proved hard to get a decent grip if he held it at his chest. The sweat on his hands didn’t help, either. He was scared. Talking about murdering Vanly was one thing, actually going through with it quite another. He was on the far side of town, and according to Rovas the garrison lay half a league to the south.

  Jack lifted the barrel for the final time, dipping his head down and bringing it over his shoulder. If he kept his torso bowed forward, he could keep it balanced on his back. Rovas had filled it close to the brim. He could hear the ale sloshing away as he walked. The momentum of the fluid worked against him, slowing him down and causing his feet to hesitate as he stepped. He probably looked drunk.

  After walking for five minutes he felt as if he needed a drink. His back strained with the weight and with the unnatural angle. The muscles in his arms were beginning to protest at being held over his head for so long, and he’d exuded enough sweat to fill a second barrel. The most annoying thing, however, was his hair: it had fallen down in a wet tangle over his face and now he couldn’t see where he was going. Letting go of the ale was out of the question—if he put it down now he wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to pick it up again—so he was forced to walk watching his feet.

  The night air was cool, but not cold, and the full moon illuminated every step. Not a good night for discreet getaways. Carrying the ale actually helped to calm Jack’s nerves. On the journey here his throat felt so dry that he couldn’t manage a word to Rovas, but now, forced to concentrate on bearing a load that weighed about as much as Tarissa, but was a lot more awkward to handle, his mind was firmly on the job in hand.

  To lighten his mood, Jack began to whistle a tune. He knew it was a mistake as soon as he started, for the small low noise just made the night seem larger. He decided to carry on anyway, at least till he got to the chorus.

  A cartload of people passed him; they were drunk and merry and laughed at his burden. Jack smiled and bowed his back further. He was close to the garrison now. Approaching from the north, he would come to the service entrance first. The road became muddy, and two people on foot walked past him. They paid the man with the barrel no heed. The dryness returned to Jack’s throat as he fell under the moon-cast shadow of the fort.

  The cartload of people were applying for entrance. There were two guards armed with spears and shortswords, just as Rovas said there would be. Everyone was laughing, guards included. A hamper was unloaded from the cart and the lid was taken off for inspection. The smell of roasted chicken hit Jack’s nostrils. It made him sick. His stomach was too tight for food. After rummaging in the hamper and picking out a few morsels for themselves, the guards let the party through. They then turned their attentions to Jack.

  “What you got there, boy?”

  Jack swung the barrel down from his shoulders and placed it on the ground, tap up, in front of them. He brushed his hair back from his face and pointed at the barrel.

  “What’s the matter with you?” sneered the second guard. “Cat got your tongue?”

  Jack’s heart was beating so wildly, he was sure the guards would hear it. He shook his head violently, and then as an afterthought, bowed deeply to both men.

  “He’s dumb,” said the first guard. “Look’s a bit simple, too.”

  “Aye, he does that,” agreed the companion. “His hair’s right long, as well. Don’t remember seeing anyone with hair as long as that in town before. Where you from, boy?”

  Jack had no choice but to point toward the town.

  “You’re not going to get much out of him, Wesik. He’s one arrow short of a full flight. Probably been employed by Ottley at the tavern. He’s always on the lookout for cheap labor.”

  Jack nodded vigorously. He was tempted to back this gesture up with a simple smile, but opted for more nodding instead.

  “You heard what happened at the tavern last week, Grimpley,” said Wesik, the second guard. “A merchant got murdered in cold blood, throat slit and all. Who’s to say it wasn’t young long-hair here?”

  “Leave it out, Wesik. This boy ain’t no killer. The muscles in those arms were shaped by shifting barrels, not bodies.”

  Jack nodded again. He was getting tired of acting stupid. He would have like to punch both men in the face—Wesik first.

  “All right, all right. Have it your own way. What’s in the barrel, boy? From the looks of that tap, it’s Isro Amber.” Ja
ck nodded and Wesik continued. “Well, don’t just stand there, pour us a cup.”

  Jack didn’t have the slightest idea how to work the tap.

  “Come on, come on. Quick about it.”

