by J. V. Jones
Never in his life had Baralis been so afraid; every fiber of his soul screamed out that something was terribly wrong. He took a deep breath and opened the door.
The aftermath from the drawing lapped over his body in waves. The light was dim, very dim. The room reeked of exotic fragrances. Dampness filled the air. The only movement came from the base of the bed. Kylock was kneeling on the floor, his hands resting on the bed. He appeared to be stroking something. Baralis didn’t want to step forward, didn’t want to see, didn’t want to know what had happened, but he knew he must. Above all he was a shaper of destinies and his work was as much about dealing with catastrophe as it was about creation.
One step was enough to reveal the naked body of Catherine. She was lying on a heap of sheets and pillows. Her head was bent impossibly far back from her body, and there was blood on the pillows to either side of her face. Kylock knelt over her, muttering words to himself whilst gently stroking her feet.
The headboard had been completely destroyed. Not burnt, but rather blasted away. All the glass and the metal in the room was hot to the touch, some of it glowing. A mist of water vapor hung in the air like a pall.
Baralis recognized the signs of an unfocused drawing: hot metal, evaporated water, mild unspecific destruction. Despite the formidable suppressing powers of ivysh, Kylock had drawn power from within. Crude, yes. Unfocused, certainly—but the sorcery was there all the same. Baralis shuddered. What sort of man could draw so strongly that he broke through ivysh’s restraint? It should not have been possible. Still, violent emotion could work strange effects upon a man’s body and mind.
Baralis shook his head, purposely dispelling all possible implications from his thoughts. He could not afford to dwell on them now. He had more immediate problems to deal with. He gestured to Crope to close the door and walked toward the bed.
Kylock did not acknowledge Baralis’ presence; he simply continued stroking his dead wife’s feet.
Reaching up, Baralis touched Catherine’s neck with his fingertips. She was already growing cold. There was no pulse. He slid his hand behind her neck; her spinal cord had been broken. Lifting his hand up, he cupped the back of her head; her skull had been cracked near the base. Nodding softly, Baralis withdrew, pausing to wipe the blood on his robe.
He stood there, looking down upon the newly deceased duchess of Bren, and began to formulate a plan. Catherine’s body took on the look of a corpse as he thought. A minute, perhaps two at the most, passed; then turning to Crope, Baralis gave his instructions.
An hour later he was ready. Crope had brought him potions, drugs, herbs, and props. A subtle compulsion had ensured that no one would mark the huge servant’s passing. Crope was now busy replacing the destroyed headboard with a similar one from Baralis’ own chamber.
Kylock had to be dealt with first. Baralis knelt beside him at the foot of the bed and very gently guided his hands away from Catherine’s feet. “Ssh,” he murmured as he brought the cup to Kylock’s lips. “Drink this, my lord. Drink it now.” Like an obedient child, Kylock drank his medicine. It was a special strain of sleeping draft used by warriors from beyond the Northern Ranges to dispel battle-terror and weariness on the field. In less than an hour Kylock would wake refreshed, strengthened, clear of mind and sound of body. At least that was what Baralis hoped—the alternative didn’t bear thinking about.
“Crope,” he called. “Take Kylock and lay him to rest behind the screen.” The drug worked quickly, and by the time Crope moved from the head of the bed, Kylock’s eyes were already closed.
Baralis turned his attention to the room. The shutters had been pulled back to enable the water vapor from the bath to escape. Crope had brought fresh linens for the bed and a bowl of warm water to wash the blood from Kylock’s hands and Catherine’s hair. Moving around the room, Baralis checked all glass and metal items. The candlesticks surrounding the bed were the only things that needed discarding: the metal had grown so hot that it had melted, running thickly to the base. Candle wax formed grotesque shapes over the metal. Crope would have to bring new holders and candles.
At the time of the drawing the wine jar had been stoppered, so there were still a few drops remaining in the bottom. Baralis took his flask and filled Catherine’s jar one cup short of the brim. Next he turned to her cup. It was a thing of unusual beauty: smoothly carved silkwood with parchment-thin sides and a goodly weight at the base. It was perfect in every way.
“Crope,” said Baralis, “when you’ve finished with the headboard, I want you to take your sharpest knife and carve two circles in the base of this cup. One inside the other.”
