by J. V. Jones
To this day, Tawl still didn’t know how much time passed between the moment he learnt of his sisters’ deaths and the night he ended up in Valdis. Weeks and months take on all the power of a lifetime when a man has lost his soul. For that was what Tawl lost that day in the marshes: the center of his being—his heart, his family, his soul. His sisters were dead, and while he had been busy claiming glory at Valdis, they had grown cold in their graves.
He couldn’t blame his father. The man was a drunken, worthless fool, and Tawl had known that for as long as he could remember. He should never have left his sisters with him. He should have known better than to be fooled by a few fine words and a pocketful of gold. His father might have won at the carding table, but he should have known that winning never changed a gambler, merely vindicated him, instead.
Tawl cursed himself. He simply didn’t think. He just took off for the Bulrush at Greyving the moment his father stole his place.
Looking back on it now, Tawl could still relive the anger he felt at his father’s return. He remembered the quick flare of jealousy when he saw how much his sisters loved their papa, and recalled the slow-brewing rage that carried him out of the house before dawn. Funny, but at the time he told himself he was finally free, yet freedom began with a bitter taste even then, and it was many months before his mouth was free of the tang.
Three years later, he paid the price for his rashness and his rage. The day he returned to the marshes was the day his life came to an end. Hope died that morning, and everything was tainted by the loss. Valdis, his newly branded second circle, his dreams of greatness, and his hopes for the future all became things with no meaning. His own pride had brought him to this.
Tawl had cut through his circles and cast away his sword and rode as hard and fast as he could. He had no destination, just the burning need to be as far away from the marshes as possible. It was the worst time in his life. The only way to stop himself thinking was to ride like the devil and never once look back. His horse finally collapsed beneath him. Tawl picked himself off the ground and cursed the exhausted beast. He stormed away from the horse, leaving it to a slow but sure death. He felt ashamed of that now, especially when he considered where the horse had brought him.
When dawn came the next day, Tawl found himself in familiar territory. He was in the valley just south of Valdis. For so long he had ridden with no thought to time or place that he was genuinely surprised at where he was. Dimly he wondered if he had been heading here all along. Looking down at his circles—clotted with blood, swollen with infection—Tawl decided he would go to Tyren and tell him that he could no longer be a knight. He owed the man that much.
Tyren was now head of the order, yet despite his high position, he came down to see Tawl as soon as he knew of his presence. He had a letter in his hand, which he tucked beneath his tunic as he drew Tawl forward into a warm embrace.
Tawl stiffened and pushed the man away.
“What is the matter, my son?” said Tyren. His eyes flicked toward Tawl’s arm. “What has happened?”
Tawl finally broke down. He fell to his knees and sobbed like a baby. “They’re dead,” he kept saying. “They’re dead.”
Tyren put his arms around him. From somewhere warm blankets and two flasks of fine brandy appeared. “Your family are gone?” he asked gently, offering one of the flasks.
Tawl nodded. He tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. There were no words to tell of what had become of his family. Instead, he said, “I can no longer be a knight.”
Tyren’s fingers rose to his tunic. The imprint of the letter could be clearly seen beneath. “My son,” he said with great gravity, “the knighthood needs you. I need you. I will not let you go.”
Tawl shook his head savagely. “How can a man with no soul be a knight?”
Then Tyren said the one thing that made a difference. “You’re not alone,” he said. “All of us have to live with despair. Gaining the third circle is nothing unless it is paid for with blood and sacrifice. You must know pain and suffering before you can know greatness. You are not the first knight to lose his family. Everyone who comes to Valdis forsakes all that has gone before.
“What you must do now is give your sisters’ deaths meaning—that is the only way to regain your soul. Leave here now, and I guarantee you will regret it for the rest of your life. You will live and die in shame, unfulfilled and tormented till the end of your days. Stay, and do what I ask of you, and I swear you will be redeemed.”
Tyren looked like a god as he spoke. His brown eyes were fierce with divine light. Tawl believed in him.
