by J. V. Jones
It wouldn’t have been so bad if they were traveling through lands exotic and unfamiliar; there would be scenery to appreciate, strange creatures to pocket, and new food to stuff in his pack. As it was, they were making their way down the barren peninsula north of Rorn, and there was nothing more interesting than ground rats and rocks. It was a sad testament to a man when all he had in his pocket was a large rodent and a chunk of limestone.
It was high time they reached Rorn. If they didn’t get there soon, Nabber was quite sure he’d go under the barrel. Or was it over it? Well, one way or other there’d be a barrel in his future and he’d very probably end up dead in it. According to Swift, guilt wasn’t the only thing that could be the death of a pocket. Lack of practice was another. “A pocket who loses his feel might as well hit himself over the head with a mallet,” Swift would say. “Either that or wait till the bailiffs do it for him.” Losing your feel was the one thing that kept pockets awake at night. Fear of it sent them out onto the streets in sickness, bad weather, and plague. A pocket simply couldn’t function unless he had his feel.
Nabber had intended to get some practice in Toolay—stay a few days, do a little pocketing, add to his dwindling contingency—but Tawl had put a stop to that. One mention of Melli in danger and the knight had turned into a demon. He’d had them out of the city in no time, galloping through the streets without as much as a please or thank-you to anyone. It had been the same ever since. If they came to a river, then they’d cross it then and there, not bothering to trek downstream and look for a bridge. If there was a ditch, they’d jump it; if there was a tavern, they’d ride right past it. When they met other travelers, Tawl would ask them if they had news of the duke’s widow, and when they didn’t, he just turned his horse and moved on.
He hardly talked at all. Anything that might slow him down was not tolerated. There was no washing, no cooking, no resting. There was riding and sleeping and nothing else.
At least they hadn’t heard from Skaythe in the past few weeks. Tawl must have aimed a decent arrow, for there had been no sign of old Bad Leg since the night on the bluff. A fact that pleased Nabber no end: his arm was only now out of the sling and he didn’t fancy having to put it back there any time soon. He’d had enough of splints, bandages, and slings to last a lifetime. The only good thing about being injured was the brandy, and they’d run out of that two days past Toolay.
Nabber looked up at the sky. There was no time like midmorning for outstaying its welcome. It had been midmorning for the better part of a day now—Nabber was sure of it.
He let his gaze drop down onto the horizon. He was sick of blue skies and eastern breezes, sick of rocks and hills and dust. Just as he was about to direct his gaze elsewhere, he spotted a speck of white in the distance. A speck of white with the ocean as its backdrop.
“Rorn!” he cried. “Tawl, it’s Rorn.”
Tawl nodded. “We’ll be there by tonight.”
Nabber could hardly believe it. Over the past few days, they’d traveled through a few villages and seen a good number of people on the road, but nothing prepared him for Rorn’s closeness. “None of this seems familiar, Tawl,” he said.
“We’ve traveled close to the coast this time. When we left all those months back, we went straight up the middle. That’s where most of the towns and villages are. There’s little but hills this way.”
“You can say that again.” Nabber beamed at the back of Tawl’s head. Now that he’d seen the city, he felt like jumping off the horse and running all the way to the sea. Rorn was his home; it was where his business associates lurked, where Swift held court, and where he knew every street, alleyway, and crevice.
“We’ll stop here,” shouted Tawl to Jack.
Was it midday already? What had happened to midmorning? Nabber tapped on Tawl’s shoulder. “I could manage a bit further before we stopped.”
Tawl laughed: his first in a long time. “Either my hearing’s going, or someone snatched Nabber away in the night and replaced him with you, instead. Since when did you start volunteering to spend more time in the saddle?” As he spoke, Tawl guided his horse from the track. There was a stretch of grass on the sheltered side of the hill and he headed toward it.
“Ain’t no pixies taken me,” said Nabber, sliding off the horse. “Just thought I’d do my bit, that’s all. It’ll be the last time I do a good deed, I can tell you.” Nabber sorted through the items in his sack—he was now reduced to a truly pathetic selection—and picked out a stale honeycake to munch on. “Some people ought to learn to be a bit more grateful.”
