The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  Here, in the baker’s lodge, with a score of noisy bakers busily eating themselves sick, Jack began to wonder if there was purpose behind the pain. Did his mother’s death, his father’s abandonment, and Tarissa’s betrayal mean something?

  Jack’s cup was filled by an attentive pudgy hand. “Deep in thought, eh?” said Eckles.

  Jack was annoyed at the distraction. There had been an instant where he felt the answer was within reach. Eckles’ words had chased it away.

  “You best come with me now, lad. Bring your cup and as much food as you can hold.” Eckles began to walk toward a side door and Jack followed him bringing only his cup. His appetite had left him. The huge, round-faced baker led him to a small sitting room where a fire burned brightly in the hearth. “Sit. Sit,” he said, motioning to a bench that was pulled up to the grate.

  Jack did as he was told. “Are you going back to the meeting?” he asked. Obviously the Baking Master’s Guild had secret matters to discuss.

  “Me? No.” Eckles shook his head firmly. “I’ve heard it all before, and I already know the outcome.” He didn’t as much sit as land on the bench next to Jack. “They’re deciding whether to make their ancient prophecy be known.”

  Jack felt his face grow hot. “What prophecy?”

  Eckles looked at him carefully. “Well, lad, you’re a baker, that’s for sure, and as you’ve already stumbled across our best-kept secret, I can’t see that telling you another will make any difference either way.” He had brought in a skin of ale from the banquet hall and filled Jack’s cup for a second time. Jack was hardly aware that he’d drunk the first cup. “The Baking Master’s Guild has been meeting in Annis since before it was even a city. When it was just a scholars’ retreat we were kneading dough for the philosophers, putting bread to rise for the wise men.” Eckles leant forward. “Contrary to popular belief, Annis was built on bread, not brainpower.”

  Jack managed a smile: bakers were nothing if not proud.

  “Anyway,” continued Eckles, “one day, over a century ago now, a baker baked a loaf for a man who called himself a prophet. Only when the loaf was delivered did the baker find out that the man had no money to pay for it. The prophet was close to starvation and begged the baker to give him the loaf. Now, the baker was a good man and took pity on the prophet. Of course he didn’t give him the freshly baked loaf—after all, he was a tradesman, not a fool—but he did give the man the leftover loaves from the day before. The man thanked him for his trouble, and from that day on the baker always sent his stale bread to the prophet.

  “The following winter the prophet caught the tubes—thinkers just don’t have the constitution of us bakers—and on his deathbed he called the baker to him. The baker was master of the guild by now, but he came to the man’s summons as if he were just an apprentice. The prophet took the baker’s hand and said, “I have asked you here to repay my debt. As you know, I have no money, but what I do have is insight, and so that is how I will pay you.” Well, the prophet then told the baker his prophecy, and it has been a guild secret ever since. Passed from generation to generation, from father to son.” Eckles finished his tale with a dramatic flourish worthy of an actor.

  Whilst the story was being told, Jack felt the palms of his hands growing damp with sweat. He felt guilty, but wasn’t sure why. “And what does this prophecy concern?” he asked.

  “A baker, of course.”

  Jack nodded. He wasn’t surprised. “Which baker is this?”

  “One who will come from the west and bring an end to the war.”

  “What war?”

  Eckles looked him straight in the eye. “The one that’s building between the north and the south. This one.” He rubbed his hand over his mouth. “I can’t tell you the whole verse, lad, not until the guild gives the nod, but the last two lines are:

  If time turns twice, the truth will bring

  Peace into the hands of a baker, not a king.”

  Jack looked away. Time turning. The memory of eight score of loaves flashed quickly through his brain. Aware that Eckles was still looking at him, Jack worked hard to compose his features: he didn’t want to give anything away.

  Abruptly he stood up. Prophecies, lies, secrets: he’d had enough for one day. The subject needed changing—it was time to talk of truths, not shadowy foretellings. “Tell me what’s happening in Bren,” he said. “How is the duke and his new wife?”

  A curious expression came over Eckles’ face. “Boy, where have you been these past nine weeks?”