He bowed his head low in deference to the greatness of the man before him, and said, “What would you have me do, my lord?”
Tyren pulled the letter from his tunic. He waved it toward Tawl, but never unfolded it. “Today I received this from a wiseman named Bevlin. He asks me to send him a knight. He needs to find a boy who has the power to stop a world war before it starts . . . ”
Twelve
No, Bodger, you take it from me, the worst thing a soldier’s got to worry about isn’t Isro fire.”
“But Isro fire burns everything it touches, Grift: stone, iron, hardened leather. It even burns on water.”
“Aye, but it’s nothing a good friend couldn’t put out by pissing on you, Bodger. Nothing’s faster than urine for extinguishing the Isro flame.” Grift shook his head wisely. “No, Bodger, the worst thing a soldier can have thrown at him is a dead rabbit.”
“A dead rabbit!”
“Aye, Bodger. It’s common knowledge that there’s nothing in the universe that smells worse than a dead rabbit. Horrible for a man’s constitution, it is. Makes me sick just to think of it.”
“But why rabbits, Grift? Why not skunks?”
“I thought I’d already told you about the strange mating practices of rabbits, Bodger.”
“That you did, Grift.”
“Then I think it’s about time you took a great leap forward and finally put two and two together, Bodger.”
Bodger drew his eyebrows together, looked puzzled for a moment, took a draught of wine, and then smiled triumphantly. “Aah. Say no more, Grift.”
Grift beamed like a proud teacher. Settling himself more comfortably on his pallet, he said, “Eh, it was a bit of luck Kylock finding that Highwall tunnel and all.”
“Aye. Who would have guessed that Highwall would have tried to mine toward the palace?”
“Not everything’s going Kylock’s way, though. After the wall was breached yesterday, about five hundred blackhelms died trying to cordon it off. By all accounts it was a right bloodbath.”
“The wall’s still not secure even now, Grift. Saw it with my own eyes, I did. They timbered it up and dug a trench around it, but my guess is that one decent attack could reopen it.”
Grift nodded his head. “Won’t be our problem this time tomorrow, Bodger. Have you got the letter on you?”
“Aye, but it’s sealed. The Lady Melliandra gave it to me about an hour ago. Says I’m to take it to the enemy before first light tomorrow.”
“You’re not worried are you, Bodger?”
“Well, I was wondering if I should carry a white flag or anything. Just to let them know not to shoot at me.”
Grift thought for a moment. “I think you should, Bodger. Just to be safe. ’Course, once they realize who the letter’s from, they’ll welcome you with open arms. Lord Maybor said he spotted the duke’s colors flying above Highwall’s siege tower. So they’re already claiming to be fighting for the duke’s rightful heir.”
“Lord Baralis ordered the colors to be shot down as soon as he saw them, Grift.”
“Aye. That’s the last place he’d want to see ’em, Bodger.”
Bodger drained his glass of wine. After looking around the cellar to make sure they were alone, he said in a low voice, “Highwall aren’t the only ones taking up the Lady Melliandra’s cause. There’s people in the city who’d rather back her claim than Kyloc
k’s. Just today, I saw the duke’s guard leading two men away from Old Taverner’s Square. The men had drawn quite a crowd, claiming they’d rather have the duke’s bastard son as their leader than a bloodthirsty foreign king.”
Grift shook his head slowly. “Kylock won’t tolerate talk like that, Bodger. He’ll cut out the tongue of any man who dares to challenge his rule.”
The two guards suddenly grew silent as Lord Maybor walked through the main cellar, toward the trapdoor.
“Keep an eye to Melliandra while I’m gone,” said Maybor to Bodger. The lord pulled his cloak close and climbed up the newly installed ladder and out into the night.
“That was strange,” said Grift, nudging Bodger with his empty glass.
Bodger promptly refilled the glass with wine from the nearest of the three barrels that were surrounding them. Gradually the guards were working their way through every barrel in the cellar. They’d found quite a few sour brews so far, but none that couldn’t be drunk.
