The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  “Aah, Lord Maybor. I am gratified that you could come on such short notice.” He threw a glance back to his desk. “And I am well pleased that you came when you did; you have saved me from certain boredom. I enjoy reading contracts about as much as I enjoy having leeches pulled.” The duke grasped his hand firmly. “Well met, friend. Sit and I will pour us some wine. You have a taste for lobanfern red I believe?” Not waiting for an answer, he turned and started pouring wine into cups.

  Maybor was thrown a little off balance. First of all, he had expected to be met by a second set of guards, not the duke himself, and second, he couldn’t understand why the man had greeted him as if he were a long lost friend.

  “There you are, Maybor,” said the duke, handing him a brimming cup. “I think a toast is in order, don’t you?”

  “It depends upon what we’re toasting.”

  The duke smiled and raised his cup toward Maybor’s. “Let us toast to the future. For it looks better today than it has in many weeks.”

  Maybor pulled his cup away. “So it is true that you have set a date for the wedding?”

  The duke just managed to save his wine from spilling onto the floor. “Who told you this?” he demanded.

  “Baralis.”

  “When?”

  Maybor did not like answering questions like a common servant. “That’s not important. I want to know exactly when you and he came to this agreement.”

  “Baralis and I came to no agreement. I merely informed him of my intentions. He had no say in the matter.”

  Maybor grunted. It was just like Baralis to exaggerate the part he played in events. “Why was I not informed at the same time as he?”

  “I brought him here late last night with the lawyers and scribes. I wanted to see you alone, by myself, today.” The duke took a sip of his wine. His hawked nose rested against the rim of the cup. “Tell me, Lord Maybor, am I right in supposing that you have been somewhat reluctant in your support of the match?”

  Maybor did not like to mince words. “I don’t trust Baralis one little bit. The man is too ambitious for his own good. I think he’s trying to place Kylock in a position where he can take over the entire north—including Bren. And frankly, Your Grace, I’m surprised that you’re about to sit back and let him.” Maybor finished his speech by downing the lobanfern in one. With a certain amount of satisfaction, he slammed the empty cup on the table.

  The duke did not seem at all surprised by his outburst. He stood very still, one hand on his cup, the other resting against the hilt of his sword, and said quietly, “Lord Maybor, when you get to know me better, you will come to realize that I never sit back.”

  Maybor was impressed by the duke’s tone, but he didn’t want him to know it. “None of this will be my concern much longer, Your Grace. Sit back or forward—do whatever you will. My job is done here and I shall be returning to the kingdoms as soon as arrangements can be made.” Although he was speaking for dramatic effect, the idea of going home appealed greatly to Maybor. It would be good to sleep in his own bed, to eat good plain kingdoms food, and to be amongst people who respected him.

  “I wouldn’t go just yet, if I were you, Lord Maybor.”

  There was something strange about the duke’s voice.

  “What do you mean?” asked Maybor.

  “I mean, my friend, that you should at least stay until the Feast of First Sowing. That is when I intend to make the official wedding announcement.” The Hawk was smiling slyly.

  “I will stay, if that is an official request.”

  “No, stay for a different reason.”

  “What reason?”

  “Stay because you might be pleasantly surprised by what you hear and who you meet.”

  “I have no love of riddles, Your Grace.” Maybor was becoming a little impatient.

  “Neither do I, my friend. So I will say this much: stay until the Feast of First Sowing, and you will finally see your fellow envoy put in his place.” The duke crossed over to the door and opened it. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have to visit the bride-to-be herself.”

  Maybor followed him out of the door. Together they walked down the staircase and through to the main entrance. When they reached the outer door, the duke turned and put his hand on Maybor’s arm.

  “Before you go,” he said, “let me give you some advice.”

  Advice? Maybor did not like the sound of this. “Go on.”

  “The Feast of First Sowing may provide a few shocks to those sitting around the table, but I would suggest that you, my friend, try to conceal your surprise. It would please me greatly if I knew I could count on your . . .” the duke searched for the appropriate word “. . . composure.”

