The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  Of course, he would never have dreamed of marrying her if she hadn’t been Maybor’s daughter. As it was, it had all worked out beautifully; he would gain a powerful friend in Lord Maybor, neutralize the marriage of Catherine and Kylock, and nip the threat of an empire in the bud. Perhaps as a dowry he would ask for the stretch of land west of the River Nestor. That would please his people greatly, as eight hundred years before the same ground had belonged to the king who ruled Bren’s territories. It would be most satisfying, not to mention profitable, to have it back within the fold.

  Shaving finished, he rapped the knife against the table to clean it. The amount of hair that fell from the blade was barely visible; another man would not have bothered for such a tiny crop. The duke did because he knew that discipline and ritual mattered.

  • • •

  Baralis brought a fingertip to his lips and tasted the bead of honey upon it. A sweet stinging that owed little to the bee. In the background, Crope moved a sturdy chair close to the fire and then raked the coals to make them dance. This time when he left his body behind he would not come back to find it as cold as a stone.

  Blood still flowed from a finger that looked bloodless, coming to the surface like a glossy red jewel. The cup captured its measure and a drawing made it move. Baralis’ brow furrowed in anticipation of the burn. Across his forehead he made the line of the horizon, and then bent low to inhale the drug that would send his mind above it. His lungs fought the poison all the way. Immediately he grew lighter. Too light to be held by a heavy body, too restless to be bound by four walls. Up and up he rose, making for the highest point, the clank of earthly chains in his ear.

  The heavens had no power to tempt him tonight. They were a woman whose charms had long faded.

  East and south he traveled across the darkening sky, over the listless land and then above the skittish sea. They knew he was coming and sent out a beacon, yet he would have found his way regardless of guidance. Larn glowed like a pearl in the dark.

  A chamber awaited, four men around a stone table. Eyes closed, minds ready for the meet.

  “Welcome, Baralis,” came the first voice that was not really a voice at all, more a sliver of pure thought. “We are glad you are here. What do you want from us?”

  Baralis styled himself a trace of a body and cast it to the wall like a shadow. There was tension in the room: Larn had its own agenda, its high priests were afraid. He would speak for now, though. It was up to them to say if their paths would cross in purpose.

  “You have an interest in a knight named Tawl. I would know what it is.” Baralis felt a collective indrawing of breath.

  “He came here for a seering. We showed him the way.”

  “What way was that?”

  “To the kingdoms.”

  Now it was Baralis’ turn to inhale deeply, only he had no body nor breath to breathe. His shadow wavered. “What did he seek?”

  “A boy.”

  “Why?”

  His question was met with silence. A candle guttered and the flame died away. A stream of liquid wax shot down its length and ran onto the hand of one of the four. The man didn’t flinch. Baralis grew impatient. He knew they were communicating amongst themselves, intriguing, calculating, deciding the risks. Something was worrying them and, if he wasn’t mistaken, they were about to ask for his help.

  Finally a voice spoke up. “It might have been an error to give the seering. Since the knight left us many of our seers have been tormented by dreams; they see our temple collapsing and the seering stones sundered. We feel the knight may hold our fate in his hands.”

  “And where does the wiseman Bevlin fit in?”

  “His life wish was to raze our temple to the ground.”

  “Was?”

  “He is dead now.”

  Baralis kept his surprise well hidden. There was little point in asking how the wiseman died: Larn had a way with murder. “So the knight was his disciple?”

  “Perhaps. What is your interest in him?”

  “He is now the duke of Bren’s champion. His fate lingers like an aftertaste on my tongue.”

  “And does he still seek the boy?”

  For an instant Baralis’ mind alighted upon something remembered in the distant past: a nursery rhyme that spoke of three bloods. Just as he grasped it, it was gone. The incident unsettled him; it was like a warning. The knight and the mysterious boy: they both had some bearing on the future. His future. So what was their connection to Larn? The very fact that the high priests were worried was alarming enough. With power and resources such as theirs, it took a strong threat to cause them anything more than a moment’s distress. Baralis had the feeling that everything was connected: the marriage, the empire, the knight and Larn, but a common thread eluded him.

