by J. V. Jones
“He came here for a seering, we showed him the way.”
“What way was that?”
“To the kingdoms.”
The boy the knight was looking for came from the kingdoms. The hairs prickled on the back of Baralis’ neck. It was Jack, the baker’s boy. He knew it without a doubt. Larn lived in fear of his former scribe.
What did it mean? And, more importantly, how did it affect him? Baralis warmed his hands upon the holk jug as he tried to make sense of this latest development. The boy was important; he had great powers, the wiseman Bevlin had sent a knight to search for him, and Larn didn’t want him found. What was it the priests had said before he left?
“Our fate is connected with yours. As you rise, so do we.”
Then if the boy was a threat to Larn, he was a threat to him, as well. In a way Baralis already knew this. He had known it all those months ago when eight score of burnt loaves had been transmuted into dough. Jack was a thorn in his side then, and it seemed he still was now. He should have killed him when he had the chance.
The key to this mystery was the wiseman Bevlin; he alone knew the true purpose of the boy. Only he was dead, very probably due to the efforts of Larn, and his secrets had gone with him to the grave.
Or had they? The base of the jug had been in the fire and Baralis spotted ash on his fingers. Absently, he rubbed the silvery powder away. The wiseman himself might have turned to dust, but his books and his records would still remain. Yes, that was it. Tomorrow he would look into procuring Bevlin’s possessions. A man like that was bound to have consigned his thoughts to parchment. All he had to do was locate who currently held them and make him an offer he couldn’t refuse.
With a plan decided upon, Baralis felt in control once more. He would get to the bottom of this. The baker’s boy might have great ability, but experience and cunning always won in the end.
• • •
Jack woke up with a start. He was cold and his clothes were soaking wet. People were close, shouting, dashing, and carrying bundles through the dark. There was a brief blissful moment of confusion, and then he remembered all the horror of the night. The guard! What had become of the guard who had jumped? Jack looked around. He was lying in exactly the same place as before and the guard was at his side. How long had he been out? Minutes? Hours? It was impossible to say. Yet the gatehouse was now reduced to charred and smoking rubble, and the rest of the garrison seemed to have met a similar fate. Flames still flickered here and there, sparring with timbers and outbuildings, but they lacked the fierce frenzy of before.
He knew he had to get up. It wouldn’t be long before the people who were busy hurrying to and fro decided that the two men lying at the side of the gate needed moving. He moved his arms close to his body in preparation to push himself up. His muscles screamed with pure pain. A hard ball of sickness welled up in his throat, and bringing it up nearly choked him. Retching hard, he spat out a dry lump of something pink-colored. Jack quickly covered it with dirt. He didn’t want to know what it was.
Trying to stand up again, he shifted his weight to his arms. This time he was determined to ignore the pain. Everything was going well until it was his legs’ turn to play their part; they shook violently for a moment and then buckled, sending him crashing back down to the ground. He landed badly. His shoulder hit first, sending a sharp spasm straight to the arrow wound on his chest. “Damn!” he cursed, frustrated by his weakness. He took a deep breath and began again. Humming a tune, he struggled to his feet. He swayed like before, but countered his legs’ desire to crumble, by refusing to let them bend at the knee. After a few seconds of standing soldier-straight, his blood started flowing downward, and gradually Jack began to feel a little stronger.
Someone approached him. “You all right, friend? Do you need a hand?”
Jack looked at the stranger blankly. There was no accusation on his face, only concern. The man didn’t know who he was. Jack knew better than to speak, so nodded instead, making a small patting gesture at his throat, as if the fire had rendered it raw.
“How about the other fellow?”
Not once during the time he had been trying to stand had Jack seen the guard move. He raised his arms in a pulling gesture and the man came closer to give him a hand with the body. “I don’t believe I’ve met you before, my friend,” he said, as he grabbed the guard’s shoulders. “Though with all that dirt on your face, you could be my wife and I’d hardly know it.” The man smiled broadly, showing intricately crooked teeth and a fat red tongue. “Come on, lad. Look lively, grab those feet. My name’s Dilburt, by the way.”
