The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  “And what’s in it for you, Lord Baralis?”

  How much to say? It wouldn’t be wise to give his ultimate plan away. Catherine probably hated her father at the moment, but would she want him dead? Baralis found the strength of family ties hard to judge, and so tended toward caution in such affairs. “I want the marriage to go smoothly.”

  “Is that all?” There was a shrewd look on Catherine’s beautiful face.

  “All, my sweet Catherine. The greatest union in the history of the Known Lands should not be dismissed so casually.” Baralis made his voice ring like a fanfare. “You will be ruler of the vast territories of the north. Men and armies will wait upon your bidding. Jewels and riches will be yours beyond compare. More than a queen, you will be an empress.”

  Two bright bursts of red shone high on Catherine’s cheeks. Her soft lips trembled and then hardened to bone. “An empress?”

  She was his. He had judged right: she craved glory as much as her father. The ruling house of Bren was as ravenous as its emblem, the hawk. Ambition ran in the blood: that and lechery. The maiden’s belt that Catherine wore was not for show. Too many of Bren’s daughters had shamed themselves with lust. They were like cats in heat. Even now she sat there, legs a fist too far apart for decency, bodice cut a finger too low for good taste. Baralis turned his back on her; he could not afford to let her beauty distract him.

  “You will surpass your father in the breadth of your vision. He sees a kingdom, you will survey an empire. Your name will move the lips of generations. Catherine, Empress of the North, will be remembered throughout history. Your deeds will be spoken of long after your father’s name has been forgotten.” Baralis wheeled around to face her once more. “By helping me, you help yourself.”

  “What would you have me do?”

  As Catherine said that one, delicious sentence, Baralis felt the tension drain from his body. He walked over to the cabinet and poured himself a half cup of wine. Only when he had drunk its measure did he speak. “To start with, I need to know exactly what your father is up to at all times. Who he meets with, where he goes, what intelligence he receives, even what he’s thinking. At a later date I may need to know about the passageway to his chambers; the knight will be spending much time there and it will make for a convenient assassination. Lastly, I need you to reinforce to your father how strongly you feel about the marriage. Tell him you have been out in the city and have met with nothing but encouragement from your people. Perhaps you might throw a tantrum and threaten to throw yourself off the battlements if your father looks set to forbid the marriage. Use your own judgment.”

  Catherine nodded obediently at everything he said.

  Baralis noted the familiar light of intrigue upon her face and continued. “Now, before you go, tell me what you know about Kylock’s invasion of Halcus.”

  She spoke breathlessly, like a little girl eager to please. Baralis listened to what she had to say. He was worried about the content, but more than happy with the delivery.

  • • •

  Cold water was thrown against Jack’s face. The bucket followed after. “Wake up, you kingdoms’ bastard.”

  Jack opened his left eye—the right one refused to do his bidding—and looked at his surroundings. At first he thought he’d gone to hell, for everything was tinged as red as the devil. A second later he realized he was seeing everything through a crimson haze. His good eye was filled with blood. Which was a little unfortunate as it was the only one he had working at the moment. Still, one red eye was better than none.

  The man who’d thrown the bucket looked about as mean as Frallit on a feast day. He was the same color, too. However, the master baker managed to look red about the jowls regardless of bloody eyes.

  “What you smirking at, boy?” A quick kick to the kidneys added force to the question.

  Jack tried hard to change his facial expression. It wasn’t easy. His jaw refused to do whatever it normally did and his lips proved too thick to move.

  “Don’t you be playing me for a fool, boy. ’Cos I’ll wipe that smirk right off your face.” The man slapped Jack hard against the cheek and sent him reeling backward.

  Jack felt a single knifepoint of pain in his chest and then the floodgates opened. Every muscle, every bone, every cell of his body cried out in protest. Four limbs throbbed with separate hurts. Back and belly were afire, and he felt as if there was a huge crack running down the middle of his skull. There was so much pain, in fact, that after the initial shock of discovery, it all blended into one, canceled itself out, and then settled upon the original piercing spot in his chest as its sole representative.

