by J. V. Jones
“What trail?” Even as he asked, Jack knew he wouldn’t like the answer.
“Sorcery, lad.” Gone was the brightness from Stillfox’s face. “You are carrying the vestiges of your last drawing along with you.”
Jack knew the color drained from his face, but could do nothing to stop it. He began to move forward. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s time I moved on.”
Stillfox caught his arm. His grip was not gentle. “Don’t be a fool, lad. You need help, and I’m offering to give it. It would be most unwise to turn me down.” The lilting tones had been replaced by a low and forceful voice.
Jack pulled himself free. “And who are you to decide what’s wise and unwise?”
Stillfox gave Jack a hard look. “I’m someone who knows that Annis is crawling with Halcus soldiers who are busy looking for the man who burned down their garrison.”
Rovas had told them where he was headed! Jack kicked at the dirt. Tarissa had asked him where he was going, and he’d replied east. She could have guessed he would head to the very place where they had planned to go together. Jack wondered how long it had taken her to decide to tell Rovas. Obviously not very long, for the Halcus were now ahead of him.
Jack glanced sideways at Stillfox. How could he be sure this man spoke the truth? And what exactly did he know about the garrison? “I have nothing to fear from the Halcus,” he said.
“They have posted descriptions of the man they’re after all over the city. Tall, brown haired, speaks with a kingdoms accent.” Stillfox gave Jack a hard look. “Annis and Halcus are very friendly at the moment—seems they’ll soon be fighting on the same side—and there’s nothing Annis wouldn’t do to help her would-be ally. Nothing would delight her more than turning over a notorious war criminal.”
“War criminal?” Jack didn’t even bother to keep the surprise from his voice.
Stillfox nodded. “Kylock has just reached Helch. The garrison that was destroyed was due to send troops and supplies to aid the capital. But because all the provisions were burned and so many men were injured, the transfer never went ahead. Some are saying it was that one inspired act of sabotage that gave Kylock the edge. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but one thing’s certain: Helch will be surrendering soon. Very soon.”
Jack’s blood ran cold. Was there no end to his crimes? A deep pit opened up in his thoughts, but he refused to look into it. Lined with his own guilt, it threatened to take him downward to prophecy and torment. He would not go there. He spoke to distract his thoughts, and then found he had not distracted them at all, rather refined them. “Kylock will win the war.” Intended as a question, it turned to a statement upon his lips.
Stillfox’s hand came back down upon his arm. “Come with me. I swear no harm will befall you whilst you stay under my roof.”
There seemed to be more than pressure in the old man’s grip. Jack drew strength and calmness from it. The pit closed and he was no longer afraid, just confused. “Why would you help me?” he asked.
Even as he answered, Stillfox began to guide him toward the road. “I help you because I recognize my own.” The lilt returned to the man’s voice, and Jack wondered for an instant if it was to disguise the trace of ambiguity in his words.
“Ssh!” hissed Stillfox, before he could speak. There were riders on the road, and they crouched down in the bushes until they had passed. Once the road was clear, Stillfox urged him forward. Heading for the back of the cart, he pulled up the oil cloth. “Under here. Quick.” Jack slid under the oil cloth. The cart smelled of mold. Stillfox tucked him in and then made his way to the front. Taking up the reins, he whispered, “Feel free to eat the mushrooms. I was lying when I said they were poisonous.”
• • •
Tawl watched as the duke approached. His Grace had originally wanted to meet in Melli’s chambers, but Tawl did not want to risk Melli overhearing what he had to say. So they had arranged to meet here, in the ladies’ courtyard.
“Well met, friend,” said the duke, coming forward to clasp his hand. “Last night went well, did it not?”
“Mel—” Tawl stopped himself. “Your lady conducted herself with strength and grace.”
The duke nodded. “She was magnificent, wasn’t she?” He paused a moment, obviously well pleased. “Her father was brilliant, too. He won more hearts by dashing over to his daughter and weeping, than he could ever have done by giving away his gold. I couldn’t have planned it better.”