  As he reached toward the tap, Jack’s hands were shaking uncontrollably. Under his breath he cursed Rovas for not showing him how to use it. The tap was tooled from brass and had a bolt, a lever, and a screw protruding from it. He opted for the lever first and then began to turn the screw. Both guards hovered over him, watching every move. Jack didn’t realize how much he was sweating until he brushed his hand against his forehead: it came back soaking wet. With the screw loosened sufficiently to let the ale pass through the tap, Jack removed the bolt. Nothing.

  “What are you playing at, boy?” demanded Wesik.

  Jack felt as if his heart was about to burst. Panicking, he started to pull, twist and flip indiscriminately, desperate to get the ale to flow.

  Wesik swung his boot into the back of Jack’s head. “Damn fool!”

  Pain exploded in Jack’s skull. He was sent forward against the barrel, chin catching against the metal tap.

  “Leave the boy be, Wesik,” said Grimpley, placing a restraining arm on his companion. “There’s ladies coming.”

  Jack tasted blood in his mouth. Looking up, he saw three women approaching on foot.

  “You armed, boy?” asked Wesik, eyes upon the women.

  Jack shook his head.

  Grimpley ran his spear point along Jack’s tunic and down his legs, prodding every few inches to test for metal. “There’s nothing on him.”

  Wesik crouched down beside Jack and grabbed the collar of his undershirt. “Listen to me, boy,” he said, his voice a slow, threatening drawl. “I’m going to give you fifteen minutes. If you’re not out of here by then, I’m going to come looking for you.” Slivers of chicken skin were caught between his teeth. He twisted Jack’s collar. “Have you got that?”

  Jack nodded.

  “Good, now get yourself out of my sight.”

  Jack scrambled up, tilted the barrel a fraction, and heaved it toward his chest. It seemed twice as heavy as he remembered. His blood ran onto the wood. The guards let him through the gate and into the garrison. Wesik waited until he had cleared the steps and then said, “Fifteen minutes, boy, then I come looking.”

  Jack rounded the first corner he came to. He dropped the barrel on the floor, not caring how it landed. His head was reeling, his hands were shaking, and blood was spilling from his mouth. Fifteen minutes. He had no time to waste; he had to break open the barrel.

  Footsteps followed by whispering voices. It was the three women at the gate. They walked past Jack as if he didn’t exist. Looking around, he saw he was in a badly lit corner of the courtyard. In the distance, two men were playing dice against a wall. They were guards: spears rested in the dirt along with two flat ale skins. To the right was a large, well-lit building; the shutters were open and it was full of people drinking and toasting. Probably the mess hall. A second, smaller structure leaned against it for support: the kitchens.

  What to do next? Jack had read stories about heroes, and without exception they always knew what they were going to do and how they were going to do it. He didn’t have a clue. Rovas had said it would be easy to find a bar or a pick to pry the barrel open, but Jack had no idea how he’d get his hands on anything like that. One of the guards’ spears would do the job, but to try and take it from them would be madness. Maybe there would be something in the kitchens. He’d try there.

  With the decision taken, Jack wasted no time. He rolled the ale barrel into the deep shadows of the corner and then slunk along the west wall until he came to the kitchen. The dicing guards never noticed his passing. Quickly he flitted around the side of the kitchen wall and through the narrow alleyway to the rear. Smells of roasting meat wafted from the doorway. The sound of laughing and singing came from the mess hall, and the sound of squabbling and shouting came from the kitchens.

  Staying close to the wall and its concealing shadows, Jack inspected the kitchen courtyard. In the corner was a butchering block. His eyes searched for the gleam of an ax. A man in an apron stepped out from the doorway. Jack held his breath as he walked toward the very wall he was standing against. Sweat trickled down his back. The man came to halt about two horses’ length from him. The moon picked that moment to disappear behind a cloud. Jack gave silent thanks to Borc. Lifting up his apron, the man fished around with the lower ties of his tunic and pulled out his manhood. He proceeded to piss against the wall. He hummed a tune whilst doing his business. Jack’s right leg was beginning to cramp; he fought the desire to shift his weight onto his left side. He couldn’t afford to move an inch.

  The man finished relieving himself, looked at his manhood with pride, and then stuffed it back into his tunic. He paused a moment, as if he were listening for something, and then turned and walked back to the kitchens. Heaving a huge sigh of relief, Jack bent down to stretch his cramping muscle. The smell of urine met his nostrils.