Jack bent down and took hold of the guard’s ankles. He almost couldn’t believe what he felt: the flesh was warm. Not cold, not cool, but warm. He was alive. Jack felt a wave of simple joy ripple through his body. Buoying, invigorating, it chased away the pain.
“What you so happy about, lad?” asked the man, not unkindly. “Has all the soot gone to your head? Or are you relieved that this guy’s feet don’t smell as bad as you thought?” Not waiting for an answer, Dilburt counted: “One, two, three,” and together they hoisted the guard into the air. “Through here, lad,” he said, tilting his head toward the gate. “A camp’s been set up for the sick.”
Bearing the guard’s body was a duty to Jack. His muscles ached, his head spun, and although the stranger took the greater part of the weight, the strain on his shoulder caused an inferno of pain.
Two minutes later they came upon a makeshift camp. Campfires and tents had been hastily built, and pallets and bedrolls lined the ground. People had collected in large groups, and if anything the mood was festive; cups topped with froth caught the firelight and the smell of roasting meat filled the air. Somewhere, a woman with a fine voice was singing a song that was anything but sad, and all around people were chattering in high, excited voices about what had happened that night.
Jack did not want to join the throng. He stopped in his tracks, causing Dilburt to come to a halt. “What’s the matter, lad? Tired?” he asked. “Only a bit of a way to go now. The sick are being tended on the other side, close to the wall.”
There seemed little choice but to follow the stranger. Somehow the guard had become his responsibility, and Jack felt it wouldn’t be right to leave him until he was sure that the man was getting the help he needed. It was the least he could do. Lowering his head, he stepped forward.
“Good, lad,” said Dilburt, adjusting his grip on the guard’s body, taking even more of the burden upon himself.
At that moment Jack wished he could speak. He would like to have thanked the crooked-toothed man who had helped him and the guard without question. Instead he smiled softly.
The stranger seemed to understand. “Eh, lad,” he said, “on nights like this, a fellow can’t count himself a man unless he’s willing to do his part.”
No heads turned as they passed through the crowds. People seemed strangely excited, like they did at Castle Harvell on the eve of the big feast. There was a sheen on many a man’s brow and a blush on the bosoms of women who had loosened their laces for the sake of their health. Snatches of conversation reached Jack’s ears:
“It was an earthquake, I’m sure of it. Just two days ago the jailers reported feeling a tremor beneath the cells.”
“Kingdoms spies did it. They doused all the timbers in oil and set fire to them with flaming arrows.”
“The kingdoms dug a mine beneath the garrison and set it alight, that’s what caused the earth to shake.”
“I heard one man walked through the flames untouched, like an angel.”
“It was the devil.”
“It was Kylock.”
“The two are one in the same.”
Jack was glad when they reached the sick tent. He’d had his fill of rumors. Several rows of soot-blackened, groaning men were laid out neatly like cards. The sound of hacking and spitting filled the air.
“Dead or alive?” came the curt, efficient voice of a self-important physician
.
“Alive—until you get your hands on him,” piped up Dilburt.
Jack had to bite his tongue to stop himself from laughing. He was liking his co-bearer more and more by the minute.
“Over there, then,” said the doctor, indicating a clean, linen-covered pallet. Once they had laid the guard down, he turned to Jack. “You look like you’re in a bad way under all that soot. Wait over there by the stoop and I’ll take a look at you when I’ve got a minute.” He appraised Jack coolly, his eyes taking in the chest wound and the sores running down his arms.
Jack began to feel nervous. He wondered how many of his injuries the soot had covered, but he couldn’t risk glancing down to check. He looked to Dilburt for help.
“If I were you, lad,” he said, “I wouldn’t let him near me with a maypole. You’re alive and you’re standing and Borc willing you’ll live through the night. A man couldn’t hope for more.” He came forward and put his arm around Jack’s shoulders. “Come on, lad. Let’s not waste this good man’s time any longer. If left too long his patients might start getting better on their own, and we all know there’d be hell to pay if that happened.” He smiled a gloriously disarming smile, winked at the physician, and began to steer Jack away from the camp.