For some reason, what the duke said annoyed Tawl. “Have you heard the news from Helch yet?” he asked, deliberately changing the subject.
“No. I’ve been spending all morning seeing lord after relieved lord. Last night’s announcement has certainly made the court rest easier in their beds.”
“Kylock has broken Helch’s defenses. He’s made it inside the city, and now there’re only the castle walls between him and certain victory.”
The duke drew a quick breath. His hand fell to his sword. “Damn him! When did this happen?”
“Two days back.”
“Castle Helch is a mighty fortress. A decent army could defend it for months.”
“You forget that Kylock has inside knowledge. The knights have been feeding him information about Helch’s defenses. That’s probably how he managed to break through the city walls so fast.”
The duke grunted. “This is ill news indeed.” He turned his back on Tawl and began to pace around the courtyard. After a few moments, he spun around. “The sooner I marry Melliandra, the better. I told the court I intended to marry her within a month, but I can’t risk waiting that long. I must disassociate both Bren and myself from what Kylock is doing to Helch. The moment that city falls, Highwall and Annis will be up in arms, and if they think, even for one instant, that Kylock will one day rule this city, they won’t hesitate to move against us.”
“By tonight they will all know of your intentions to marry.”
“Intentions are no longer enough. Right now I need Melliandra wedded and pregnant. Only then will Bren be safe.”
Tawl knew the duke was right. He didn’t like the way he spoke of Melli, though. “The lady herself may be in danger.”
“What d’you mean?”
“I think Lord Baralis will make an attempt on Melliandra’s life in the next few days. Last night I watched him at the banquet. He did not look pleased.” As he spoke, Tawl wondered what, if anything, he should say about Catherine. “I have reason to believe he might try an attempt on her life.” He found he couldn’t bring himself to tell the duke that his daughter could be plotting against him. He hurried on, not giving the man a chance to question his reasoning. “So the quicker you marry the lady, the better. It will be a lot easier to keep her safe once she takes up residence in your chambers.”
“Yes.” The duke nodded slowly. “Just this morning I received the blessing from the clergy. They have no objection, so I am free to marry her when I choose. Of course everyone will expect me to wait a couple of weeks.”
“It would be better if the marriage ceremony was a discreet one,” said Tawl.
“You are right.” The duke pulled his sword from his belt. He began to inspect the blade, holding it up to catch the sunlight. “Perhaps it would be better if we kept the ceremony secret and only announced it the following day, by which time it would be too late for anyone’s objections.” Finding the blade sound, he slipped it back in its loop. “And there will be nothing that Lord Baralis or the court can do about it.”
Although Tawl knew it was for the best, there was a part of him that didn’t want the wedding to go ahead too soon. Perhaps not even at all. He had started to care about Melli, and it angered him to see how casually the duke manipulated her for his own political ends. Tawl had no choice but to keep these feelings well hidden; his first loyalty was to the duke.
“Can any legitimate objections be raised to a secret wedding?”
“Not if all the proper clergy, the archbishop, and enough respected w
itnesses are in place,” replied the duke. “My great-grandfather wed a girl in secret. She was a lowly lord’s daughter and he, by that time, was well into his dotage. Everyone protested. The whole city was up in arms for months, but no one could annul the marriage because it was done with the Church’s blessing.”
“So there is a precedent?”
“Yes.” The duke smiled thinly. “Just to make sure of legitimacy, I will order Catherine to attend.”
This was the last thing Tawl wanted. The moment Catherine knew about the wedding, she would go running to Baralis. Tawl chose his words carefully. “Your daughter was very upset last night. She might do something irrational.”
The duke made a dismissive gesture with his arm. “Do not be worried about her girlish tantrum. It was nothing—hurt pride, that’s all. It was to be her evening and I stole her thunder.” He turned his back on Tawl. “I can hardly blame her, really.”
“So you intend to tell her of your marriage plans?”
“The moment I have finalized them. Last night proved that I have already kept too much from my daughter. If I include her in the ceremony, she will no longer feel left out.”
