by J. V. Jones
The man turned around. He looked at Jack, and then began to run away.
Jack called out, “Grift! It’s me, Jack. From Castle Harvell!”
Grift slowed his pace. After a moment he spun round. He watched as Jack drew level with him, his eyes squinting with strain. A minute of silent scrutiny followed, and then he said, “By Borc’s own balls! It is indeed you.” He moved forward and caught Jack up in a huge bear hug. He smelled wonderful—just like a brewery. An instant later he pulled away. “No offense, lad,” he said. “Doesn’t look good, us men hugging too much in public. It’s bad for a man’s reputation.”
Jack’s heart was filled with joy. “Count yourself lucky I didn’t kiss you, Grift. You’re the best sight I’ve seen in months.”
“Aye, lad. Less of that.” Gift beamed back at him. “Why, if you hadn’t said who you were I would never have recognized you. You’ve got as big as a barn and as mean-looking as Widow Harpit on the rampage.”
Jack laughed. Some things never changed. “You look about the same as ever, Grift. Your beer belly is still one of the nine wonders of the world.”
Grift patted his belly smugly. “Aye, lad. Ain’t nothing catches a wench’s eye better than a gut the size of a battleship.”
Before the laughter had died down, Grift pulled him into the shadows. He looked both ways to check that no one was watching and then whispered, “You here for the war, lad?”
“No, Grift. I’m here to find Melliandra. I’ve got to make sure she’s safe.”
Grift looked him straight in the eye. “Why would you care about her? It’s Kylock who everyone from the kingdoms is backing.”
“I don’t care a damn about Kylock. It’s Melli I’ve come here for.”
Grift nodded slowly, as if he’d received the answer he needed. “You look like you can handle yourself now, lad.” He motioned toward the knife in Jack’s belt. “Know how to use that, do you?”
Jack shrugged. “You could say that.”
“All right, lad. You wanna find the Lady Melliandra. Well, it so happens that she’s a lot closer than you think.”
“She’s in the house you just came from?” Jack could barely contain his excitement.
“Aye. Come on, lad. Lets get back there so you can meet her. She’s been right down since last night, and perhaps the sight of you might cheer her up a bit.” As he spoke, Grift started retracing his steps toward the house.
Jack had to physically stop himself from dashing ahead. At last he’d found what he had come here for. The walk seemed over before it started. The door was knocked upon, greetings were exchanged, and bolts were drawn back from their casings. And then Bodger appeared on the other side, speaking words of welcome that Jack could barely hear.
Without being told, Jack made for the stairs. He felt hands upon his back, patting or restraining, he didn’t know which. Grift spoke a caution. Jack had no mind to acknowledge it. He passed a window with a windowseat and then came upon a closed door.
Less than a heartbeat later it opened. Melli stood upon the threshold. Her lips moved, yet she made no sound. Her arms opened, and before he knew it, he was there, close against her chest, kissing the sweet flesh of her neck, and thanking Borc with every breath for showing him the way.
“The combined armies of Annis and Highwall will reach the city sometime in the next four days.” Baralis was standing, but he would have preferred to sit. He was still weak from the drawing to correct Catherine’s spine, but he didn’t like showing that weakness to Kylock. So he stood in the king’s presence and leant against the mantel when he needed to.
“You merely confirm my own reconnaissance,” Kylock said with detachment. “By tomorrow I will know their numbers.”
“I think we can safely say that their numbers will be more than enough to mount a full-scale siege.” Baralis was annoyed at Kylock’s aloofness. Less than a week ago he had come close to ruining everything; now he stood calmly pretending that there was nothing to worry about.
Although they were in Baralis’ chamber, Kylock was treating it as his own. He lounged indolently upon a cushioned bench and had already poured himself a glass of Baralis’ wine. “I have my plan in place,” he said.
Baralis’ thoughts had already moved on. “I have recalled all of Bren’s forces from the field, but the ones in the east will take several weeks to return. If I were you, I’d talk to Lord Gresif—he knows Bren’s defenses like the back of his hand. Get him on our side. Promise him whatever it takes.”