  Jack was immediately on his guard. “I live in a cabin in the mountains. My master and I are cut off from the world. He only sends me into the city when we need some supplies. The last time I came was two months back.” Jack turned his face to the fire. All the time he’d spent despising deception and here he was, turning out to be quite a liar himself.

  “Then you won’t know the duke is dead.” There was a slight edge to Eckles’ voice. “And his new wife has gone into hiding to escape Catherine’s wrath.”

  “What would Melliandra have to fear from Catherine?” Jack no longer cared what Eckles thought: all that mattered was learning the truth.

  “Half the city says she let the duke’s murderer into the bedchamber. Catherine wants her executed.”

  “Is she still in Bren?”

  “Most people believe so. If she left the city, Lord Baralis would know it.”

  Baralis? Jack could hear the blood pumping through his veins. “Why would Baralis know it?”

  “Lord Baralis is all but running the city now.” The emphasis Eckles placed on the word lord was a question in itself. “Just today I heard a rumor that the Lady Melliandra is with child—apparently her father is stirring up trouble in the city, swearing that the unborn babe is the duke’s issue. Whether it’s true or not, I can’t tell you, but you can be sure that Lord Baralis won’t like it one little bit.”

  Jack’s throat tightened. Melli was in danger. “Is she alone?”

  “Her father and the duke’s champion are said to be with her. There are those who say the champion is her lover.” Eckles shrugged. “None of it will matter before long.”

  “Why?”

  “Because within a matter of weeks Bren will be razed to the ground.”

  The room seemed to have shrunk as they spoke. Jack paced its length. He had to go to Melli—now. He had to go to Bren.

  Eckles took a swig from his ale skin. “You seem mighty agitated, lad, for someone who lives quietly in the mountains.” He gave Jack a shrewd look.

  Jack forced himself to take a deep breath. His throat fought him all the way, but he swallowed hard and willed his muscles to relax. He couldn’t afford to give Eckles reason to be suspicious. The last thing he felt like was a drink, but he took one all the same, purposely taking a long, slow draught to give himself time to think.

  Going to Bren tonight just wasn’t practical; it was too late, too dark and his shoes and clothes were too flimsy for the mountains. Besides, he needed to see Stillfox. Jack could guess why the herbalist had withheld this information, but he wanted to hear it from the man’s mouth. They had things to talk about, and another lie wrapped in good intent was just the first of them.

  “Look,” he said to Eckles, “I need somewhere to stay tonight. I’ll be gone before sunup.”

  “Sunup comes late to Annis,” the baker said. It was his way of saying that Jack could stay. “You can sleep here by the fire. We’ll not trouble the others with the details; they’ll all be going home soon anyway. Just be gone before the maid comes to spread fresh rushes in the morning.”

  Nabber decided to take the long way back to Cravin’s townhouse. After his encounter with Skaythe, he didn’t trust anyone or anything. If a drunk as much as stumbled in his direction, a prostitute gave him an earful, or an alley cat gave him the eye, then he’d backtrack, sidestep, or change his path. Sometimes he did all three. A man couldn’t be too careful when returning to his lair. Once, in the space of a single night, Swift had
circled Rorn three times, rowed from the north harbor to the south harbor in a crab boat, changed horses and traveling companions twice, and donned no less than four separate disguises just to throw his pursuers off the scent. Nabber sighed wistfully. Such extraordinary evasive maneuvers were the stuff of legends in the pocketing world.

  Inspired by the thought of Swift braving salt water, strange streets, and a dress—the third of Swift’s four disguises had apparently been as an old milkmaid, complete with wooden buckets, shoulder yoke, and a limp—Nabber decided to make one final detour before heading back toward the townhouse.

  Spying a street lined with taverns, brothels, and pie shops, Nabber set his sights in that direction. The fact that plenty of candlelight spilled from the doorways and shutters of various establishments only put him more at ease. He’d lost his appetite for the dark.

