by J. V. Jones
“Ask the king next time he comes—see if I’m lying then.”
Melli rested her head against the pillows. She couldn’t bear it to be true. How must her father have felt knowing Kedrac had sent men to murder him? The fact they fought against each other was bad enough, but this . . . The only thing Maybor had lived for was his sons.
No. That wasn’t entirely true. Maybor loved her as well. It had just taken him many years to show it, that was all.
“Maybor was seen riding away from the battle?” Melli had already asked this days ago, but right now she needed reassurance.
Mistress Greal smiled. “Your father is the sort of coward who likes to hit defenseless women. First sign of real danger, though, and he’s off faster than you can call him a drunken bastard.”
Melli was out of the bed in an instant. As always, her increased weight was a shock. She grew heavier by the day. But no slower. Her arms were around Mistress Greal’s throat before the woman could take a breath. Mistress Greal elbowed Melli in the chest.
“Guards!” she screamed, aiming her other elbow for Melli’s stomach. Melli grabbed her wrist. Mistress Greal’s hand slipped away and Melli was left holding her glove.
The guards came in, spears pointing. Melli backed away, one arm up in submission, one arm behind her back, tucking the glove into the waistband of her skirt. At least one hand wouldn’t be blue with cold tonight.
“You little bitch!” Mistress Greal stepped forward and slapped Melli on the cheek. “Get on the bed.” And then to the guards: “No food for her today.”
“But, m’lady, the king said the girl was to be fed proper.”
Mistress Greal looked at the guard. Melli was gratified to see she had two nasty-looking red marks on either side of her neck. “Give her your slops, if you must. But nothing more.” With that, she turned on her heels and left the room.
Melli breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” she said to the guard.
The guard nodded. He was young, with a bad complexion and brown hair. “Was nothing, miss.” He and his companion left the room. The lock turned, the bolt was drawn, and Melli was left alone once more.
She pulled Mistress Greal’s glove from her skirt. It was her prize. Soft brown pigskin lined with rabbit hair, it was shaped for a large left hand. Melli put it on. The fit didn’t matter. The fact of the thing did. She was going to escape from here somehow, and she’d need a weapon and some warm clothing when she did. Melli held her gloved hand up to the light. It wasn’t a bad start.
“So you’ve finally decided to join us, then,” said Tawl, hand on hips, looking like a cross between a riled fishwife and an impatient merchant. He had a new tunic on, and it was colored a little more brightly than the usual one he wore. But then everything looked brighter today.
Jack was hung over. His mouth was as dry as a bag of grain and his head felt as heavy as a stone. “I spent the night with the captain. Had a few drinks, fell asleep at dawn, next thing I know it’s midmorning.”
“You know we’re leaving Rorn today?”
Jack looked around. Only a minute earlier he had practically walked into Tawl, Nabber, and Megan on the steps of the Rose and Crown. “Where are the horses?”
“Nabber sold them. We’ll pick up some more in Marls.”
“Marls?”
“We’re sailing there today. I’m not risking going back up the peninsula. Baralis will be expecting us to go that way.”
Jack wished his head felt clearer and that the sun wasn’t shining so brightly. He couldn’t think of any objection to Tawl’s plan, so he clapped Nabber on the shoulder, and said, “Marls, it is, then.”
Giving him a strange look, Tawl said, “What happened to you last night?”
“I finally learnt the truth.”
No one spoke after that: the words seemed to carry a charm that held the tongues of all who heard them. Tawl nodded once, as if he had received exactly the answer he had expected, and Nabber simply smiled, his gaze firmly on the crowd.
They made their way down to the harbor in silence. Tawl and Megan were arm in arm, Nabber was some distance behind them—doubtless engaged in some last-minute withdrawals—and Jack walked a few steps ahead.