Jack pulled away for an instant. He had to say farewell to the guard. Dilburt made a slight nodding movement of his head. “Very commendable of you, lad. I’ll wait over here till you’ve done.”
What was it about this man? Dilburt seemed able to read his thoughts as easily as others heard his words. Jack watched a moment as he backed a discreet distance away, bald patch shining in the moonlight like the bottom of a cup raised in drink. Walking back to the guard, Jack rested his hand lightly on the man’s arms. Sweat gleamed on the guard’s brow and his whole body was shaking. His right leg fell to one side, and above his knee the skin was white and strained where a splintered bone pressed against the flesh.
“I’m sorry,” whispered Jack.
The guard’s eyes opened. He looked at Jack for a moment, a world of compassion in his clear blue eyes, and said simply, “I know.”
Jack squeezed his arm, probably too tightly, for his heart felt heavy, and physical things became difficult to judge. “Rest easy tonight, my friend,” he said softly, and then turned and walked away.
Dilburt came to meet him, offering an arm on which to rest his weight. For the third time that night, the crooked-toothed man read his thoughts, for he didn’t say a word, merely guided Jack away from the camp.
• • •
Half an hour later, too exhausted for words or thought, Jack and Dilburt approached a small, neatly timbered building. By this time Dilburt was all but carrying him. “Here we are, lad,” he said. “Home sweet home.” Dawn was breaking, and the sun’s first rays framed the neatly timbered cottage like a halo.
A woman with a face as large and smooth as a round of cheese came out to greet them. “Husband!” she cried. “What are you doing mooning around outside with a sick man on your arm? Come in this instant and let me tend him.” She clucked like an angry hen, coming forward to take Jack’s other arm. “Really! Dilburt Wadwell! I always said you had tallow for brains, and I’ve been proven right tonight—for the fire has surely melted them.”
Jack felt himself pressed against the considerable bounty of Mrs. Wadwell’s chest. She smelled wonderfully familiar: yeasty, buttery, good enough to bake. Leading him through a doorway so low that all of them had to bow to pass, she led him into a warm bright kitchen. The rushes were so fresh they crackled underfoot.
All this time, Mrs. Wadwell kept up a good-humored tirade at her husband. “Dilburt, don’t just stand there as if you’re waiting for Borc’s second coming. Pour the lad a mug of holk—and not one of your skimpy half measures, if you please. I don’t want to see the rim of the cup.” Firm hands forced Jack down upon a cushioned seat. “And while you’re at it, bring me a bowl and some water. This boy’s in need of a good wash.”
Dilburt caught Jack’s eye and smiled ruefully. “Aye, my wife would have made a fine general if she’d been born a man.”
“Enough of your chatter, husband,” said Mrs. Wadwell, seeming anything but displeased. “This lad is suffering for want of my holk.” She rested a heavy hand upon Jack’s forehead, felt the heat from his skin, and then rolled up the sleeves of her dress. “I can see I’ll be here all morning.”
Jack leaned back in the comfortable chair and was content to let her tend him. Her touch was efficient, if a little rough, and her enthusiasm was boundless. A quarter-candle later she had given him a shave, cleaned all his “decent parts,” rubbed salve into his various dog bites, and applied a cold compress to his forehead. Lastly, Mrs. Wadwell came to the arrow wound in his upper chest. Whilst washing him, her damp cloth had skirted around the mass of clotted and scabbing blood. Now she gave it her full attention.
“Husband, put down the compress and bring me the best of the summer wine,” she said.
Dilburt promptly made his way to the far side of the cottage. Mrs. Wadwell took this opportunity to whisper in Jack’s ear, “I suspect that under all that blood, I’ll find a very nasty arrow wound.”
Jack opened his mouth to make some excuse, realized he couldn’t talk because his accent would give him away, and so was forced to settle for shrugging his shoulders.