  As he walked along, Nabber spit in his palm and smoothed down his hair. He wanted to look presentable when he finally saw Tawl. After a few moments of smoothing, probing, and measuring, he was quite sure he’d located a bald spot the size of a five-copper bit just above his left ear. Alarmed, for Swift always said that once a man lost his hair it never grew back, Nabber paused in midstep to search through his sack. After a little discreet fumbling, accompanied by much under-his-breath cursing of Skaythe, his fingers finally closed around the wooden handle of his preening mirror.

  Having assured himself that no one was looking, Nabber sidled up to the nearest building, and standing on tiptoe to catch the light escaping through the open shutter, he brought the mirror up to his face. After much twisting and rotating, he eventually managed to find a position where the light fell directly onto the offending bald spot.

  Strange, it didn’t look nearly as big and bald as it felt. In fact, it looked rather pathetic.

  Disappointed as much as he was relieved, Nabber went to move away from the shutter. Just as he settled back onto the heels of his feet, something bright flashed in the mirror. For a quarter of a second the interior of the building was fully visible in the reflection.

  Nabber caught his breath.

  A figure sat in the room with his back to the window. Dark haired and robed in black, the oyster pale flesh of his neck was all that was visible of the man. Yet Nabber recognized him all the same. Four days ago he had followed that neck across half a city: it was Baralis.

  Nabber’s first instinct was to run. His second instinct was to creep ever so quietly away—he’d had quite enough excitement for one night, what with Skaythe and his metal-spiked stick and everything. His third instinct, however, was to stay put and see if he could discover just what old Insect Features was up to, conducting a meeting in an unmarked building bordered by a pastry shop and a vintner’s, in the south side of the city after dark. Nabber seriously doubted that the man had developed a late-night fancy for a glass of wine and a pork pie.

  Nabber wavered between his second and third instincts. He really did want to go home; right now there was nothing in the world he fancied more than a hot toddy, a spot of supper, and a freshly stuffed pallet for the night. Yet what if Baralis was up to something devious in there, something that Tawl and the Lady Melliandra needed to know about? Perhaps if he discovered something useful, Tawl might be so pleased with him that he’d totally forget about the fiasco at the Brimming Bucket. Nabber smiled, mind made up. He might even get a warm welcome to go with the hot toddy.

  Crouching down to hide himself from view of the window, Nabber slipped his preening mirror back in his sack, his thoughts racing ahead of his hands. This was obviously a secret meeting of some sort: why else would Baralis choose to meet someone away from the safety of the palace? Which meant that Baralis had probably either come here on his own, or brought only his rat-loving servant along for protection. Nabber slipped into the shadows. There would be no armed guards to give him chase.

  As the building was in the middle of a row of six, there was no alleyway running down the side, so Nabber had to walk to the end of the row before he could find a way to approach the rear. A narrow, walled walkway provided access for deliveries, and Nabber had to keep count of the number of gateways he passed to ensure he picked the right building. They all looked the same from the back.

  The vintner was obviously having some sort of late-night party, as the sounds of laughing, coughing, and singing escaped from between the partially closed shutters. Nabber was glad of the noise when he entered the middle building’s yard, as piles of scrap metal and rotting wood made it difficult for him to move quietly.

  A sudden noise caused Nabber to freeze in midstep. A dark form close to the building’s rear wall moved. Nabber’s heart turned to a dead weight in his chest. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe. The sound came again, this time followed by a second noise. A low, nickering animal noise. It was a horse! Annoyed at himself for being scared of an old nag, Nabber risked moving in closer. Tethered to a holding timber jutting from the rear wall, the horse was on a very short lead. Looking at it, Nabber was forced to admit that it was an extraordinary animal: tall, with a finely muscled flank and neck, and a slim but gleaming belly. Not an old nag by anyone’s counting, but rather a Far South purebred.

  Nabber could see now why it was on such a short lead: it’s owner wouldn’t want to risk the animal injuring itself on a chunk of scrap metal, or a nail-encrusted plank. The horse whinnied in Nabber’s direction. Nabber shook his head softly. There was no way he was going to go near it. All horses were dangerous as far as he was concerned—especially purebreds.