Surprisingly, Kylock nodded. “You are right. I’m sick of the sight of charts. I need someone to talk me through them. Send him to me tonight.”
“Very well.” Baralis ill-liked being ordered around. But for now, with Bren under the immediate danger of a siege, he judged it best to hold his tongue. “And the gates—all but one should be closed tonight. No foreigners must be allowed to enter the city from now on. In two days time the final gate should be barred. Notices must be posted to that effect today.” Baralis thought for a few seconds. “As far as supplies go, we should be all right: the last of the grain and cattle arrived this morning. If we need any more, we’ll have to bring them in on the lake.”
“What about the grain in the field?”
“Harvest is a few weeks off yet.”
“Anything that cannot be harvested within the next three days must be burnt.”
Baralis took a deep breath. “Do that and you’ll have a riot on your hands.”
Kylock took a single sip of wine. “Then we’ll have to burn the rioters, as well.” He shifted his position on the bench, swinging his feet down to the floor and sitting upright. “You know we cannot afford to have crops in the field when the Highwall army arrives. We’d be as good as feeding them if we did. I will not tolerate the Wall stripping our fields and using our grain as their own.” By the end of the sentence, Kylock’s voice was metal-cold.
Baralis looked at him a moment. What he said made sense, but the way he spoke caused Baralis to feel wary. What toll had the wedding night taken upon him? To look at him, one would never guess the horror of the deed he had done. He was dressed beautifully and with care, his dark hair newly trimmed, his chin shaved smooth, his clothes all the subtle shades of black. Confident to the point of nonchalance, there was no sign of any strain or inner torment.
Yet if one watched closely, which Baralis did, one glimpsed strange little habits from time to time: the way Kylock drank from his glass, always pausing to clean the rim; his peculiar distaste for touching anything that a servant had handled first; and then there were his fingertips—always red and marked with sores. Yes, thought Baralis, Kylock might look normal on the surface, but he was a locked chest of secrets beneath. Doubtless ivysh was the key to them all. Madness, paranoia, delusions: they could all be traced back to the sparkling white drug.
Baralis couldn’t guess what had caused Kylock to break Catherine’s neck, but he had a strong feeling that Kylock’s rage had been ivysh induced. The drug had summoned his demons, and the king had been brought down by their weight on his back.
Why Kylock murdered Catherine wasn’t important—the deed was done and then suitably disguised—but what was important was the fact that Kylock had somehow managed to draw sorcery. With huge amounts of ivysh running in his blood, coating the very vessels that it flowed through, Kylock had successfully performed a drawing. It shouldn’t be possible. Nothing was stronger than ivysh. Yet Kylock had done it anyway, overriding the drug’s considerable powers of suppression, blasting through its bone-white restraints.
Still, it could have been one of those freak happenings, brought on by strong emotion, the likes of which are seldom felt. Perhaps, because it was his wedding night, Kylock had decided to take less of the drug—even Baralis did not know what effects ivysh had on sexual prowess.
Anyway, whatever the cause, it couldn’t be allowed to happen again: Kylock’s doses must be increased. Already Baralis had seen to it that everything Kylock ate was salted with the drug. Aft
er a couple of weeks of this, when the “salt” was withdrawn, Kylock would find himself with a greater need and be forced take more accordingly.
“Today I will send a contingent of the Royal Guard out into the city,” said Kylock, interrupting his thoughts. “I need them to put the fear of the devil into anyone who dares speak Melliandra’s name. I will not tolerate anyone supporting her or her child.” He curled his gloved hand into a fist. “Examples must be made of those who would oppose me.”
Kylock’s eyes grew blank as he spoke. Seeing his gaze shift inwards, Baralis shivered. The new king had a taste for sharp blades, burning flesh, and spilt blood. Baralis found himself pitying the poor wretches who dared to stand against him.