  Maybor stepped away. He would not agree to something blindly. “I will make you no promises, Your Grace.”

  Strangely, the duke seemed satisfied with this. “As you wish.” He inclined his head and began to walk down the long corridor in the direction of the ladies’ quarters.

  Maybor headed in the opposite direction, his step lighter than when he had come. He didn’t know what to make of the meeting, but it would certainly do no harm to stay put for a few days to discover what the duke was up to. Anything that promised the unraveling of Baralis’ plans was well worth waiting for.

  • • •

  “Well, you’re right and you’re wrong, Bodger,” said Grift. “It is true that ale makes a man randy and then hinders his performance, but really it all depends on the amount of ale he drinks.”

  “You mean the more he drinks the less impressive his performance gets?”

  “Aye, pretty much so, Bodger. However, a little known fact is that eventually, if a man drinks enough ale—say, twenty skins full—he passes through the drunken stage and emerges on the other side as a rollickin’ god of a stallion.”

  “A rollickin’ god of a stallion, Grift?”

  “Aye, Bodger. You’ve heard that if men on the battlefield go long enough without washing then they actually get clean again on their own?”

  “Aye, Grift.”

  “Well, it’s exactly the same for ale. Drink enough of it and a man will eventually end up as sober as a bailiff and randy as an owl. The trouble with most men, Bodger, is that they just don’t have the staying power to see it through. They haven’t got the guts for it.”

  “What about you, Grift? Have you ever reached the rollickin’ stallion stage?”

  “What d’you think put the smile on Widow Harpit’s face last Winter’s Eve, Bodger?”

  Bodger thought for a moment, nodded, poured himself a cup of ale, drank it, and then poured himself another one.

  “Easy does it, Bodger. Timing is everything.”

  Bodger downed the second cup and poured himself a third. “I think I’ll be arranging to see Tessa the ash maid tonight.”

  “You can do better than an ash maid, Bodger. Lowest of the low, they are. You don’t want to rollick beneath yourself.”

  “Ash maids can’t be beneath me, Grift. I remember you once said that the most refined girl in all the kitchens was none other than an ash maid. Jack’s mother, I think she was.”

  “Aye, Bodger, I did at that. Lucy was her name.” Grift smiled tenderly. “A beautiful girl. Clever, too. Of course, she wasn’t always an ash maid—that’s the difference here.”

  “What was she before, then?”

  “A chambermaid, Bodger. She used to spend all her time upstairs in the nobles’ quarters. Then, once she got pregnant, she sort of hid herself down in the kitchens. She took the lowliest job she could get: tending the great cooking fire, and never once set foot in the nobles’ quarters again.”

  “That seems a big odd, Grift.”

  “Perhaps she wanted to hide her shame, Bodger. She never did say who the father was.”

  The two men drank in silence for a while. They both felt the need to show a little respect for the dead.

  • • •

  Tawl was on his way back to Melli’s chamber when he heard the so
und of footsteps behind him. They seemed to have come from nowhere. Instinctively his hand felt for his sword. Spinning around, Tawl drew his weapon and turned to face his attacker.

  “Don’t hurt me. It’s me, Nabber.”

  Angry, poised to strike, sword quivering in his fist, Tawl thundered at Nabber: “What in Borc’s name are you doing here?”

  Nabber shrugged sheepishly.

  “Never do that again,” hissed Tawl, shocked at how close he had come to hurting the boy. “You could have got yourself killed.” He resheathed his sword.

  Nabber risked a smile. “Sorry, Tawl. Just thought I’d test your reflexes, that’s all. You’re a bit jittery, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  Tawl had to turn away to hide a smile. It was impossible to stay mad at the boy. Looking back in the direction that Nabber had come from, he couldn’t work out why he hadn’t heard him coming sooner. The corridor was long and straight. “How did you manage to sneak up on me?” he asked.

  “Don’t insult me with a question like that, Tawl. I’m a pocket, ain’t I? Stealth is my trade.”

  “Well, stealthily return the way you came.”