  “Why do you ask about the boy?”

  “We would like to make sure the knight never finds him. If you can help us with this, then we will be prepared to help you.”

  “How?”

  “We know your plans, Baralis. We knew what you were born to do. Even before your mother’s womb took the seed, we were aware of that you would be. Our fate is connected with yours. As you rise, so do we.”

  Although he was hearing this for the first time, the words seemed familiar; they played upon his eardrums like a well-remembered song. Fate hadn’t chosen him to let him dance alone. Powerful allies were needed to ensure his success. He would like to question the priests further, but he had the feeling that Larn couldn’t see the complete picture, either. He would only get riddles for answers. No matter. He could find things out on his own.

  “If you wish I can keep an eye on the knight,” he said. “And if he makes a move to leave the city, I will stop him before he reaches the walls.”

  “What do you ask in return?”

  “Knowledge of your seerings. A great war will soon be upon us, and I would like all the advantages of foretelling on my side.”

  “Our seers seldom give facts, Baralis. Only guidance.”

  “I need no lessons from you, high priest.”

  “So be it. We will feed you whatever information we deem necessary.”

  Already the games had started. Men of their kind loved nothing better than to mince and parry words. “I hope my diet will not be found wanting meat.”

  “Seeing that you are such a cynical man, Baralis, we will give you a sample of our fare to seal the pact.”

  “Go on.” Baralis felt himself weakening. He had been here too long and traveled too far. His shadow rippled and thinned away. Then the contractions started. Over hundreds of leagues his body began to exert its powers, sucking him back with all the pull of the grave.

  “Two days ago one of our seers spoke of you. He said that for now your greatest threat is a girl with a knife at her side. Is that meat enough for your plate?”

  Baralis gave in to the unbearable pressure of body, the power of the physical world. The pull created a vacuum and he had no choice but to fill the void. He bade the priests farewell, yet already he had diminished in their thoughts. They sent him one final reminder: “Watch the knight for us.” He scarcely heard it. A great rush filled his ears as he was forced from the temple.

  The sea salt had taste and the bird droppings stank of vinegar, and then the acceleration started and he knew nothing more.

  Twenty-five

  Jack was kicked awake. Without conscious thought he retaliated; hand thrusting out to catch his attacker’s ankle.

  “You kingdoms’ bastard,” came a familiar voice, quickly followed by a familiar sensation as Gleeless the guard kicked him once more for his impudence.

  Jack hardly cared about the impact of the kicking—at some point yesterday pain had lost its power over him and he now existed in a state of fevered calm—but he did take offense at the insult of the kick. Gleeless needed to be taught a few jail-side manners. Now if only he could pick himself off the floor, he’d be the man to do it. At the moment, though, his left arm seemed to be the only part of hi
m that was functioning properly, whilst all of Gleeless’ limbs appeared to be in working order—though he did favor his right leg—and odds of four to one were a little discouraging, to say the least.

  Gleeless backed away and returned a moment later with a cup of ale and a bowl of eels. Jack’s stomach turned at the sight of them. In Baralis’ books the heroes were always given stale bread and water, but since he’d been here they’d fed him nothing but eels. The Halcus knew how to use food as a weapon. A spinning sensation rounded up his thoughts like cattle and Jack’s head became heavy with the load. He drifted to a world where sausages held knives and hams aimed crossbows at cheese.

  When he came to next, the grease on the eels had congealed. The light from the arrow loops had shifted across the cell floor and was now highlighting a trail of beetles that were making their way to the bowl. Jack pushed the eels in their direction; they were welcome to them. The ale was his, though. He found it hard to pick up the cup, his hands were never quite where they should be, and they were trembling so much that getting a firm grip was nearly impossible. To make matters worse, every few seconds two cups would appear, and he was never quite sure which one to go for. Rolling onto his stomach, he brought his head down toward the cup; his vision betrayed him again and another appeared by its side. He had the bright idea of aiming his mouth in the middle of the two cups. It worked. The ale was warm and there was something unpleasant floating in it, but he lapped it up like a dog. As he drank he noticed a tapping noise, and it took him a few seconds to realize that it was the sound of sweat dripping from his brow into the cup.

