by J. V. Jones
“I knew there was a risk we’d capsize, but you saw the storm, Jack. It wasn’t going to stop until the boat was torn apart. I had to do something, so I took a chance that the boat would break up before we capsized.”
“And we’d float to the surface with the driftwood?”
Tawl nodded. “I suppose so. I didn’t really think.” He looked tired. For the first time Jack noticed what bad shape he was in. His face was bruised and swollen. There was a large gash on his forehead and a smaller one above his lip. His britches were torn at the knees and the thighs, and his tunic was in tatters. Bloody flesh showed through all the various tears.
Catching Jack’s gaze, Tawl smiled. “You should take a look at yourself.”
“I’m not about to do that,” said Jack. “Last spring I spent a couple of weeks in a Halcus prison. I’d been chewed up by a pack of dogs and I wasn’t a pretty sight. That’s when I learnt the art of not seeing my body.”
Tawl lifted a bloody arm up to the light. “You’ll have to show me how to do that sometime.”
Both men laughed. The joke wasn’t particularly funny, but the laughter was more than just merriment, it was a celebration of their survival.
After a while, the laughter died down. Strangely, Jack felt closer to Tawl now. Throughout the journey, Jack had thought the knight was infallible; there was nothing he didn’t know about horses, weapons, traveling, and medicine. He knew so much that at times he seemed almost too perfect. Now, by admitting that he’d bound them to the boat out of pure desperation, rather than calculated knowledge of the sea, he began to appear more human.
“The Fishy Few was lucky last night,” said Tawl.
“Why?” Jack tried to find a comfortable spot to lie down in amidst the wet sand and pebbles.
“Because we were nearer to Larn than anyone knew. The place is circled by shallows and rocks, and the way that storm was blowing it’s a wonder the ship didn’t run aground.”
“We got off just in time,” said Jack absently. His mind had already moved on. So they were here, on Larn. It wasn’t a surprise really. Where else could they be? It was just that up until now he hadn’t given his surroundings any thought. There was a beach, some rocks, and the sea. That was all that had existed for him so far.
Things suddenly began to seem different. The air was colder, the light harsher, the wet sand beneath his fingers turned to mud. “Do you think they know we’re here?”
Tawl gave Jack a sharp look. “Do you?”
“I haven’t got a sixth sense, Tawl.” For some reason, Jack felt annoyed. “I knew about the sorcery last night because I could smell it, taste it, not because I’m a conjurer with a crystal ball.”
“I’m sorry, Jack. I just don’t know about these things.”
“Neither do I.” Jack looked at Tawl for a moment. They both needed some rest. “Did you manage to salvage anything from the boat?” he asked, changing the subject.
“No. We lost all our supplies. All we’ve got is my knife.”
“So what do we do?”
Tawl leant forward. “We have to assume that they don’t know we’re here. If they caused the storm last night, then there’s a good chance they think we’re dead. Our best option is to lie low until the middle of the night, then take them by surprise. I say we get some sleep for now, and when it’s dark we make our way up the cliffside.”
Jack nodded. He was amazed that he was managing to appear calm when inside his stomach lay a solid block of fear. He was just beginning to realize that Larn, the prophecy, and the quest were more than fireside stories. They were real.
Nabber was experiencing a strong sensation of déjà vu as he walked down the palace corridors on his way to his audience with the archbishop. Gamil strode ahead of him, setting a fast pace and acting like a nervous bloodhound. No matter how fast he scurried, though, Nabber still had time to take in his surroundings. And that was why he was beginning to feel distinctly . . . familiar with the contents of the palace.
Gold urns, marble statues, paintings, tapestries, jeweled reliquaries—Nabber had the curious feeling he’d seen them all before.
Furtively he reached out to touch a gold urn ensconced in a recess in the wall. It didn’t feel quite as warm as gold. Only one thing for it. Reaching into his tunic, he pulled out his darning needle, and then shouted, “Rats!” at the top of his voice.
Whilst Gamil was busy hopping and panicking, Nabber scraped the needle along the urn. Just as he thought: base metal beneath.