  “Not smirking now, eh?” prompted the guard.

  Jack’s thoughts were clouded by pain. He wasn’t sure how to react. By turns he tried nodding and scowling. Luckily, nodding came easier and the guard appeared to back off a little. Feeling relieved but decidedly unheroic, Jack breathed a sigh of relief. Another mistake, as his chest protested strongly at the exertion. A sickening warning pain swelled up from his lungs. Blood came with it. Leaning forward, he spat a froth of saliva and blood onto the ground.

  “I wouldn’t be worried about that, boy,” said the guard. “In my experience, hanging is the greatest of healers. Better than any physician for curing the ailments.”

  Jack was getting heartily sick of the guard. He scanned his brain for a suitable insult, could only come up with, “you Halcus sheep-lover,” but decided to use it anyway.

  Crack! A well-placed boot smashed into his chin. Another followed straight after. And then another.

  “Here, Gleeless! Leave the boy alone,” came a second voice. “The hanging’s not for a week yet, and there’s no pleasure in putting a noose around a corpse.”

  Gleeless grunted, gave one final kick to Jack’s side, and then followed his friend from the cell. There was a clink of metal, a turn of key, and then a patter of hard feet on even harder stone.

  Jack now knew better than to sigh in relief. Lying on the floor, looking up at the low, barreled ceiling, he tried to relax all his smarting muscles. He could deal with everything, even the new blows from the guard, except for the pain in his chest. It was like a whirlpool in his center, drawing in his strength and his awareness, and he had to fight it all the way. He had a distant memory of a jutting arrow and dogs with blades for teeth. No, he didn’t want to think about that. He had to focus on something, though, to keep his mind from the gaping, swirling trap that was sculpted from pain in his chest. He could lift up his head and take a proper look at his body, but he had a feeling he wouldn’t like what he saw, so he dismissed that idea on the grounds of his own squeamishness.

  There was one thing left for his mind to grasp at. One thing that would distract his thoughts from the arrow wound to his chest: Tarissa. She would have been waiting for him in the woods that night. Hours and hours alone in the dark and he hadn’t come through for her. Jack thumped the ground with his fist. He had let her down. Thinking about it was torture. At what point had she given up on him? Midnight? Dawn? He could see her now: chestnut curls escaping from her hood, face tight with worry, hand upon her knife. She would have stayed till dawn, he was sure of it.

  What must she be thinking? That he was captured, dead, or, worst of all, that he had just taken off and left her once the job had been done.

  This was Rovas’ doing. The tunnel was blocked and he’d walked straight into a trap. The smuggler had no use for him now that Vanly was dead. It was so much easier to let the soldiers have him. This way Tarissa and Magra would think that he had been captured, not betrayed. Again and again, Jack brought his fist down on the stone. How could he have been so stupid! Rovas had led him forward, laughing all the way. It was the perfect plan: get someone else to do your dirty work and then have them hanged for it.

  Right now Rovas was probably comforting Tarissa, his hands resting a little too low around her waist, his mouth a little too close to her ear.

  Jack felt pressure building within his head;
the picture of Rovas touching Tarissa was unbearable. A sharp tang in his mouth and then the cell began to shake. A stone came hurtling down from the barreled ceiling and crashed right by his feet. It acted like a slap in the face, shocking and sobering in one. He worked quickly to control himself, imagining the sorcery like bile that had to be swallowed. He took it back into his gut and forced it to stay down. Blood coursed from his nose as the pressure in his head sought release. He felt a warm trickle from his ear a moment later.

  “What in Borc’s name was that?” shouted someone.

  Jack was shaking from head to foot. The sorcery, the falling stone, and the image of Rovas and Tarissa together was too much for him. He wanted to cry, only heroes didn’t do things like that, so it was a point of honor that he wouldn’t either. Besides, the way his face was at the moment, crying would only bring him more pain.