Jack was trying to come to terms with what had happened last night. His hangover was not making it easy. He and Quain had finished off a bottle and a half of rum. They’d told tales, sang songs, and then fallen asleep. Or at least Jack did. He woke up the next morning to find himself covered with warm blankets and Quain sitting in the corner, watching. “You’re so like her,” he said. “Just to see you fills my heart with joy.”
Jack looked up at the bright morning sky. Quain had obviously been in love with his mother. He had helped her selflessly, saved her life, given her his savings, and ultimately let her go. Thirty years had passed and he still remembered her with all the bright intensity of youth.
What had she been like then? Jack wondered. Above all else she must have been brave. A young girl traveling the length of the Known Lands on her own was unheard of. And she had done no half-measure, either. She’d headed to the farthest possible point from Larn: to the Four Kingdoms. Jack felt a cold chill chase down his spine. What fear she must have felt to cross a continent.
She had never shown any of it to him, though. Nine years they’d had together, and not once in that time had he seen her cry or look afraid.
Larn was gone now, but it would never be forgotten. It was inside him, and as he thought about it now, he realized that it might have always been there. Jack recalled the moment when he had first touched the rock in the cavern; he remembered the smell, the sight, and the feel of it. It was just like coming home. His mother’s home, the place that made her who she was.
Jack stopped in his tracks. The old woman who had sat and rocked and shown them the way was his grandmother. Stillfox had said the girl from Larn’s mother was deformed, unable to use her right arm or the muscles on the right side of her face. It was her. Jack recalled her right hand, curled up like the skeleton of a dead bird. Somehow she had known he was coming and helped him.
The seers had helped him, too. That last day, they must have known he was on the island, yet they held their tongues. Wishing for death.
“Are you all right, Jack?” It was Tawl.
“I’m fine, really. Just tired.”
“You look pale. The ship’s at the end of the quay. Once we’ve boarded, you should get some rest.”
“What ship?” Jack hadn’t been paying much attention to where they were walking. But now, looking around, he saw they were in a different section of the harbor from where The Fishy Few docked.
“Shrimp Scourer. Over there.” Tawl pointed to a small, single-masted caravel. “Quain recommended it to me. They should be expecting us.”
Jack nodded and walked on. The sea was gray and calm, the wind fair, and the sky clear except for a band of streaky clouds to the east. It was a fine day. In the kingdoms at this time of year it would be cold, dark, and frosty. Jack wondered if his mother had ever gotten used to the difference in climate. She had never liked the cold; her winters were spent inside by the fire, sitting so close she’d scorch her cheeks. Her self-imposed exile must have been hard for her to bear.
Reaching the boat, Jack waited for Tawl to say good-bye to Megan. Nabber had appeared out of nowhere, and by the looks of things, he and Tawl were arguing over the contents of his sack.
“All of it?” squawked Nabber.
“Yes,” said Tawl. “We can pick up some more cash in Marls.”
“You mean I can pick up—”
“Stop,” said Megan. “I don’t want your money, Nabber. You’ve already bought me these lovely clothes. I wouldn’t ask you for anything more.”
Nabber hung his head low. “I could give you half.”
Tawl gave himself away by laughing. “Make it three quarters.”
“Two thirds.”
“Done. Now hand it over.”
While Nabber counted out the money, Taw
l took Megan’s hand in his. Jack, wanting to give them privacy, stepped onto the Shrimp Scourer’s gangplank.
A small, swarthy man cut across the deck. “Friends of Captain Quain?” he asked.
Jack nodded.
The sailor waved him aboard. He was dressed in a brightly embroidered waistcoat and bloodred britches. “Perfect day for setting sail,” he said, holding out his hand to be clasped. “I’m Balvay of Marls, first mate, ship’s outfitter, and son of Nollisk.”
Jack took his hand. “I’m Jack of the Four Kingdoms.” He hesitated for a moment and then added: “And Larn. My mother’s family hails from Larn.”
The words were strange upon his tongue, but they rang with the clear note of truth. At last he had found half of himself. He had origins and history and family still alive. “Yes, my mother came from Larn,” he repeated, just for the sake of it.