Crope was excited. “Like the knight’s circles, master?”
Baralis smiled, his first of the evening. “Yes, exactly like the knight’s circles.” He thought for a moment, then added, “Oh, and be sure to carve a line that cuts through the circles dead center.” Exactly like one particular knight, who would find himself wanted for murder come the morning. Baralis turned his attention back to Crope. “Once that’s done, go to my chambers and fetch me some candles and holders.”
Crope nodded enthusiastically. He liked nothing better than being useful to his master.
Now it was time to see to himself. Baralis took a small vial from the dresser and emptied its contents upon his tongue. The viscous liquid stung going down. It would not strengthen him exactly, rather prolong what strength he already had. He would now be able to function after the drawing to come. Of course, there would be a price: at some point tomorrow he would simply collapse and it might be as long as a week before he recovered his senses. That wasn’t important, though. What counted tonight was eliminating every little thing that could tell of what had happened between Kylock and Catherine. One wrong move, one item overlooked, and everything would fall apart. His plans had stretched over three decades and nothing, absolutely nothing, would stand in the way of his mastery of the north.
Baralis took a deep breath and came to stand beside Catherine. Her body was now blue and stiff. “Turn her for me, Crope,” he murmured, “and fetch me a chair so that I might sit.” Crope did his bidding, and a minute later Baralis was sitting by the side of the bed, looking down at the broken bones in Catherine’s spine. The crack in the skull was nothing: more blood than bone, a simple knitting would suffice. But the spine—Baralis shook his head—the spine would require a surgeon’s skill.
A jagged bone pressed against the skin at the base of Catherine’s neck. Baralis placed his palm over it. During his time on the plains he had seen many broken bones. The herdsmen had a way with them, knitting together the white and porous husks with a combination of potions, sorcery, and sacrifice. Never had he seen them repair a broken spine. It was too delicate an operation, too much could go wrong: nerves could be trapped, blood vessels could be destroyed, and the bone might fix improperly, causing lameness or worse. Baralis bit down on his tongue, preparing for the trance. None of that mattered to Catherine: a corpse’s spine required no such consideration. As long as it looked all right, that was enough.
Crope handed him leaf and bowl, and the fat beads of Baralis’ blood dripped readily down from his tongue. There would be no sacrifice to help the process—he would rely upon his own strength alone.
Down he sent his consciousness, down into the corpse. He had worked on freshly killed animals many times, but no amount of training could prepare one for the appalling shock of the dead. Cold, corrupt, actively decaying: a corpse was no place for a sorcerer to linger.
Baralis’ fingers went to work, warming, shaping, shifting. His hand pressed the bone backward, while his mind prepared the rest. Once the fragment was in place, he began the knitting, stirring tissue to join with bone. He had no time for finesse, no time for a surgeon’s subtlety, and he concentrated purely upon the join. When he had finished, Catherine’s neck was rigid. The top four vertebrae were now more firmly linked in death than they had ever been in life. Baralis transferred his consciousness to Catherine’s skull. The stiffness
would be put down to the poison.
Compared to the spine, the skull was an easy task, a mere knitting of bone to bone. Baralis wasted little effort with show as any bruising would be covered by Catherine’s thick, golden hair. As long as her head felt smooth when the physician ran his hands over it, that would be more than enough.
Baralis worked quickly, conscious of the nearness of Catherine’s brain and unnerved by the last futile firings of her nerve cells. By the time the task was complete, he was weak beyond telling. Withdrawing from the corpse, he was dazzled by the light, warmth, and freshness of life. For Baralis it merely confirmed that survival at any cost was the most important thing of all. There was little glory to be had in death.
He slumped back in his chair and regarded his patient. Her neck was as smooth as a swan’s, and once the blood was washed from her hair, her skull would pass for normal. Glancing over at the candles on the wall, he saw that two notches had burned whilst he worked. Crope had left and returned, and was quietly replacing the misshapen candlesticks with new ones. When he noticed his master was conscious, he came over with a glass of mulled holk. Baralis took it from him. “Turn the duchess onto her back and then wake Kylock for me,” he said.
“Should I change the sheets first, master?”