  He felt so weak, so out of control. For the first time his mind had shown him what he had unconsciously known since his first week at the smuggler’s cottage: Rovas wanted Tarissa. He was in love with her and would let no one else have her. It explained so much. That was why Magra had pushed them together; not because she wanted to see him and Tarissa become lovers, but because the alternative was so much worse. She couldn’t let Rovas take her daughter. The man had been like a father to Tarissa for nearly twenty years, his desire for her was almost incestuous. Magra, a noblewoman of the highest order, would rather see Tarissa with a baker’s boy than the man who had once been her lover and second parent to her daughter.

  Jack’s head was spinning. Tarissa had to be saved from Rovas. It wouldn’t be long before the smuggler came up with another heinous scheme to bind her more closely to him. He would stop at nothing. Murder, blackmail, coercion—anything to keep control.

  Jack pounded his fist against the stone floor. Rovas wanted Tarissa. Why hadn’t he admitted it to himself sooner? If he had he wouldn’t be here now, locked in a Halcus dungeon whilst Rovas offered a wide shoulder for the woman to cry on. He’d been so easily fooled. He should have checked the tunnel out before he went ahead with the plan. Jack did not doubt for one moment that the tunnel had been blocked off long ago—and that Rovas was well aware of it. The smuggler had knowingly sent him to his death.

  Jack cursed his own stupidity. He’d been as pliable as newly kneaded dough. Not anymore, though. A part of Jack hardened as he lay on the floor of the Halcus cell. For too long now he had allowed himself to be domineered and manipulated by others. Frallit bullied him, Baralis beat him, and Rovas had betrayed him. It was time he took his life into his own hands. No longer would he let himself be led like cattle to pasture. From now on the future would be his.

  There was one thing that was his alone, one advantage that he had tried to deny and ignore for too long. Sorcery was in his blood. It was making him shake now; it had made the stone break free from the ceiling. Already he had moved buildings and people and changed the way things were. What else could he do? At the moment it was a product of rage, called up in anger, dormant for months at a time; he needed to control it. If he could command the power properly, no one would dare take advantage of him again.

  Jack clenched his fists hard. Rovas had sent him running into a wall of dirt and he wasn’t going to get away with it. The guard said that the hanging was a week off. Good. That would give him plenty of time to plan his escape. He needed a few days to regain his strength. Right now he doubted if he could stand, let alone make a run for it or snatch a blade. More importantly than that, he needed the chance to practice using his power. He would master the sorcery inside.

  Ignoring the protests of a bevy of muscles, Jack pulled himself up to a sitting position. The wound in his chest reasserted its presence by racking his body with a deep and stabbing pain. Jack fought against it, willing away the hurt. He had more important things on his mind. The stone by his feet seemed the natural place to start. He was going to make it move. Clearing his thoughts of all matters except the stone, Jack began to concentrate upon its center. Slowly, he forced his will against the surface, imagining he was pushing it with his mind. Nothing. No flutter in his stomach, no pressure in his head. He tried again, this time envisioning himself entering the stone and shifting it from within. Not a single movement, no matter how hard he concentrated.

  Disappointed, but not really surprised, Jack shifted his position. He knew what he had to do next. He flashed an image up in his mind: a picture of Rovas comforting Tarissa, his large red hands resting gently upon her back as he leaned forward to whisper lies in her ear. It was all the help Jack needed. Instantly, he felt his saliva thicken with sorcery, felt his brain pressing against his skull. There was a brief instant where he worked to focus the energy, and then the stone shattered into a thousand pieces. Fragments of stone shot against his body like arrows and a halo of dust blew up from the floor.

  The dust settled to reveal a small mound of debris at the center. Jack felt sickened, not triumphant. Tired to the point of collapse, he lay down again on the ground. The shivering, which had never quite stopped from the first time, suddenly became much worse. Raising his knees to his chest, he curled up in a ball to keep warm. Weakness swept over his body like a cool breeze, and it wasn’t long before he fell into a fitful sleep, head resting close to what remained of the stone.