Baralis stood on Bren’s battlements and looked out upon a field of frozen corpses. Snow had drifted against the dead, forming a landscape of white limbs and white bodies reaching up from icy graves. Dark little figures, quick-moving like ants, could be seen scurrying between the mounds. The storm had delayed the looting, and only now were people venturing from the city in search of spoils.
“The bodies need to be disposed of,” Baralis said to Kylock.
“Why? They won’t start to stink until spring.” Kylock raised a gloved hand to his cheek. “Besides, they serve me better here, where everyone can see them, than smoking poorly on a pyre with little flame.”
This statement annoyed Baralis. Kylock was far too arrogant for his liking. His temper engaged, he swiftly turned to the subject that irked him the most. “The girl should be moved from the palace before Kedrac discovers she’s here.”
“I wondered how long it would take you to get around to Melliandra, Baralis. Quicker than normal today.” Kylock leant against the wall. He gazed out at the southern plains. “There’s no need to move her. In two days time Kedrac will be leaving the city.”
“He’ll head up the force bound for Ness?”
“No. Not Ness.” Kedrac turned to look at Baralis. “Camlee.”
“An attack on Camlee will be seen as an attack on the south.”
“I’ve seen it on a map, Baralis, and it’s north enough for me.”
Baralis took a settling breath. Kylock was ravenous for victory, but not for power. The two were very different. Kylock would take Camlee because he could, because he enjoyed all the bloodiness and passion that went with conquering, not because he wanted to rule its people. He didn’t care a jot about the cities he defeated—he agreed to leave Helch in the hands of Tyren! No, he wanted only the thrill of the rout. The delights of political dominance, exploitation, and control—where the real power lay—were concepts too subtle to catch the young king’s eye. All that might well change over time, but for now it meant Baralis could use the king’s ambitions to fulfill his own.
“Camlee would be quite a prize.”
“It will be so easy to take it, Baralis. Everyone will assume we’re heading for Ness. We’ll even encourage them to believe it—we’ll set a course due east and only turn south at the last possible moment.”
“What about Ness?”
Kylock waved a negligent hand. “Ness is nothing. A trumped-up sheep market. They have no battlements to speak of, no army, no decent leadership. Their only defense is the hillsides that surround them. We can leave them until after Camlee has fallen.”
Kylock was right, but not for the reasons he thought. Given a chance the south would rally around Camlee—it was one of their own, a close relative, and they would defend it if they had to. Ness, however, was a distant cousin. The south would care little for its fate. By choosing to attack Camlee first, Kylock would take the south by surprise, thereby robbing them of the chance to arm in secret.
“The south won’t do anything if Camlee is taken quickly,” said Kylock. “Valdis will be to the south, Bren to the north, and by the time I’ve finished, Ness will be to the east. Camlee will be surrounded by cities loyal to me.”
“The weather in Camlee will be more favorable at this time of year,” murmured Baralis. He found himself liking Kylock’s plan more by the minute.
“Yes, I’ve considered that; it will be a lot warmer than in Ness. Supplies will be easy to come by, too. We’ll raid villages along the way for anything we need. I’ll give Kedrac free reign to do whatever he pleases.”
“What forces will he take with him?”
“All the kingdoms’ forces—hardly any of them were wounded in last week’s battle—all the blackhelms fit to fight and a dozen mounted cohorts of knights. That should be almost nine thousand men in total—more than enough. Camlee is an old city, it lives off old victories and defends itself with old battlements. The empire’s forces will prove more than enough for them.”
The empire. It was the first time Baralis had heard Kylock speak its name. It was a real living thing now. The kingdoms, Bren, Halcus, and soon there would be Camlee and Ness. After winter they would claim Highwall, and Annis would surely follow. The northern empire was coming to pass.
Baralis brought himself down. He didn’t like to spend too much time in self-congratulation. Details were everything. “And what of Bren’s defenses? There is always a chance the passes might clear, enabling Annis to send a force over the Divide.”