After a moment, Kylock’s gaze refocused. Uncurling his fist, he said, “While the Royal Guard are out they can deal with the blacksmiths, too. There are still some who are flouting my orders and forging candlesticks and belt buckles when I need arrowheads and spears.”
“Send the duke’s own, instead,” said Baralis. “The blacksmiths will be less hostile if they’re confronted by their own countrymen rather than foreigners.”
Kylock scowled. “Always the diplomat, Baralis.”
“Someone has to be,” snapped Baralis.
The two men looked at each other a moment, the air between them bristling with quick tension. Baralis knew it would be up to him to break the silence.
“Besides,” he said, “I want the Royal Guard to resume their search of the city. The area to the south was untouched.” This statement dissipated the tension immediately, just as Baralis knew it would.
Kylock stood up. “But the duke’s champion has left the city. Six guards chased him and then watched him skulk under the wall like a rat.”
“Not quite like a rat, Kylock,” Baralis said softly. “More like a red herring.”
“You think he’s back in the city?”
“No. I think he left because he knew we were getting close.” Baralis moved nearer to Kylock. “Think, sire. Why would he escape in such a public way? He had already loosened the sluice gate beforehand, so why didn’t he leave then?” Baralis’ smile was as succinct as he could make it. “I believe he wanted to ensure that you and I knew he’d left the city.”
“So we would call the search off?”
“Exactly. And by doing so we have played right into his hands. I say tomorrow we search the area we missed. We probably won’t find a murderer, but we may find a certain lady, instead.”
Kylock nodded. “So be it. The search will begin before dawn.”
Eight
Occasionally there are nights that one never wants to end. For Jack, this was such a night.
Already it was close to dawn. He and Melli had watched candle upon candle burn down, pool in their own wax, and burn out.
They had talked, laughed, shared wine and bread and silences, held hands, touched shoulders, and swapped tales. It was a night of surprises and gentle understanding. Melli was beautiful, more radiant than Jack ever remembered her, but tougher, too. There was a streak of steel running down her spine, and sometimes when she joked an edge of bitterness was revealed. Yet, if she was more bitter, she was also more vulnerable. He’d seen tears in her eyes twice so far this night. Once when she talked of her reunion with Maybor in the banquet hall of the palace, and the second time when she talked of the man named Tawl. No tears had been shed for the duke.
From the way she spoke, Jack could tell that Melli was in love with Tawl. Strangely, she had denied the charge, stating that it was Tawl who was in love with her. Jack wasn’t fooled. When a woman talks of a man the way that Melli talked of Tawl there is only one conclusion to draw. Melli just didn’t know it yet.
When Jack told her that he had seen Tawl escape from the city, she had gripped his hand so tightly that her knuckles turned white with the strain. “How did he look?” she asked.
He told her that Tawl had looked glorious as he ran, and it was nothing but the truth.
Lord Maybor had entered the room after that, and all talk of Tawl ended. Jack sensed a little tension between father and daughter and guessed Tawl’s departure was the cause.
Lord Maybor had been grudgingly cordial to Jack, his manner only warming somewhat when he learned that Jack was good with a blade. He’d left after a few minutes, muttering words to the effect that it was a sad time indeed when lords were forced to rely on kitchen help for security. Melli began to apologize for her father, but Jack halted her. “I stopped being kitchen help a long time ago,” he said, “but I’ll not take offense when my past is spoken of. I’m not ashamed of what I once was.”
After that their mood had lightened. Bodger and Grift had tapped discreetly on the door, and when they walked into the room they brought a full-blown banquet with them. There was wine and ale and cheese and ham. Grift advised eggs for the digestion and eels for the soul, cold mutton for the travel weary and unripe apricots for the sick. They had eaten till their stomachs strained, and drank till the room spun out of focus. By turn they were joyous, silly, melancholy, then maudlin—Grift always first to lead the way.