Jack tied his horse to a rock and came to join him. “Any more of those in your sack?” he said, pointing at the honeycake.
“Seeing as it’s you that’s asking, Jack, and not a certain thankless knight who’s currently unbuckling the saddle from his horse”—Nabber threw a withering look Tawl’s way—“then I think I can manage one.” He rooted once more and came out with the last edible thing he had on him—not counting the ground rat, of course. “Here you go. Just pick off the hairs and it’ll be as right as rain.”
Jack brushed the cake against his leg. “So you’ve never been this way before?”
“No. Me and Tawl went another way last time.” Nabber looked into the distance. Rorn had somehow disappeared into thin air.
“Is this way quicker?”
“There’s not a lot in it,” said Tawl, coming up to join them. He gave Jack a searching look. “As the crow flies, this way is shorter, but you’ve got the hills to contend with. The other route is longer—”
“But you’ve got people to contend with,” finished Jack.
Tawl didn’t bother to contradict him. “Just being cautious, that’s all.”
“Cautious of what?” asked Nabber. He hated conversations that beat around bushes.
There it was again! That glance swapped between Jack and Tawl. The same one that always appeared when there was talk of danger. Nabber wasn’t going to let the matter drop, though. Those two could trade looks until their eyelashes fell out for all he cared. If there were dangers, he needed to know about them. “Who exactly are you trying to avoid, Tawl? Is it Skaythe?”
Tawl shrugged. “Yes.”
“But there’s more, isn’t there?” said Jack. “It’s not really about Skaythe. It’s about how he found us in the first place. About who told him where to look.”
Nabber had the distinct feeling that he might as well be invisible at this point. Somehow he’d been squeezed out of his own conversation. This was between Tawl and Jack now.
Tawl turned to look at the way they’d come. Hills and more hills. “If Skaythe is alive, he’ll find us again. If he’s dead, they’ll send someone else.”
“Baralis?”
“And Larn. They’re probably working together.” Tawl’s voice betrayed the strain of the journey. “I’ve seen those seers. I know what they can do. Their powers are neither superstition nor legend. They’re real, and the priests know how to exploit them.”
“So they’ll be tracking us?”
“You, Jack. They’ll be tracking you.” Tawl spun around to face him. “They’ll know everything by now—Marod’s prophecy, what it means, the fact you’re on your way. They know you’re coming to destroy them, and they’re not about to sit back and let that happen.”
Jack’s face was pale. Nabber couldn’t understand why Tawl was being so hard on him.
“I’m not a fool, Tawl,” he said. “Don’t you think I know the risks? Or did you think I just followed you to go on a grand adventure?”
The two men had been drawing nearer with every word and they were now only a breath apart.
“Why don’t you tell me why you came?” said Tawl.
“I came because I have to.” A long moment passed. “I was born for it.”
Nabber shivered. At that moment the breeze from the ocean was as good as a blade. No one moved. Jack and Tawl stood opposite each other. Nabber began to understand what had passed between the
two: it was a test. Tawl had been testing Jack.
Nabber knew all about men’s pride and standoffs. He knew that no man wanted to back down to another. Swift himself had said, “Back down to a man and you’ll spend the rest of your days regretting it.” Now Tawl and Jack had reached such an impasse. If someone didn’t do something, those two would be standing there until Rorn sank into the sea. And there was no way Nabber was going to let that happen. No, sir. Rorn was no good to him underwater.
Reaching in his sack, he pulled out his darning needle. Lock-breaker, weapon, gold-tester, and insect-impaler: Nabber never went anywhere without it. He cut across to the horses, smiled sweetly at Tawl’s gelding, whispered, “this is for all those hours of torture,” and thrust the needle into the horse’s flank.
The horse reared up and began bucking. It squealed like a pig. Snapping back its head, it pulled its reins free of the rock.