  The eels were now alive with beetles. The eels moved more lethargically in death, borne on the current of a hundred hungry mandibles chomping away at their flesh. The sight of it sickened Jack. He rose up from his cup and began to concentrate on the bowl. He was getting better at summoning sorcery. Imagining his stomach was a skin of water, he squeezed upon the muscles, forcing the fluid to rise. At the same time he distilled his thoughts, losing all but one: the desire to destroy the bowl. The kindling was in place, but he still needed a spark to make it catch. Jack flashed an image of Rovas through his mind, a picture of the smuggler leaning forward to whisper words of comfort in Tarissa’s ear. So close he left saliva on the lobe. The sorcery rushed through his body to his mouth. He felt it alight upon his tongue and an instant later the bowl of eels exploded outward.

  Beetles and parts of beetles rained down upon his body. Eels and their gravy were thrown against his skin, and shards of pottery punctured his shaking flesh. A wave of nausea rose up in him and he was helpless to stop it. Leaning forward, he lost the contents of his stomach into the rushes. It wasn’t the insects, or eels, or sorcery that made him sick, it was how low he had to stoop to call the power from within. He was ashamed of using Tarissa as his catalyst. In Castle Harvell there had been a plain-looking laundress called Marnie. One day she had invited him to the small dark room where she kept her stocks of lye and fuller’s earth. She placed her firm fleshy hand upon his arm and brought her thin lips forward to meet his. He hadn’t wanted to kiss her, but in his mind he conjured up an image of Findra the table maid and superimposed it over Marnie’s face. Feeling an instant flare of excitement, he kissed her and fondled her heavily muscled breasts. Afterward he felt remorse. Not only had he used Marnie, but Findra as well. Although he never went near the laundry again, he never forgot his guilt. Even now, the smell of freshly laundered clothes was enough to make him redden with shame.

  He had used Tarissa’s image as surely as he’d used Findra’s.

  Jack felt his consciousness slipping away. He fought the sensation; he didn’t want to lose any more hours to fevered fancy. He brushed the refuse from his skin, careful not to look at his arms. Over the past two days he had become adept at not seeing his body. The sight was too appalling. Tooth marks bloated by pus had caught his eye once, and he was determined it wouldn’t happen again.

  The only thing that caused him any real discomfort was the arrow wound in his chest. Situated high up by his right shoulder, Jack could feel it pulling at the surrounding flesh. The arrowhead had been removed—by whom he’d never know, certainly not Gleeless—but apart from that nothing had been done. No hot iron, no stitches or ointments had been used, and his tunic was attached firmly to the wound. Jack had come to the conclusion that if he were to pull his tunic away from the newly forming scab, he would probably bleed to death.

  Jack began to lose himself in the thickness of his thoughts. Marnie the laundress appeared before him, demanding that he take off his tunic so that she could wash it. Master Frallit was behind her, scolding him for getting pus in the dough, and Grift filled Bodger’s glass with beetle-colored ale, whilst telling him why washer women were better in bed.

  “You lazy, good for nothing villain.” And then:

  “Come on, you foul-smelling vermin, get up on your feet and show some respect.”

  It took the impact of several kicks to convince Jack that the voice wasn’t part of his dream, as the words seemed to fit right in with the rest of the content.

  He opened his eyes just in time to see Gleeless swinging a bucket, the contents of which ended up in his face. “Thought that would wake you,” said Gleeless, nodding like a surgeon in mid-diagnosis. “Got a little friend here for you.” He made a beckoning gesture with his hand and in walked a second guard, pushing a man before him. “He’s from your homeland, so you two should get on just fine.” Gleeless turned to the man. “What’s your name again, mate?”

  “Bringe,” said the man.

  The man was in a bad way. His nose was broken, both eyes were ringed with black bruises, and his wrists bore the unmistakable mark of the rope. He had been tied to a barrel and then beaten.