Later, after Bodger passed out and Grift was forced to carry him from the room, things had mellowed to a slow, sleepy hush. He and Melli sat close, dropping in and out of sleep, exchanging secrets one moment, softly snoring the next. He had told her about Tarissa, then: only part of it, only the good part. And as he spoke of Tarissa to Melli, his perceptions began to change. For so long he had thought only of what was bad, and now to say out loud what was good had a profound effect upon him. As Jack told Melli of Tarissa’s spirit, of her skills at fighting, and of her sparkling hazel eyes, he relived them as he spoke. Pain softened to hurt, and even hurt became tempered with understanding. Tarissa had done what she had to. She had lied about Melli’s death so she wouldn’t have to kill Vanly herself.
Melli had been nothing but kind through the telling, though she had dogged him about Tarissa’s appearance until he was forced to admit that Tarissa wasn’t so perfect after all and that her nose had been a little crooked. “Just like yours,” Melli had replied, her vanity now gratified—her nose was perfect.
They had joked and teased each other for a while after that; once Melli kicked him in the shin, then pinched the muscle on his forearm. He, in turn, pulled her ear and squeezed the tip of her nose. The blows were swung with neither force nor rancor—mostly it was just an excuse to touch each other.
Now they sat quietly, waiting for the dawn, neither one of them wanting to be the first to take their leave.
Jack was just drifting off into the hazy state that led to sleep when he heard a loud banging noise. Ignore it, it’s a dream, his mind told him. The banging came again, louder, more insistent. Jack opened his eyes. Melli’s were already open. The whole room reverberated with the sound of the banging.
Melli looked at him. “They’ve come for me,” she said.
Jack sprang up. “Stay here.” He checked his blade and raced from the room. The stairs were nothing but a blur as he took them. At the bottom he found Bodger and Grift. Bodger had dark circles round his eyes and dry skin flaking from his lips. The two guards were carrying a large wooden plank between them, and they were attempting to bar the door.
The banging began once more. “Open up! Open up!” came a voice from the other side. “King’s business.”
Jack took Bodger’s end of the bar. “Go and find Maybor,” he said to the guard. “Wake him and tell him to get to Melli’s side. Then make sure Melli is dressed in a warm cloak.”
Bodger hesitated for an instant.
“Go!” cried Jack. Bodger moved away, and Jack then turned to Grift. “Right, let’s get this bar in place.”
“If you don’t open up on the count of ten,” shouted the voice through the wood, “we’re breaking down the door.”
“What’s your guess of their number?” asked Jack, as he and Grift swung one end of the bar toward the door.
“Ten!”
Grift spoke over the
counting. “If they’re the same search party as Nabber saw last week, then they’re six in number. They’ll have blades, halberds, and torches, and they won’t blink an eye at burning the place to the ground.”
“Six!”
With the first end in place, Jack struggled to wedge the second end into the space between two timbers. Behind him, he heard footsteps racing up the stairs. The count was drawing to an end.
“Three!”
Sweat was pouring off Jack’s brow onto the wood. Every muscle was straining. The plank was a fraction too large.
“Two!”
But, by Borc, it was going in. Jack shifted his hold a fraction. He shoved the first end hard against the door. With all his might, Grift pushed on the first holding timber, forcing it back just a fraction.
“One!”
Jack rammed the end of the plank into place, missing Grift’s fingers by less than a hairsbreadth. Jack thrust so hard that the surface of the holding timber was razed to splinters.
“Right! We’re coming in!”
Jack was breathing fast and heavy. His tunic was soaked with sweat. Grift looked at him and smiled. “You did well, lad.”
There was silence from the other side of the door for a few seconds and then a terrible, house-shaking boom as the door was beaten with a battering ram.
The bar held firm.
At the top of the stairs Melli, Maybor, and Bodger appeared. Jack spoke to Maybor. “Is there a back way out of here?”
Bodger answered for him. “There’s a door in the kitchen—it leads off to a back street.”
Crack! Another blow against the door. This time the sound of splintering wood accompanied the jolt.
“Right,” Jack said. “You’re going to have to risk that. Have you all got blades?” Everyone including Melli nodded. “Right, all out. I’ll stay here and make sure they don’t come after you.”
“But Jack—”