  “Can’t I stay with you for a while? Ever since you got back to the palace, I’ve hardly seen you. Seems to me that you’re dropping your old friends now you’ve got a high and mighty lady to look after.” Nabber pulled himself up to his full height. “Well, let no one say that I ever stuck around where I wasn’t wanted. I’m heading back to the streets.” He began to walk away.

  Tawl reached out and caught Nabber’s sleeve. He felt very protective toward the boy and did not want him returning to a life on the streets. True, Nabber could be bluffing, but he didn’t want to risk it. “All right, you can come and sit outside the lady’s chamber with me. But you’ve got to promise to be good and not take any valuables.”

  Nabber smiled broadly. “I’ll treat them as if they were my own.”

  “Hmm, that’s what I’m worried about.”

  The two of them walked to the ladies’ quarters. Nabber told Tawl about his two new friends—Bodger and Grift—and then the conversation turned to Baralis.

  “I tell you this, Tawl,” said Nabber. “That Baralis is one scary devil. Just the sound of his voice alone is enough to send a man’s knees aquivering.”

  Tawl had heard Baralis’ name mentioned several times by the duke. He’d even seen him once or twice around the palace. Tall, dark, dressed in black, people always moved out of the way to let him pass. As soon as the announcement of the duke’s marriage was made, Baralis was one man Tawl intended to watch closely. As envoy to the kingdoms, he would ill like Kylock being robbed of exactly what he had come here to secure in the first place: Bren’s ascendancy.

  Tawl was so busy with thoughts of potential threats to Melli that something important almost slipped his mind. Almost. Just as they turned in to Melli’s reception chamber, Tawl pulled Nabber back by catching hold of his tunic. “How come you have spoken to Baralis?” he asked.

  With a great show of dignity, Nabber freed himself from the grip. His hand came to rest on his chest like an actor about to speak from the heart, and he said, “You know me, Tawl. Powerful people flock to me. I can’t do anything about it.”

  Tawl winked at the two guards flanking the door. He then grabbed hold of Nabber’s ear, twisted it sharply, and proceeded to march the boy into the chamber. Only when the door was firmly closed behind him did he loosen his grip a little. “Now, Nabber,” he said, pleasantly. “You have two choices: one, you can either tell me the truth—in which case I will only hurt you slightly; or two, you can lie to me and I’ll tear your ear off.” Tawl demonstrated his ability to do this by tugging firmly on the ear. Nabber howled. “Now, which will it be?”

  Nabber tried to wriggle free, but Tawl just pinched harder on his ear. “All right, all right,” the pocket said. “Let me go and I’ll tell you what happened.”

  Tawl shook his head. “I’m not going to release you until I hear the truth.”

  “You’re a cruel man, Tawl.” Nabber’s face was turning an unpleasant red. He took a deep breath. “Baralis was asking me questions about Bevlin.”

  Bevlin? This was the last thing Tawl had expected. He let go of Nabber’s ear. Suddenly he didn’t feel like playing games. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  Nabber brushed his tunic down and rubbed his ear. “He came down to the chapel when I was with Bodger and Grift. He asked me a lot of questions. You know, about where the wiseman lived, about his books. About you.”

  “What did you tell him?” Tawl’s voice was grim. He didn’t like the sound of this one little bit. Why would Baralis be interested in him? It didn’t make any sense.

  “Only things that were common knowledge, Tawl. I swear it. I told him where Bevlin’s cottage was, how long I’d known you, that sort of thing. He already knew about the quest—”

  Tawl interrupted him. “He knew I was looking for a boy?”

  Nabber nodded. “Swift’s honor, he did.”

  “And why was he interested in Bevlin’s cottage?”

  “He was after his books. Apparently both men shared a love for crawling insects.”

  Tawl’s gut sent him a warning; it tightened, forcing bile into his throat. Baralis wanted Bevlin’s books. But why? Insects were a poor excuse. As he tried to work out what Baralis could want, another thought flashed across his mind, blocking all others in its wake.

  “If he goes to the cottage, what will he find?” The last time he’d seen the place there was blood spread across the floor and a dead man in the middle of it.