“There are no rats.” Gamil swiped Nabber across the ear. “What are you up to?”
Nabber slipped the needle up his sleeve. “Could have sworn there was, my friend. Great big hairy ones. Two of ’em.”
Gamil made an annoyed clicking sound in his throat, grabbed Nabber by the coattail, and hurried him along. “Any nonsense like that with His Eminence, and you’ll be leaving the palace minus your tongue.”
Nabber tried his best to look contrite. They walked across a lofty gallery, down a short flight of stairs, and into a marble-lined corridor. A set of double doors marked the end. Nabber, who had taken the trouble to change into his best for this occasion, smoothed down his tunic and tried hard to swallow the lump in his throat.
Gamil reached out to knock on the door. Nabber stopped him.
“One question before we go in, my friend,” he said.
Old Gamil didn’t look at all happy at this. “What?”
“The treasure in the palace. All the urns and statues and things. They are real, aren’t they?”
“Of course they are. The tributes have been collected over centuries. They are priceless. The holy treasures of Rorn are second in value only to those of Silbur.”
“Hmm. Very interesting. You can knock now.”
Gamil sent him a withering look and knocked, very softly, upon the door.
“Enter!” came a muffled cry.
They walked into a glorious, golden chamber. Light poured in from arched stained-glass windows and the rugs on the marble were at least two toes thick.
“Your Eminence, this is the young man I talked to you about. I promised him but three minutes of your time.”
Nabber stepped forward. Like everyone else in Rorn, he knew the archbishop by sight—the man could never turn down a parade. He was dressed in exquisite silks of yellow and cream and rustled like a wealthy monarch when he moved.
“Most unusual this, Gamil,” he said. “Caught me in the middle of my lemmings.”
“I apologize, Your Eminence. If you would prefer I’ll—”
The archbishop waved a heavily jeweled hand. “No, no. I’ll see the boy now.” And then to Nabber: “What’s your name, boy? Nobber?”
“Nabber.”
“Very nice. You can go now, Gamil.”
“But, Your Eminence—”
“Go, Gamil. I’m sure young Nibber here would like to talk to me, man to man.” He smiled benignly at Nabber.
Gamil was gripping Nabber’s shoulder very hard. Under his breath he whispered, “One word about Larn and out comes your tongue.”
“’Nuff said, Gamil,” murmured Nabber between gritted teeth.
Gamil gave his shoulder one final skin-piercing squeeze and reluctantly took his leave.
The archbishop waved a beckoning hand. “Come over here, young Nibber. How do you feel about lemmings?”
“Never heard of them. And the name’s Nabber.”
“Good. Care to try one?” The archbishop brandished something small and squirrel-shaped impaled upon a stick. “I have these brought in from beyond the Northern Ranges, you know.”
“I think I’ll have to decline. Tempting though they look, Your Eminence.”
The archbishop sighed. “All the more for me, then.” He took a dainty bite at the squirrel-thing, then said, “Now, while I’m eating perhaps you’d like to tell me how you managed to coerce my aide into setting up this meeting. For this is the first time in my recollection that Gamil has ever brought me a boy off the street
.” Up came the lemming to his lips. “Are you blackmailing him, by any chance?”
The fat man was not as stupid as he looked. Nabber revised his opinion of him. To buy himself time to think about his reply, he turned his back on the archbishop and looked around the room. All that glittered was most definitely not gold. Nabber smiled, suddenly more confident. A change of plan was in order. “If I was blackmailing, Gamil, Your Eminence, I couldn’t possibly tell you the reason why.”
The archbishop now had a silver goblet in his hand. “Boy, I could have any information I wished out of you in an instant. My torturers are second to none. Now kindly tell me what you know about Gamil.”
“Can’t do that, Your Eminence. Once I’ve done a deal, my lips are firmly sealed.” Nabber had come to the palace with the idea of bluffing the archbishop into giving him what he wanted. He knew about the archbishop’s storehouse full of loot, and he had planned to state that unless His Eminence agreed to lay off the knight, the whole thing would be torched before nightfall. Nabber was even going to invent an accomplice who was poised outside the storehouse, flame in hand, ready to set it alight if he’d heard no news within the hour.