  He was running out of time. Dropping down on all fours, he began to crawl across the yard to the butcher’s block. He couldn’t see an ax from where he was, but there could still be something useful around the other side of the huge chunk of timber.

  Jack crawled with a limp, his muscle still cramping. He knew he probably looked stupid, but that didn’t matter: getting the barrel open as soon as possible was all that counted. The ground was muddy, yet it hadn’t rained for several days. It was too dark to tell, but Jack guessed it was blood that soaked the ground around the block.

  Luck was with him. At the back of the block was a meat hook. It wasn’t as good as an ax, but it would do. Hooking it onto his belt, Jack crawled back to the kitchen wall.

  Now came the dangerous part: he couldn’t risk anyone seeing him, not now with mud and blood smeared across his tunic. The two guards had finished dicing. One was drinking from a third skin, the other was inspecting the point of his spear. Jack emerged from the alley and made for the wall. The moon appeared from behind the clouds. How long had he been? Five minutes? Ten? It was impossible to say. One thing was sure: he couldn’t afford to wait for the moon to disappear again. Back brushing against the wall, Jack stepped sideways along its length. Everything was going well, till he stumbled against a tree root that had somehow forced its way under the wall. Both guards looked up. Jack froze. The guard with the spear began to walk toward the wall. Jack prayed he was hidden by the shadow. A voice called out. “Leave it, Bornis. It’s only rats. Come and have a sup of ale before I finish the whole skin on my own.” The guard hesitated a second and then returned to his companion.

  Jack forced himself to count to a hundred before moving again. Time was getting crucial.

  He reached the ale barrel with no further incidents. The corner was nice and dark, but just to make safe, Jack rolled the barrel into the recess behind the gate. No one could see him now—though the gate guards might hear him if he wasn’t careful. Grasping the hook, he worked the tip between two of the planks. Why wouldn’t his hands stop shaking? Slowly he began to crack the timber. Gently, gently, moving the hook back and forth, working it deeper into the join. There was a splintering sound and the hook became jammed in place. Jack grasped the handle firmly and swung it down against the barrel. Crack! The barrel opened. Ale gushed out at his feet. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever smelled in his life.

  Once the two timbers were cracked, it was easy to knock the rest of the wood inward. The metal hoops were no longer a problem. Jack pried the lid off the barrel, and as expected, there was a knife bundled in oilskin attached to its underside. Rovas had not lied. Unraveling the package, he dried the blade on his tunic and then tested it against his finger. It was so sharp he never felt it slice his skin.

  Jack cupped his hands below the splintered timbers and caught a good measure of the foamy brew. He brought it to his face and didn’t so much drink the ale as bathe in it. What little did find its way to his m
outh tasted good. An idea occurred to him, and he lifted what was left of the barrel up above his shoulders and emptied it all down his chest. If anyone saw him now, he’d be just another beer-soaked fool.

  Less than five minutes left. It was time to get down to business. What had Rovas said: the officers’ quarters lay to the left of the service gate? Just as he was about to leave the shadows, Jack turned back and picked up the hook. It might come in handy.

  The two gate guards were busy interrogating another visitor and they didn’t see him dash by. Jack followed the wall until it turned east, all the time trying to remember Rovas’ flour map. Ahead lay the covered arcade—just as the smuggler said. Sliding along the inside wall, Jack came to a supporting timber. Hunkering down, so his head would be lower than man height, he looked down the length of the arcade. Double doors. Two guards. Waiting for the watch to change was not an option: he was running out of time. What to do? What would heroes do? Silently slash both guards to ribbons?

  Jack’s legs were protesting at crouching down, so he decided to stand. As he did so, the butcher’s hook that was looped over his belt caught on the material of his britches, causing them to tear all the way up to his waist. “Damn!” muttered Jack under his breath. He grabbed the meat hook and was just about to leave it on the ground beside him when he was distracted by voices. Looking out across the courtyard, through the wooden supports of the arcade, Jack spied a group of women and officers—seven or eight in all—and they were heading his way.

  The hook was in his hand. There was only one thing to do. Keeping close to the beam and its shadow, Jack swung out. All his momentum was transferred to his right arm, and with one mighty heave, he sent the hook flying into the air; aiming straight for the officers and their ladies.