  The horse whinnied again, louder this time.

  “Ssh,” hissed Nabber under his breath.

  The horse wasn’t about to be quieted. It stamped its forehooves on the ground and pulled against its reins. Panicking, Nabber darted forward and grabbed the horse’s bridle. Unsure of what to say to calm a horse, he threatened it with all manner of dire punishments in his softest, most encouraging voice. It seemed to work. The horse settled down, moving closer to the wall and letting the reins fall slack.

  Nabber heaved a sigh of relief. As he took his hands from the horse’s noseband, he noticed something black on his palm. Bringing his hand closer to his face, Nabber inspected the mark, first rubbing, then smelling it. It was soot.

  A small thrill passed down Nabber’s spine. Quickly, he glanced over at the horse’s noseband. Even in the dull light spilling from the shutters, he could clearly see a stripe of yellow on the leather. Two minutes earlier it had been entirely black. Someone had gone to great trouble to conceal the true colors of the bridle. Nabber leant forward and ran his hands over the leather. A second yellow stripe emerged from beneath the soot.

  Yellow and black.

  The colors of Valdis.

  Suddenly the back door of the building opened, and the backyard was flooded with light. Nabber dived for the shadows behind the horse. Something sharp caught at his left shin, and he had to clench his teeth together to stop himself from crying out.

  A figure moved into the doorway, blocking out part of the light. Nabber used the cover of increased shadow to move into the corner where the building and the wall met. The jutting timber the horse was tethered to provided further cover.

  Not daring to rub his throbbing shin, Nabber brought his hand to his throat. The cut that Skaythe had opened earlier was encrusted with dried blood. It stung when he touched it. Nabber gulped. He should have followed his first instinct and run straight home to Tawl.

  The figure moved from the doorway into the yard, and then a second, taller man followed.

  “The guards at the west gate will turn a blind eye as you pass,” said the second man to the first.

  Nabber rubbed at the dried blood on his throat. That voice belonged to Baralis.

  “Like a gaggle of maidservants on a wedding night, you think of everything, Baralis.”

  The dark figure that Nabber now knew to be Baralis bowed toward the stranger. “I do my best.“

  Both men took a few steps in Nabber’s direction. Nabb
er could now smell the scent of the stranger: exotic, foreign fragrances and horse sweat. His dark hair was slick with oil and his teeth flashed white as he spoke.

  “You do know Kylock is camped outside the south gate?” he said, bringing a finger up to his temple to smooth a misplaced hair. Although he was wearing a leather tunic, he made no sound as he moved.

  “There’s no need to bother the king with the details of our little meeting,” said Baralis smoothly.

  “My thoughts exactly,” replied the stranger after a carefully lazy pause. Just how careful the pause was could be judged from watching the man’s left hand. As Nabber looked on, the stranger balled his hand into a fist and relaxed it five times before speaking.

  Judging from the colors of his horse’s bridle, the stranger had something to do with Valdis. And although Nabber didn’t know much about these things, he had a feeling the man was more than just a knight.

  The stranger moved toward his horse. Nabber pressed his body flat against the wall. The horse nickered softly. The stranger’s hand automatically came up to calm the animal, but Baralis chose that moment to speak, so his attention was diverted away.

  “In fact,” said Baralis, moving toward the horse, “the less the king knows about our . . . how should I put it? . . . our understanding, the better. After all, he will soon have a new marriage, a new bride, and a new dukedom to contend with. I see no need to bother him with the petty details of power.”

  Nabber shivered. There was something about Baralis’ voice that chilled him through and through.

  “Yes,” agreed the stranger. “Whatever religious activities transpire in Helch and any other occupied territories should be of little interest to the king.” The stranger’s voice wasn’t as cold and deadly as Baralis’; it was smoother and more detached. In fact, everything about the stranger was smooth: his leather tunic, his oiled hair, his movements.

  “Know this, my friend,” Baralis said. “The king’s feelings in this matter are exactly the same as my own. As long as the knights join us on the field, and order is maintained in the occupied territories, we care little about your intent.”