Mrs. Wadwell leaned very close. Her huge bosom brushed against his face. “I’m glad you’re not going to try my patience with a lie, lad. For it would only upset my Dilburt. He’s a kind-hearted man, can’t see anyone sick without bringing him home. He’s got it into his head that I can care for folks better than any doctor, and if I do say so myself, he’s right.” She patted Jack’s arm. “Anyway, the point is this: if my husband’s content not to ask questions, then so am I. Oh, I know very well what caused the wounds on your arms and legs—though I doubt if my Dilburt does. But I trust his instincts. He’s never brought anyone bad to this house since I’ve known him, and I don’t think he’s started with you.”
Jack felt he had to risk speaking. “Thank you,” he said.
Mrs. Wadwell made a clucking noise. “You have my Dilburt to thank, lad, not me.”
Dilburt returned with a jug of wine. He broke the waxed seal and proceeded to fill three cups with the deep, red liquid.
“No, husband, the wine’s for cleaning this lad’s wound, not for drinking.”
“That may be so, woman, but I think it’s about time we all had a drink.”
Surprisingly, Mrs. Wadwell didn’t argue with her husband. She took her cup with good grace and passed the other over to Jack.
“I think I will propose a toast, wife,” said Dilburt.
“I think you should, husband,” said Mrs. Wadwell, nodding her large head judiciously.
Dilburt raised his glass. “To a long night, a bright fire, and friends well met in need.”
“Nicely said, husband.” Mrs. Wadwell downed her wine in one draft, burping splendidly when she’d finished. “Now help me get this boy onto the bed. Once I’ve cleaned and dressed that chest wound, I’ll be sending him straight to sleep.”
Twenty-six
No, I’d have to disagree with you there, Bodger. I think that when the time comes for Nabber here to do his first spot of rollickin’, his best bet is to go for an older woman. Not a young slip of a girl with no meat on her bones and no hair on her upper lip.”
“Just how old should this woman be, Grift?” asked Nabber, a picture of an old woman with a mustache flashing through his mind.
“Old enough to know what she’s doing in the dark, Nabber.”
“I didn’t know women’s eyesight improved with age, Grift,” said Bodger.
“It doesn’t, Bodger. But their ability to please a man does. Right grateful, too, they are.”
“Grateful for what?” asked Nabber.
“A spot of male company. Mark my words, young Nabber, an older woman is not only the most experienced between the sheets, but she’ll be willing to wash
them for you afterward.”
“I wouldn’t let an older woman do that for me, Grift,” said Bodger. “Clean sheets set my scroff sores running.”
Whilst Griff told Bodger the best way to dry up scroff sores, Nabber busily downed more ale. Even though it was early and dawn’s chill was still hanging in the air, he was feeling slightly tipsy. Over the past few days he had become friendly with the two guards who were stationed outside the chapel and had taken to sharing a few drinks with them on his way to and from the secret passageway. At this point, Bodger and Grift thought that he was a boy so devoted to his mother’s memory that he spent all his spare time in seclusion praying for her in the chapel. He felt a little guilty about that, but with Tawl gone he had little to do, and the secret passageways were his only diversion. That and downing good ale and bad advice from Bodger and Grift. A woman with hair on her upper lip, indeed!
“Did you feel the air last night, Grift?” asked Bodger.
“Aye. Woke me up, it did, Bodger. I was having a nice dream about being back at Castle Harvell. Everyone was there in the kitchens going about their business, when our old friend Jack the baker’s boy set the place alight. The whole building went up in flames. Horrible it was. The next thing I know, I’m wide awake and the air is so thick it’s crawling across my skin like a plague of centipedes.”
“I wouldn’t repeat that story to anyone else if I were you, my friend,” came a softly sinister voice.
Nabber and Bodger and Grift all looked around to see who it belonged to. Standing in the shadows was a tall dark man dressed in black silk. The two guards immediately stood up and brushed down their clothes.
“Lord Baralis, this is an unexpected pleasure,” said Grift, hastily throwing a cloth over the ale skin.
“Don’t worry, gentlemen, I haven’t come to check up on you, or to reclaim my debt—though a little reminder of your obligation will do no harm.” He smiled coldly, thin lips stretching over glinting teeth. “No. My business is not with you, but rather your young companion: Nabber, if I’m not mistaken.”