  “Now, Bringe here is going to be spending the night with you,” said Gleeless, making his way to the cell door with the second guard. “Don’t forget to ask him his opinion on Halcus torture, ’cos this time tomorrow the chief persecutor will be coming for you, and it might be helpful to know in advance just how mean he can get if he’s crossed.” Gleeless smiled rather amiably and then turned and closed the door.

  • • •

  Tavalisk ran a pudgy hand over the pale and gelatinous substance, picked a likely spot for testing, and then stabbed his finger into the flesh. Perfect. The tripe was as soft and welcoming as a young boy’s thighs. The substance quivered as if it were alive, its oyster-colored flesh giving off the subtle aroma of bile. Countless tiny glands roughened the surface, providing the only variation to the bland and bloodless gut. Tripe: the stomach lining of the pig. Not a great delicacy in anyone’s opinion, but delicious all the same. Nothing could match it for texture and taste, nothing was quite as teasing on the tongue. Most men would make the mistake of boiling it with salt and onions, but Tavalisk knew differently. It required a delicate poaching in pork broth and vinegar; only then would it reveal its true complexity of flavor. Done right, and one could almost taste every separate meal that had ever been eaten by the pig.

  He cut himself a portion, marveling at the ease with which it took the knife. Just as he brought flesh to lips, a knock sounded on the door. The archbishop tutted angrily and cried, “Enter,” in such a way that the word was transformed into an insult and a warning.

  “I trust Your Eminence is well today?” said Gamil, walking into the room.

  “I was feeling quite well until about ten seconds ago, Gamil, then for some reason my spirits took a sharp turn for the worst.”

  Gamil carried on as if Tavalisk hadn’t spoken. “I have news of Kylock’s invasion, Your Eminence. Apparently he’s sweeping through western Halcus like a brushfire. The man is a demon, ordering the killing of women and children, slaughtering cattle, and constructing dams to flood the fields. Not to mention the fact that he’s burning every hayloft and chicken coop in sight. The newly crowned king seems intent on bringing Halcus to its knees.”

  “Hmm.” The archbishop nibbled daintily on his tripe. “Kylock is
turning out to be quite an interesting character. I must say, I wholly agree with his decision to murder the women of Halcus—they’re an ugly and shrewish bunch, the lot of them!”

  “But isn’t Your Eminence worried about the consequences? If Kylock reaches Helch, then the whole of the north will turn into one huge battlefield.”

  “Now, now, Gamil,” said Tavalisk, waving a tripe-tipped fork in his aide’s direction. “There’s no need to panic. A battlefield in the north is nothing to lose sleep over. It’s the south that matters to us. The secret is to keep the south interested in the war without actively involving them in it.” Tavalisk threw some tripe to his cat and the creature greedily snapped it up. “Marls and Toolay would up timbers and run at the first sight of a soldier brandishing a halberd, and I intend to use their fear to my advantage.”

  “How, Your Eminence?”

  “Simple, Gamil. I will convince them that the only way they can stop the war from spreading south is to make sure that Baralis and Kylock are firmly thwarted in the north. Of course that will take resources: armaments, finances, mercenaries, supplies . . .” The archbishop made a sweeping gesture with his arms. “And the southern cities are the ones who should supply them. Not to mention the fact that they can finally rid themselves of those pesky self-righteous knights.”

  “Talking of the knights, Your Eminence, Tyren and the duke of Bren have entered into an agreement where both parties now guard cargo trains from the south to the north. I think it was the rumor of the seized wedding dress that did it. The duke of Bren can hardly sit back and let his cargoes be publicly seized by the four-city force. It’s too humiliating. So now when we attack the knights, we’re as good as attacking Bren, as well.”

  “Isn’t the buildup to a world war beautiful to behold, Gamil?” Tavalisk threw a second piece of tripe to his cat. This time he flung the morsel high up, so it landed atop a tapestry that was hanging from the wall. That would challenge the beast. “An insult here, a few slaughtered cattle there, and the next thing one knows, people are lining up on opposite sides, knives drawn, ready for a fight. It’s quite thrilling, really.”