  Nabber immediately understood the question. “He’ll find a nice clean home with everything in order.”

  “And the body?”

  “I buried it.”

  Tawl looked deep into Nabber’s brown eyes. The young pocket never ceased to amaze him. He had taken care of everything. When he himself had ridden away in a tortured, cowardly frenzy, Nabber had stayed behind and dealt with the body and the blood. Tawl felt ashamed of himself. He also felt a great respect for Nabber. “Thank you,” he said.

  “I was just doing what Swift taught me—looking out for my friends.”

  Tawl held his hand out and Nabber took it. “You’re the only friend I have,” he said, clasping the boy’s arm firmly.

  “I’m the only one you’ll ever need.”

  The door opened and in walked the duke. Seeing Nabber he assumed he was a servant. “Leave us, boy. I would speak to my champion alone.”

  “It was dark the night of the fight, Your Grace,” said Tawl, preventing Nabber from leaving by placing a restraining hand on his shoulder, “so I will forgive you for not recognizing my second: Nabber of Rorn.” He pushed the boy forward.

  Nabber flushed with pride. He executed a rather impressive bow. “Your Grace.”

  The duke inclined his head graciously. “Please accept my apologies. Rorn, eh? Happen to know the archbishop, do you?”

  “He’s a slippery blighter, I can tell you that much.”

  The duke laughed. “You can come and work for me anytime, Nabber. I wish more of my counselors would put things as succinctly as you do.”

  Nabber was beaming from ear to sore ear. “Anytime you need a spot of advice, Your Grace, just look me up. Tawl always knows were to find me.” He bowed again. “Now, I must be off. Commerce calls.”

  Tawl and the duke watched him go.

  “A remarkable boy,” said the duke once Nabber had left the room.

  “In more ways than one,” replied Tawl. He made up his mind that he wasn’t going to question Nabber any further about Baralis. He had the strong suspicion that the boy had probably sold the man information, but that was Nabber’s way. It was what made him who he was, and he could hardly be blamed for it. Besides, it sounded as if Baralis had another source of information. Someone else had told him about the search for the boy. Tawl scanned his memory for those who knew about the quest. The archbishop of Rorn. Tyren. Larn.

 
“Tawl.” The duke interrupted his thoughts. “Are you all right? You look like a man whose thoughts are far from his body.”

  Very far. Hundreds of leagues to the south, across a stretch of treacherous ocean, on the cursed island of Larn. The place of his undoing. Were the powers that be still working against him? Were they not content with all that they had done?

  Tawl pulled himself back. “I’m a little tired, Your Grace. Nothing more.”

  “You have been spending too much time guarding my lady,” said the duke.

  “Do you wish to speak with me?”

  “Yes. Briefly.” The duke motioned toward the far door. “Is Melliandra in her bedchamber?” When Tawl nodded, he lowered his voice. “In two nights time, on the Feast of First Sowing, I will make my wedding announcement. I’m counting on you to monitor the events at the table. I will have my hands full fending off verbal attacks. I need you to keep an eye on people. Note their reactions—especially Lord Baralis’—and be ready to pull Melliandra out of there if anything should happen.”

  “I will be there,” said Tawl.

  The duke nodded. “Good. Do you want to sit at the table next to Melliandra, or would you prefer a more discreet vantage point?”

  “I would rather be concealed.”

  “As you wish. Arrange whatever is necessary.” The duke looked grim. “That’s all for now. I mustn’t keep my bride-to-be waiting.” He walked over to the connecting door. “Remember, Tawl, I’m counting on you to tell me who my enemies are.”

  • • •

  Darkness had fallen and it was time to look for shelter. The land he was walking across was plowed and ready for sowing, so that meant that there was probably a farm nearby. Farms boasted outbuildings and chicken coops and barns: places where a man could rest undisturbed for the night. Provided, of course, he was prepared to leave before dawn. Farmers woke earlier than priests.

  Jack scanned the horizon. Which way to turn? Since leaving Rovas’ cottage, his instincts had pointed him to the east. Why should he change his course now? Tired, hungry, cold and alone, he carried on walking straight ahead.