  Twenty-four

  Tawl was worried about Nabber because he knew Nabber would be worried about him. He knew he should not have left without a word to the young pocket, but he’d been given little choice in the matter. One minute he was sitting in his room, greasing his blade, and the next in walked the duke requesting that he accompany him on a trip to the mountains. He couldn’t refuse. He was oathbound to obey the duke at all times. Of course, Nabber was nowhere to be found—only Borc himself knew what that one got up to during daylight hours—and time was of the essence. A team of horses was waiting in the courtyard and the duke was not a patient man. A note was of little use, for the pocket couldn’t read; the only thing he could do was to leave behind as many of his belongings as possible, that way Nabber could be certain he was intending to return.

  Nabber was a bright boy, too bright by far for his age, and Tawl had little doubt that his resourcefulness would stretch as far as finding out where he had gone. Yet he would be worried all the same. Tawl smiled as he thought of the boy. Nabber considered himself to be his personal nursemaid; tending his ailments, watering his ale, and monitoring his every move. Like a pesky fly, no amount of swiping could make him go away. With loyalty like that he would make a fine knight—as long as they kept him away from the gold!

  It was a good feeling to know that somewhere someone would be thinking of him. Nabber had saved his life, walked by his side for hundreds of leagues, and never once given up on him. Tawl didn’t know what he’d done to deserve such friendship, but he was glad with all his heart that he’d met Nabber that fateful day when the Fishy Few landed back in Rorn. He had sworn an oath to the duke and that would always come first, but he owed a great debt to Nabber and he would be there if the boy ever needed him.

  The problem was, whilst he was in the mountains watching over the duke’s latest dalliance, Nabber was probably getting himself into all sort of mischief in Bren. The boy had a genius for trouble. He’d probably be all right, though: he was resilient as well as resourceful.

  Tawl stood up and stretched his aching muscles. All night spent on a hard bench had done them no good. Still, it had been a long time since his biggest complaint was sore muscles, and a wooden bench in a fine lodge was better than a blanket on the ground. He was healing quickly: it was always the way; no matter how much he misused his body, it never let him down. That at least he could be thankful for.

  Two physicians came to the door. Tawl recognized them, so he let them pass. He wondered what was so special about the woman inside the duke’s chamber. Doctors, maids, dressmakers, and priests: they had all been in to see her. “Watch over her,” the duke had said, not mentioning why, or for how long. Tawl never questi
oned him once during the six-hour ride. As a knight he had learned to respect orders and now, no longer a knight, orders were all that he had. They gave structure, if not meaning, to his life. The duke was a worthy leader, a military man who had fought in his own campaigns. To serve him was not such a bad fate. Better than spending his days drinking himself senseless and his nights fighting in the pits.

  A serving woman came up to him with a tray of food and drink. She handed it over and then waited for him to take a taste. They had gone to a lot of trouble for him in the kitchens: fine meats and cheeses and a pretty lady to bring them. He smiled his thanks and the woman smiled back a proposition. Wide hips sent her skirt flaring, and fine shoulders challenged the seams of her dress. “I’ll be in the kitchens if you need anything more, sir,” she said.

  He had gone without lovemaking for too long. Now that his blood was free of ale and his body free from pain, he felt the familiar need for passion, the desire to lose himself in the curves and folds of a woman’s body, and perhaps, if he was lucky, forget his demons for a while. He spoke gently, “My lady, I would see you later if I may.” Taking her hand, he brought it to his lips. It smelled of butter and parsley.

  “I will be waiting,” she said. Bowing deeply, she withdrew, hips swaying like only an older woman’s could, confident in the power of her charms. Tawl watched her walk down the long corridor, admiring her all the way. A figure crossed the woman’s path and she dropped to the floor in a low curtsy. It could only be the duke. Tawl stood and waited for him to approach.

  “Well met, my friend,” said the duke, clasping his hand. “When I said you were to watch over the lady, I didn’t expect you to wait outside her door.”

  Tawl returned the handclasp firmly and managed a wry smile. “Your Grace should know that I take my orders seriously. Though I might have murdered the first man I saw with a cushion—this bench is harder than stone.”