The deadlock was broken. Tawl leapt forward. Jack followed after him. The horse galloped down the hillside.
Nabber shouted, “I’ll keep an eye on things here.” He patted Jack’s horse on the nose and then settled down to wait.
“His Highness has been in to see her just this morning, my lord,” said Mistress Greal.
“How long did he spend with her?” asked Baralis.
“Less than an hour.”
Baralis didn’t like this one little bit. Kylock was visiting Maybor’s daughter on an almost daily basis. This meant trouble. He walked across the room, thinking. With the iron shutters drawn over the windows, his chambers were as dark as night. A fistful of candles burned on the desk, but they did little except send shadows into the gloom. “Next time he calls upon the lady, I would appreciate it if you could . . . ”
Mistress Greal leapt into the pause. “Keep an ear to things.”
“Yes,” said Baralis, trying hard not to show his distaste. “I am interested in knowing what passes between them.”
“I can tell you that already, my lord. He goes in there and beats her up. She’s always got either a black eye or bruises on her arms, or a bloody lip.” Mistress Greal spoke with a certain grudging respect. “You’ve got to give him that, my lord. His Highness ain’t about to be fooled by a pretty face.”
“And what about you? How do you treat the girl?”
“I treat the girl like the slut she is. She might be in a fancy chamber, but I see to it she gets only the bare minimum. No fire, no candles. One cold meal a day.”
“And how does she look?”
“She’s a tough one, that’s for sure. She’s well into her fifth month, by the looks of things. Her belly’s rounding out now. I’d say she’ll be birthing in midwinter.”
“Leave me now,” said Baralis. He had no liking for the woman before him. She was far too familiar with him and he didn’t trust her. By the sounds of things she’d already been spying on Kylock and Melliandra.
Mistress Greal curtsied in her crablike way, smiled as if they were coconspirators, and left the room. As soon as the door closed, Crope emerged from the bedchamber. “Is the toothless woman gone now, master?”
Baralis nodded. His servant had no liking for Mistress Greal. “Yes, you can come out now. Stoke up the fire and pour me some holk.”
Crope had been handling his little wooden box and promptly stuffed it into his tunic before doing as he was bidden.
Baralis came and sat by the fire. His thoughts returned to Kylock once more. The king was becoming increasingly unstable. He was growing obsessed with Maybor’s daughter. Baralis had challenged him twice about it: once the day after he took her from the tower, and again last week. Both times Kylock had come close to drawing sorcery. The first time Baralis actually had to draw power himself to contain it. Kylock was potent, strong, the sorcery rolled off his tongue into the air, and the only thing that stopped it from causing damage was the quickness of Baralis’ reflexes.
It seemed the drug was no longer enough. A lifetime of use was impairing its effectiveness. Either that or Kylock was growing more powerful.
Baralis doubted if Kylock knew what he was doing when he drew sorcery. It was a product of rage, not intent, and that in itself was worrying. Kylock could not afford to make the people of Bren any more wary than they already were.
The city was holding up well under the siege, but over the last six weeks Highwall had been making progress. First they attacked the north wall of the palace, then they poisoned the lake, and just yesterday they set fire to a mine and collapsed a whole section of the curtain wall. Tavalisk was seeing to it that Highwall had all the mercenaries, provisions, and armaments they needed. Larn stopped perhaps three-quarters of the supplies from getting through, but the quarter that was left was enough to ensure that the siege army had no need to return home.
Meanwhile the people of Bren were becoming nervous. The Royal Guard regularly swept the city looking for traitors, and they weren’t fussy about matters of evidence or guilt. Food was short, and what little was available was ten times its normal price. Several hundred people had died last month from drinking the poisoned lake water. Lord Guthry had been executed over the scandal that followed. Apparently he had given the order that only men of fighting age were to be warned of the danger. Oh, Baralis knew who was really behind the order, but he made sure that no one else did. Kylock had to be protected from scandal at all cost.