“No. That will be done last. I haven’t finished here yet.” Baralis watched as Crope disappeared behind the screen. He was so tired, all he wanted to do was rest. Bringing his hands together, he massaged his aching fingers. Behind the screen came the sound of Crope imploring Kylock to wake. Baralis braced himself and stood up. His legs ached from sitting too long, but he forced himself to walk to the dresser. Resting on top was Catherine’s wooden cup, which now boasted two circles in the base. Baralis poured a splash of poisoned wine into it. Bringing it over to the bed, he sprinkled a few drops upon Catherine’s perfect lips, prying apart her teeth to make sure the liquid went down, and then set the cup on the nearest chest.
Kylock appeared from behind the screen. “What have you done?” he demanded.
Baralis permitted himself a tiny sigh of relief: the king was lucid. “I have made it look as if your wife died from poison. Everything is as it was before—” Baralis caught himself. “Everything looks normal. Your story is that when you went to sleep Catherine looked well, and when you woke she was dead. She offered you a drink from her cup, and although you declined at first, you took a tiny sip to please her. In the morning, just before you raise the alarm, you will take this.” Baralis indicated a vial on the dresser. “It will mimic a case of poisoning, but will not harm you greatly. Valdis’ circles are carved on the base of Catherine’s cup, but you will not discover them—let someone else do that. Your part is to act shocked, outraged, and tear the city apart looking for the man who did this.”
Kylock nodded once. “Who?”
“Tawl, duke’s champion. As soon as the cup is discovered, all the servants will be questioned. When I leave you now, I will convince one of the poor wretches that he was bribed into delivering the wine and cup by a certain golden-haired knight.” Baralis was curt. “Have you got everything?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now Crope will stay with you to change the sheets and help with positioning Catherine’s body. The blood must be cleaned from her hair and the rouge wiped from her body. When you have finished with her, she must be dressed in her nightgown—”
Kylock interrupted him. “What do you mean, finished with her?”
“I take it the marriage has not been consummated?”
“No.”
“Then legally it is no marriage at all. For you to retain rights in Bren there must be no question that a joining took place.”
Kylock shook his head. “No. No. No!”
“Yes!” insisted Baralis. “I have not gone to all this trouble to see everything wasted. The first thing the physician will do is examine her for seed. They will be looking for any possible way to wriggle out of the marriage.” Baralis raised his voice. “I don’t care how you manage it, but it must be done.” He moved over to the door and turned the handle. “Now do it!” he hissed as he walked across the threshold.
Six
Tavalisk loved his new fish. It had tiny little fish-teeth, and it tore at anything that was dangled into its bowl. Currently Fang, as the archbishop had named him, was intent on savaging a rather inert, but not entirely defenseless, sausage. Size alone ensured it a measure of protection, for Fang in addition to being deadly was also rather small. The sausage was twice the size of him. Tavalisk only wished that the glass bowl was more transparent, for the thick green swirls prevented him from seeing all the action.
Just as Fang got a decent grip on the sausage, in came Gamil. No knock, no ceremony, waving a small gray piece of paper. “Your Eminence. Such news!” Gamil proceeded to fan himself with the paper. He was out of breath, red of face, and his hair had want of a brush.
Like a priest among lepers, Tavalisk chose to keep his distance. Holding out a restraining palm, he said, “Gamil, much though I appreciate your speedy delivery of important messages, I simply cannot tolerate seeing a man such as yourself sweat. Who knows what vile substances are secreted with the salt.” Tavalisk sent a pointed glance to his aide, who looked ready to burst if he wasn’t allowed to speak. “Very well. Step no closer and I will permit you to tell your news.”
“Your Eminence, Catherine of Bren is dead. Poison, they say.”
“When did this happen?”
“Four, perhaps five days back. I just received tidings by bird.”
Tavalisk, forgetting his previous warning, came up to his aide and snatched the paper from his hand. If Gamil’s sweat was upon it, he didn’t give it a second thought. “Is this all?” he said, once he’d read the note.
“Yes, Your Eminence. We’ll know more in a few weeks when the swift messengers arrive.”