Tawl kept his face impassive. “Very well. When will the marriage go ahead?”
“I will arrange it for two days hence.” The duke was thinking out loud. “Yes. That should give the old archbishop plenty of time to dust off his robes. The ceremony can be held in the ladies’ chapel here, in the palace.”
“The one belowstairs?”
“No. That is for the servants’ use. The ladies’ chapel is more fitting, and more discreet.”
Tawl nodded. The servants’ chapel was too public a place. Anyone could smuggle themselves in there; it was guarded by two men who were half drunk all the time. “I will see to the security. Tell no one today except the archbishop. Inform everyone else the morning of the wedding.” Tawl’s thoughts were on Catherine.
“Very well.” Now that the decision was made, the duke looked eager to be off. “I will go to the archbishop first, then to Melliandra, then to Catherine.”
“But—”
“No, Tawl,” interrupted the duke, “I cannot tell my daughter of my wedding only a few hours before it’s due to go ahead. It will look as if I don’t trust her.” The hard look he gave Tawl put an end to the subject. “Now, I will send Bailor to you, and you can coordinate everything with him. There must be flowers and so forth in the chapel. I do not want Melliandra disappointed in any way.”
Tawl bowed. “I will make sure that everything is in place.”
“Good. I will be counting on you.” With that the duke turned on his heel and walked off across the courtyard.
Tawl stood where he was for some time. The midday sun shone down upon his back, casting a small but dark shadow in front of him.
• • •
Crope hurried down the market streets. He hated being out in the daylight, especially when the sun was shining. People would stare, men would laugh, and children would throw stick and stones. He had tried keeping his hood up, but on a bright warm day like this, it just drew more attention to himself. He looked like an executioner. If only the people weren’t there, then he could spend as long as he wanted looking at all the animals in cages: the partridges, the piglets, the owls. As it was, he barely risked slowing down at all—except for the owls—for he was afraid the stallholders would curse him for scaring away paying customers. He’d been cursed a lot in the past for that.
Still, he had his comforts. In a small pouch in the side of his cloak nestled a large rat. Big Tom, as Crope liked to call it, went everywhere with him. Big Tom had been one of his master’s ’speriments, and had been born one leg short of a foursome. His master had ordered the creature to be drowned, but Crope didn’t have the heart to do it. Big Tom’s beady little eyes reminded him of his mother’s. He limped good, too. So, for the past few months, Big Tom had been living with him; he couldn’t risk his master finding out he had disobeyed an order. Crope shook his head vigorously. He wouldn’t want that to happen.
As Crope made his way to the herb stall, trying hard to remember his master’s exact directions, his hand stole into his tunic, feeling for the reassuring weight of his second comfort: his painted box. Just to touch it made him feel better. It was his oldest and most precious possession, given to him by a beautiful lady many years before. The lady had been his friend. They had shared a love of animals, especially birds. Painted on the box were her favorites: seagulls. She said they reminded her of home.
Crope was disturbed from his memories by someone rudely pushing past him. “Out of my way, you lumbering simpleton,” cried a small, bad-smelling man who was carrying bolts of cloth in one hand and clutching pins and scissors in the other. Obviously a tailor. Before Crope had time to say he was sorry, the tailor was gone. Crope watched him dive in and out of the crowds and found some satisfaction in the fact that he was not the only one who the tailor pushed aside. Women, old men, and stallholders were all shoved out of the way. Then, as Crope looked on, the tailor made the mistake of picking on the wrong person. He elbowed a tall, dark man, and instead of moving out of the way, the man turned around and punched him in the face. Bolts of cloth and pins went flying. The tailor fell to the ground. The man kicked him once while he was down, spat on him, and then carried on walking, oblivious to the hostile glare of the crowds.
Crope’s heart was racing. He recognized the man: it was Traff, his master’s mercenary. As he watched, Traff slipped into the crowds. After a moment Crope followed him.
Feeling rather excited, Crope stroked Big Tom. “Master will be pleased,” he whispered to the rat, as he started trailing Traff across the city.