Baralis reached over to his desk and pulled down the letter he had been reading before Mistress Greal’s arrival. It was from Tyren, head of the Knights of Valdis. In it, he expressed his nervousness about the moral tone of Kylock’s leadership. Apparently Tyren was having a little difficulty convincing his brethren to follow the cause when it was widely rumored that Kylock had kidnapped the woman who was carrying the legitimate heir to Bren.
People outside of Bren soon forgot that Melliandra’s camp was responsible for murdering both the duke and his daughter. Baralis threw the letter onto the fire. Tyren would have to be reminded of the facts one more time.
Not that Tyren was interested in morals. Money and power were the only two things that mattered to him. That was why he had written this letter in the first place: it was purely an opening gambit. He wanted to meet and renegotiate the deal they had struck in Bren three months back. Now that he had exhausted the spoils of Halcus and ripped all the assets from its Church, he wanted more. More gold, more influence, more of anything that would advance his cause.
Helch was now too much of a backwater for the leader of the knights.
Baralis rubbed his aching hands. There was so much for him to do. A second meeting with Tyren would have to be arranged, Kylock needed monitoring, the Highwall army had to be beaten back from the wall, and the people of Bren had to be watched closely for signs of insurgency. So far Kylock had done a good job suppressing Melliandra’s supporters—there was nothing like a hanging for sealing would-be traitors’ lips—but the fact that he still had to resort to public executions was telling. Kylock was not well loved in Bren.
Baralis sighed, but not heavily. Then there was the other side of events to deal with: the baker’s boy had to be found and destroyed. Skaythe was now over a week behind him, and that meant Jack and his little party could be landing a boat on Larn before Skaythe even reached Rorn.
Just last night the priests at Larn had contacted him. They were beginning to panic. They knew Jack was on his way and were desperate for help. They had told him many secrets to secure his cooperation. Baralis now knew the exact date the winter storms would start in the mountains, he knew the fundamental military weakness of the city of Ness, he knew there would be an uprising in Helch during the first winter thaw, and he had learned who was responsible for the recent change in tactics of the siege army: Maybor. In one night Larn had traded more information than in six months of verbal parrying.
Baralis smiled as the vapors of the holk reached his nostrils. He would have to see what he could do in return.
The door opened. Even before he saw who was on the other side, Baralis stoo
d up. Only Kylock dared enter his chambers without knocking.
“Aah, Baralis, you look quite the old man warming yourself by the fire.” Kylock strode into the room. He walked around a little and then came to stand by the desk. He rarely sat.
Today he was without his gloves. His leather boots were damp. The soles left dark imprints on the rug, which meant that Kylock had probably just come from the dungeons. Baralis already knew better than to ask what Kylock did there. He neither wanted, nor needed, to know the details. “I believe you saw Melliandra earlier,” he said.
“You are not my keeper, Baralis. I see who I want when I want.”
There was an edge to Kylock’s voice and Baralis decided to let the matter rest for today. After last night’s sending from Larn, he felt too weak to cope with Kylock’s rage. “Did you get the note I sent you?” he said, changing the subject.
“Yes. That’s why I’m here.” Kylock poured himself a glass of wine. Baralis knew he wouldn’t drink it. “I’ve been waiting on news of the winter storms.”
“Why?”
Kylock’s gaze was shrewd and clear. He smiled slightly. “According to our friends at Larn, the first winter storm will hit the mountains in two weeks time. Once that happens the passes will be blocked with snow and ice for many months, and conditions will be so bad it will be virtually impossible for an army to cross the mountains. Today I will send the order for my army at Annis to cross the mountains immediately. They have been on standby for several weeks now and can move on a moment’s notice. They will take the pass just ahead of the storm.”
The smile came again, and then Kylock continued. “Doubtless the Annis army will try to follow us over the mountains, but they’re not expecting our move and it will take them a good week or so to get organized. By the time they’re ready the passes will be closed. They will be forced to spend the winter at home.
“Meanwhile, the kingdoms’ army will arrive in Bren and proceed to outflank and then destroy Highwall’s army.”