“What’s strange, Grift?”
“Old Maybor wearing a heavy cloak like that on a night like this.”
“You’ve got a point there, Grift. It’s got to be the warmest night of the year.”
As soon as Maybor let the trapdoor fall behind him he took off his cloak and stuffed it in a darkened corner of the butcher’s yard. The place reeked of blood, but Maybor wasn’t overly concerned where he put the gray, flea-ridden thing. He’d been sleeping on it for months now and it had long lost what little style its tailor had first intended.
Although it was growing dark, Maybor still found enough light to admire the deep crimson color of his tunic. A color that was certain to impress the wenches. Maybor smiled, well pleased with what shadowy grandeur the twilight revealed, and made his way across the courtyard and onto the city streets.
As he walked, the Highwall bombardment shook buildings and lit up the southwestern sky. Having grown bored with attacking the wall all day, the northern allies had decided to set their catapults higher and were now sending missiles over the wall and into the city. The noise was the worst thing. The terrible stomach-churning rumble of the siege engines, the hammering of stone blasting against stone, the soft whip of the longbow, and the high, haunting screams of the wounded.
Listening to the sounds of war as he traveled eastward through the city, Maybor could hardly wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow Melli’s letter would be read by Lord Besik, the leader of the Highwall army. Only today the man had ordered the flying of the duke’s colors to signify that he was behind Melliandra and her child—Maybor could guess whose jeweled and pudgy hand was behind that one—and he and Melli were now assured of a warm welcome into the enemy camp. Then at last he would be able to take an active part in the war instead of hiding in a wine cellar like a coward.
Maybor had spent many of the last few days quietly surveying the city and had come up with a few ideas on how best to defeat it. The wall was its strength, and although the allies had managed to break through a small outer section, it had taken them nearly a week to do so. The lake, however, was its weakness. The lake was the lifeblood of Bren; every well in the city drew upon its cold and glassy water. Thousands of people depended upon it for survival. Poison it and those very same people would be on their knees within a week.
Highwall should be sending out divers into the lake. Nabber had told him that there were gateways beneath the surface that led straight to the heart of the palace. If there was already a network of tunnels beneath the palace, then a mine should be built under the lake to join up with it. The whole thing should be filled with hay and timber, then set alight. The foundations would crumble in no time.
And as for the late duke’s colors, well, he’d have them flying on every tent, every scaling ladder, every crossbow in the field. There were many in Bren who would prefer to back Melli’s claim rather than Kylock’s—they just needed a little encouragement, that was all. Cravin was currently working to whip up support for Melliandra. It was, Maybor grudgingly admitted, a decidedly risky endeavor. So far the handful of noblemen who had expressed tentative support for Melliandra had all wound up dead. Of course, the official word was they were missing, but Maybor was far too old and wily to believe official word.
Maybor was distracted from his thoughts by two young ladies who were standing in a doorway and calling out to him:
“Hey there, handsome! Fancy a little brawl between the sheets?”
“You can lay siege to my door anytime, matey.”
Maybor, having quickly appraised their charms, or rather lack of them, bowed politely to the two women in passing. “Not this evening, ladies. Another time, perhaps.”
The girls giggled in appreciation of his courtesy, then promised him special rates if he passed their way again later.
Maybor made a mental note of the street. If he didn’t find the place he was looking for soon, he just might take the ladies up on their offer. After all, the plain ones were usually the most inventive in bed. One thing was certain, though, tonight he would have a woman.
He had been without one for so long, he’d almost forgotten what to do with one. Such severe abstinence could kill a man! After tomorrow, when he joined the Highwall camp, he probably wouldn’t be able to enjoy a woman until after the siege ended, so that was why he’d taken to the streets tonight: it was his last chance to bed one.
Now, as fortune would have, while he was out earlier, he dropped by a tavern and was given the address of the most profitable brothel in the city. One which boasted a girl of such extraordinary beauty that men came from far and wide to bed her. Hearing of the girl’s charms, Maybor became determined that she would be the one he would spend his last night in Bren with. His long days of self-restraint would be made up for in one glorious—and very probably expensive—coupling.