• • •
“I am very pleased, Crope,” said Baralis. “You have done well.”
Crope beamed. “I spotted him with my own eyes, master.”
“Where did he end up?”
“A right nice place, master. There were ladies leaning out from the windows.”
“Hmm, a brothel. Was it in Brotheling Street?” Seeing Crope’s blank expression, Baralis tried again. “Were there lots of other places nearby with ladies leaning from windows?”
Crope nodded vigorously. “Yes, master. Beautiful ladies—a whole street of them.”
“And did Traff spot you following him?”
“No, master, but he might have heard the lady shoo me away.”
“What lady?”
“The lady with no front teeth. She spotted me outside the house and told me to . . .” Crope searched for the exact words “. . . bugger off back to the cave that I’d come from.”
Baralis waved his hands. “Enough. Go now.” He waited until his servant had lurched out of the room and then took a deep breath. Crope had just found someone who could turn out to be very useful. Very useful, indeed.
The painkilling drug, which he had been about to take when Crope returned, lay ready on his desk. Baralis picked up the vial and threw it on the fire. It burned with a pure white light. He wouldn’t have need for it now.
A soft knock came at his door. He knew who it was before the last rap sounded. Flinging back the door, he said, “Catherine, I warned you not to come here.” His voice was not gentle. He checked to either side of the passageway before letting her inside his chamber.
She noticed his precautions. “I am not a fool, Lord Baralis,” she said. “Do you think I would come here without checking to see if I was followed first?” The color of her cheeks was high. She had been drinking.
Closing the door, Baralis crossed over to his desk and poured her a glass of wine. It suited him to have her drink a little more. He handed her the glass. As he did so, he traced the line of her wrist with his fingers. Making his voice as rich and seductive as the wine he had just poured, he said, “Forgive me for speaking so sharply, my sweet Catherine. I was worried for you, nothing more.”
He could see her deciding how to react to his words. Her pink lips trembled, then softened. “Would that my fathe
r showed me similar consideration.”
Baralis’ smile was tender. She was nothing but a child playing a grown-up game. Catching hold of her hand, he led her to the bed and bid her sit. As she settled herself down, he reached out and touched her golden hair. A calculated gesture, nothing more. “Drink up, my sweet Catherine,” he said softly. “And then tell me why you have come.”
The wine was still wet upon her tongue as she said, “Father is marrying that woman in secret. Two days from now.”
“He told you this?” Baralis did not allow himself as much as a flicker of surprise.
“Yes. He wants me to stand by his bride’s side at the ceremony. He hopes that we can become friends.” Catherine’s voice became shrill. “Friends! How dare he? After taking the very birthright from under me, he expects me to be friends with the woman who is responsible for it.”
Baralis barely heard what Catherine said. His mind was racing ahead. The deed would have to be done sooner than he thought. As soon as possible. The duke had to be murdered. Kylock must have Bren. For decades he had planned, and nothing, not now, not ever, would be allowed to stand in his way. The north would be his.
Crossing the room, Baralis went and stood by the fire. Once he had warmed himself enough, he spun around to face Catherine. “What is the best way to get to your father?”
Catherine hesitated for a second. “There is a secret passageway leading up to his chambers from the servants’ chapel. There is only one guard set to watch it. Father uses it to smuggle low-born women into his bedroom. The entrance is behind the middle panel at the back of the altar.”
Baralis missed neither the hesitation, nor its meaning: Catherine was not as reckless about this as she was pretending to be. There was still a part of her that owed loyalty to her father. Baralis realized he would have to change his approach. He could not run the risk of Catherine doing something irrational—like running to the duke. She was dangerously unstable—last night had proven that: as the guards were leading her from the table, she had actually attempted a drawing. There, in the great hall, with all of Bren’s court looking on, Catherine had tried to use sorcery against Melliandra. He had blocked her, of course. The foolish girl had no idea of self-restraint. If she had been caught using sorcery, her father would have had no choice but to disinherit her on the spot. Sorcery was not tolerated in the north.