Nabber hadn’t been entirely happy with the plan, but it was the only thing he could come up with on short notice. And, as Swift always said, “when everything else fails, an inspired bluff is your best resort.” Things looked different now, though. There’d be less bluffing—inspired or otherwise—in what he was currently concocting.
“Boy, you do realize that I will have you tortured unless you speak?”
“Do you realize that the one thing you look for in a blackmailer is the ability to keep his mouth shut?” Nabber grinned. He took the liberty of coming forward and running a hand over the treasures on the archbishop’s desk: gilded boxes, goblets, jeweled candlesticks, and incense holders. He selected a particularly pretty gold statuette: Borc’s sainted mother, if he wasn’t mistaken. Holding it up to the light, he said, “It’s really not bad for a fake.”
Four skewers worth of lemmings clattered to the floor. A soft whisking noise escaped from the archbishop’s lips. His fingers strayed to the large ruby ring on his left hand. Nabber knew rubies; this one was a little too bright, a little too brazen to be real.
“I see that’s one, too,” he said pointing to the ring. “Of course, no one would spot it unless they knew what they were looking for. Take me, I would never have guessed all these things were fake if I hadn’t seen the originals for myself.”
The archbishop looked a little lost for words, so Nabber decided to carry on. “You and I both know where the holy treasures of Rorn are, and they ain’t in this palace, that’s for sure. They’re in a smart little house just off Mulberry Street. Right nice place, it is. Looted to the rafters.” Nabber knew what he was saying was right. Three years ago he’d been in that house, checking out the prospects for Swift. Of course, as soon as they’d learned that the archbishop owned the place, they’d backed away from the job. But the memory formed by the treasure was a lasting one, and the minute Nabber walked into the palace it all came flooding back: the golden angels, the enamel boxes, the jeweled chests, the countless paintings of Borc and his disciples. Old Tavalisk had ripped them all off.
“Boy, you are deranged. I’m going to ring for the guards.” The archbishop reached for the bell rope.
“Torture me, kill me, and the word will still get out.” Nabber was beginning to feel more confident. He was back on his own territory again: inspired bluffing. “You don’t think I’d walk into the lion’s den without helpers in the field?”
Down came the hand. “Are there others who know of this foul lie?”
“Just me and a good friend. But you needn’t worry about that, Your Eminence. We’re the two discreetest people you’re ever likely to meet.”
“What do you want?”
“First of all, I want you to lay off the knight. When he gets back into Rorn, I want him to get off the boat and leave the city in one piece.”
“And?”
“I believe you’re holding a friend of the knight’s. A lady, name o’ Megan. I’d like her released. Today. Right now. She can leave with me.” Nabber didn’t have the vaguest idea who Megan was, but she was obviously important enough for the Old Man to mention her. Besides, any friend of Tawl’s was a friend of his.
During the conversation, the archbishop had been slowly changing color, and now he was rather an alarming shade of puce. He tugged on the bell rope. “Boy, let me make this very clear to you. What you have accused me of is an outright lie. Unfortunately a great man like myself simply cannot allow his reputation to be sullied by such slanderous lies. And that—and only that—is the reason why I’m agreeing to your requests.”
Nabber judged a bow was in order. “Of course, Your Eminence.”
The archbishop poured himself a cup of wine. “Suffice to say, if I hear as much as a whiff of this ugly rumor, I will not rest until you and the knight are so much rotting flesh. Is that clear?”
Nabber shivered. He couldn’t help himself. The archbishop issued the threat in such an off-hand manner, that you just knew he was serious about it. Swift had been right not to mess with him.
A knock came upon the door and in walked Gamil.
“Aah, Gamil. Your young friend here is ready to leave. See to it that the prostitute Megan accompanies him.”
“But—”
“Do as I say, Gamil.” The archbishop waved an almost fond farewell. “Remember what I said, Nabber. Not one whiff.”
Twenty-one
Come on, Jack,” said Tawl. “What are you stopping for?”