Tavalisk crushed the paper in his fist. “Poison, eh?” Baralis had a hand in this. Why, he, himself, had provided the know-how. Tavalisk’s libraries had been five years in Baralis’ keep. There were dozens of books on poisons in his collection, and doubtless the lovely Catherine had fallen victim to one of them.
Now, if Baralis had poisoned Catherine, then that meant the blame would fall elsewhere. Baralis was no fool; he could shift blame as easily as other men changed their clothes. So, who would Baralis choose to implicate? Anyone from Highwall or Annis would help his cause, inciting passions in Bren against its two northern rivals. Tavalisk nodded slowly. Or he could try and eliminate a more immediate threat: the claim that Maybor’s daughter was carrying the duke’s child. By all accounts Lord Maybor was seeding the city with rumors that his daughter’s unborn child was most definitely the heir to Bren. Implicate Melliandra or one of her supporters in Catherine’s murder and her claim would be instantly discredited. That was it, Tavalisk was sure of it. At this point in time Baralis had more to fear from Melliandra and her unborn child than the armies of Annis and Highwall combined.
Kylock would doubtless claim Bren for his own, yet if there was a possibility that a rightful heir existed, then the good people of the city would send him running back to the kingdoms with his tail between his legs.
Tavalisk smiled his special secret smile. Baralis was vulnerable, and it was high time that he, the chosen one, played upon that vulnerability like a bell-ringer at the rope. “Gamil,” he said, crossing over to the fishbowl, “what do we know about the movement of Highwall troops?”
“Well, Your Eminence, we know they received your message to wait until after the wedding day before making their move, but we can only guess how the news of Catherine’s death might affect their plans.”
Dropping the crumpled sheet of paper in the bowl, Tavalisk said, “Guess, Gamil! I am not in the business of guessing policy. I am in the business of shaping it.” Fang approached the paper with all the intent of a shark after prey. The sausage was now so much flotsam and jetsam floating murkily on the surface. “Indeed, Gamil, I think it’s high time I became
a champion.”
“A champion, Your Eminence?”
Fang’s little fish-teeth tore at the paper, shredding it into a hundred tiny pieces. Tavalisk watched the process with great satisfaction. Perhaps he should place all his sensitive documents into the bowl. “Yes, Gamil, a champion, or more precisely, Melliandra’s champion. In fact I think that all of us—the four southern cities, Highwall, Annis and what is left of poor defeated Halcus—should take up the good lady’s claim. Don’t you see? It’s perfect. No longer will we be fighting out of fear, we will be fighting for a cause! We will be fighting to place the rightful heir to Bren on the ducal throne.”
Tavalisk, in his excitement, had inadvertently rested his fingers on the side of the bowl. Fang, being a fish with no powers of discrimination, promptly leapt from the water and bit the archbishop’s thumb. “Aah!” cried Tavalisk, pulling back his hand. Blood oozed from a small but perfectly serrated wound. The archbishop sucked the wound closed: he liked the taste of his own blood.
Flashing a hateful look at Fang, he continued, “Today, Gamil, I need you to send messages to those parties concerned. From now on our allies must officially support Melliandra’s claim.” Tavalisk smiled, regaining a little of his good humor. “I can imagine nothing that would annoy Baralis more! This will cause a lot of trouble for him in Bren. Might even divide the city if he’s not careful. Disputes over ascendancy are notorious for starting civil wars.”
“So is religion, Your Eminence.”
“I neither want nor require any words of wisdom from you at this juncture, Gamil. When I am in the middle of formulating policy, a simple, ‘Yes, Your Eminence,’ will suffice. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Your Eminence,” said Gamil sourly.
“Good. Now in addition to sending messages to Annis and Highwall—whose armies are probably on the way to Bren as we speak—I need you to track down Maybor and his daughter. I’m sure they are still somewhere in Bren: ask the local priests and clergy to keep an eye out for them. The girl must be found and removed to a place of safety.” Tavalisk paused for a minute, contemplating his plan. “Of course, the strange thing in all of this is why Baralis moved against Catherine so swiftly. I simply can’t understand it. He has just destabilized his position.” The archbishop shrugged. “Still, everyone makes mistakes, and all a clever man like myself has to do is simply wait around for an opportunity to exploit them.”