Eventually, after many turnoffs and a little backtracking, Maybor found the place he was looking for. The red shutters were flung open to the night, and smoke, noise, and fragrances leaked out to lure customers in. Maybor checked the name scribed in the alcove, put his hand on his purse for good measure, and rapped loudly on the door.
A woman answered. She looked him up and down, patted her heavily powdered hair, and said, “Why, welcome, fine sir. Come in and brush the siege dust from your shoes.” She grabbed on to his arm with a pincerlike grip and dragged him across the threshold.
Maybor’s natural reaction was to back away. The woman was neither young nor pretty, and she smelled like dead rodents. Just as he was about to make his exit, the woman called out:
“Moxie! Franny! Come and see to this gentleman.” Two young girls came rushing forward and the woman relinquished her grip. The two girls arranged themselves, one on either side of him, and the woman thrust a jug of ale into his hand. “Special brew,” she said.
Considering there weren’t many candles lit, there was an awful lot of smoke. The light was dim, the fumes were heavy, and the place was crowded to the rafters. Maybor took a sip of his ale. Strangely familiar, it tasted like the stuff they brewed in the kingdoms.
“Never had so much business since the war started,” said the woman. “Nothing like manning the battlements all day for making a man randy at night.” She smiled coquettishly, adjusting her curls to frame her face.
Maybor was feeling a little bemused. The smoke and the strong ale were working their effects, relaxing his mind and his senses. The rodent woman still looked ugly, though.
“Tell me,” he said, “where is your beauty?”
The two girls to either side of him moved closer.
The rodent woman’s smile widened. “Aah. Well, handsome sir, Cherry is busy at the moment. She’ll be free a little later, but in the meantime why don’t you enjoy Franny and Moxie, instead?”
Franny and Moxie blew kisses at opposite sides of his neck. Both girls looked pleasant enough, but he had a feeling they’d look a lot worse in daylight. “I’ll sup with them for a while,” said Maybor. “But send Cherry to me as soon as she is free.”
The woman hesitated. “Very well, sir. But it’ll cost you double for all three.”
Maybor let himself be led to a bench at the side of the room. Moxie and Franny began kissing and petting him. “Don’t worry about the cost, woman,” he shouted above the din of drink and chatter. “Just send me the best you have.”
Mistress Greal’s bat ears could pick up talk of money a league away. She had just heard her two favorite sentences in all the world: “Don’t worry about the cost,” and “Send me the best you have.” Her small heart thrilled to their musical sound. There was obviously someone here tonight who could afford the very best.
Not that she needed the money, of course. Ever since she’d purchased her great beauty, business had never been better. Men came from all over the city to see Cherry’s formidable charms. Pale blond hair, skin like silk, eyes as green as emeralds. Not to mention a bottom the size of a beer barrel! The girl was quickly becoming a phenomenon; songs were sung about her in taverns, her likeness had been painted on several missiles destined for the enemy, and just last night King Kylock himself had sent for her.
“Dearest sister,” came Madame Thornypurse’s high and nasal voice from behind. “I think we have a slight problem.”
“What now, sister dear? Someone else griping about the smoke?” Mistress Greal was scathing. No one could fuss up a storm over a trivial complaint like her sister. Last night it had been beetles in the special brew!
“Well, dearest sister,” said Madame Thornypurse, dropping her voice to a whisper. “A right fine gentleman has come in asking to see Cherry. From the way he’s dressed he can afford to pay her double.”
Mistress Greal saw the problem. “Have you given him Franny, instead?” After Cherry, Franny was the second best girl in the establishment. If it wasn’t for her long nose and buck teeth she would have been a true beauty.
“Yes, dearest sister, but he’s still asking after Cherry.”
“Well, he can’t see her,” snapped Mistress Greal. “No one can until she’s better.”