A pale ribbon of mist-filtered moonlight slanted across Jack’s face. “Tawl, I can feel it. I can feel the rock . . . ” He shook his head. “It’s throbbing, like a heartbeat.”
Tawl could hear fear in Jack’s voice. Fear and something else: wonder, perhaps. He reached up and touched Jack lightly on the arm. “Let’s go.”
They had just found the tunnel that led up through the cliff face. For over two hours they’d circled around the shore looking for a place to climb up to the top. The cliffs were too sheer, though, and slick with condensation from the mist.
Even before it started to go dark, the mist began to roll in from the sea. Having grown up in the marshes, Tawl was used to fog and mist, but he’d never seen anything like this before in his life. There was no gradual buildup, no gentle clouding, no delicate swirling and thickening. It came from the sea in a solid bank, as dense and real as the waves it glided over. The mist came in with intent. It didn’t accompany the night, it made it.
Now, as they climbed up a tunnel that cut through solid rock, the mist came after them. Tawl wasn’t given to idle fancies, but even in the dark he could tell there was no mist ahead of them. It was only behind. He and Jack were leading the mist up the cliff.
It was bitterly cold in the tunnel. The rock underfoot was damp, greasy; rivulets of water trickled down along the depressions, flaring out when the path ran smooth. Every step had to be carefully placed. Overhead the rock coverage varied, one minute dipping low to meet their heads, the next soaring high and shaping echoes, and occasionally pulling back and allowing glimpses of the sky.
The darkness in the tunnel had a quality all its own. At first Tawl couldn’t work out what was wrong, what made it different from other darkness, but as they struggled ever upward, he began to see what it was. Most of the rock surfaces were either damp or dripping, but instead of catching the occasional flash of light from the much-absent moon, the water running down the walls, ceiling, and floor of the tunnel glowed. There was a faint phosphorescence to it—not nearly enough to banish the darkness, but enough to alter its nature.
Tawl shivered. He needed a drink. He was thirsty, hungry, and his body hurt in a hundred different ways. Glancing back at Jack, Tawl saw a mirror of his own emotions: fear, apprehension, a strong desire that the whole thing be over and done with. One knife they had between them. One single-bladed knife.
They had been walking uphill for some time now and Tawl felt sure the tunnel would end soon. So far things looked good: they hadn’t seen anyone, which could mean that the priests didn’t know they were here. It could also mean that they were waiting in their temple like spiders in a web. There was just no way of knowing. Thinking back, Tawl tried to remember if any of the hooded men he had seen were armed. There were definitely no guards, that was certain, but were the priests trained to defend the temple? Tawl shrugged. Trained or not, they would defend it with their lives.
Suddenly a cold breeze blasted against his face. The air was fresh, mist free. The path began to lighten ahead. Tawl dropped to the floor. “Get down,” he hissed at Jack. The tunnel was about to end, and from here onward they had to take every precaution they could.
On their bellies, they pulled themselves forward, finding handholds in the rock. The mist was no longer behind; it was on top of them, hovering overhead like smoke above a fire. The sensation of wet rock beneath and clammy mist above was so unpleasant that Tawl actually grinned. It reminded him of early mornings at his fishing hole, lying still between the fog and dew while he waited for the fish to bite. Strangely, the memory gave him strength—he’d never come home without a catch.
Abruptly the tunnel ended. Tawl had grown so used to the dark that the moonlit night seemed impossibly bright. It was dazzling. Tawl felt exposed, vulnerable, as if a score of lanterns had been turned on him. The only mist up this high was the white swirls escaping from the tunnel. Swinging to the left, Tawl saw the low oblong form of the temple. His mouth went dry. It was just the same as he remembered it: oppressive, primitive, its very shape telling of power passed down over time. Tawl had seen it in his dreams: it was the place that nearly destroyed him.
Jack moved next to him. “I feel like I’ve been here before,” he whispered. His voice was thin, strained.
Tawl could feel the tension in his body. He wished he knew how to reply. Jack needed some reassurance, but he had none to give. “The place is dark. That’s a good sign,” was all he could think of to say.