Kylock was already ahead of him. “The wounded blackhelms number approximately two thousand—half of them can be expected to recover to fighting fitness. Those who cannot fight will train. I want every man in the city—free lances, mercenaries, barrow-boys, and farmers to be fully equipped and ready to fight within a month. I’ve already given orders to every blacksmith in the city to prepare the necessary armor and weapons.”
“Tell them to make the blackened helmets first.” Baralis moved closer to Kylock. “Men in the north have come to fear the blackhelms. The sight of, say, five thousand men wearing the telltale blackened helmets might seriously discourage an invading force.”
Kylock smiled. “Baralis, as always you can refine even the best of plans.”
“It shouldn’t be too hard to hold off a siege for a month or so. Bren’s defenses are second to none,” Baralis said.
“Yes. We have the old duke to thank for that.” Kylock began to walk toward the gatehouse door. “Oh, by the way, we shouldn’t have to worry about Maybor. I sent out a force to patrol the base of the southern mountains. If he’s alive and he’s got men, he won’t be coming down.”
The cold was a disease. It blighted thought, movement, speech, and even sanity. It blighted a man’s soul. The air was still at last, but the stillness came with a price. The temperature had dropped sharply overnight, and daylight had done little to raise it. The snow was beginning to freeze over; it had lost its graininess and was becoming like a solid wall around them. Yesterday water had trickled down from the rocks; today, in its place were spikes of glistening ice.
Maybor didn’t want to breathe. He could feel the freezing air stealing its way into his lungs. Slowly, it was killing him.
Already he had lost all sensation in three fingers on his left hand, two on his right. He could still grip a sword, but never again would he wield one. At the moment, his main priority was keeping his remaining fingers sound. Both hands were inside his tunic, against a layer of scarlet silk.
Two hundred men pressed against the hard spine of a mountain in full winter. Many of the horses were dead. One was being cooked now. The men had long given up caring about the dangers of smoke.
Four days ago they had located a large but shallow depression in the rock face. Not deep enough to be named a cavern, they had taken it nonetheless. Snow had gathered and drifted, and the men who could worked to keep it building at the mouth of the recess. The snow wall had reached its limit. It now spanned perhaps a quarter of the opening, and that was as high as it would go without collapsing. Currently a group of men were in the back of the depression, seeing if they could loosen any rocks an
d roll them over to support the wall. Maybor had seen the size of those rocks. They wouldn’t get anywhere with them. The freezing wind would have to be endured.
Or would it? Maybor made a mental note to ask Grift to pull together all the extra breastplates and shields—they could be used to add strength to the wall.
“Five more men have died since noon, m’lord,” said a young man coming to crouch beside Maybor.
“Strip them before their clothing freezes to their bodies.”
“But, m’lord, the men—”
“Do it!” hissed Maybor. “Would you have us all freeze out of respect for the dead?”
The man walked away, head down.
Maybor knew what all the men were thinking: better to have died on the field than on a frozen mountainside. No one had dared say it, but he could see it in their eyes. They wished they had never withdrawn. Maybor’s damaged right hand curled into a fair likeness of a fist. Well, damn them all! He’d make sure they survived now just to spite them.
Twenty-five
All things considered, Marls was a very strange place. It shouldn’t have been—after all it was only seven days sail from Rorn—but it was nevertheless.
The buildings had more curves than angles, but the streets were as straight as reeds. The sun wasn’t shining, but it was warm, and it wasn’t raining, but it was wet. The women wore bulky, shapeless dresses that were slit up the sides to their thighs. The men wore hats, which they constantly pulled down over their ears, whilst smiling all the while revealing stupendously bad teeth. There were no children to speak of. Probably kept them in the dungeons till they were old enough to earn a living, thought Nabber spitefully.
Nabber was, he admitted to himself, disinclined to like Marls—it being Rorn’s greatest trading rival and so on—but even he had to admit that it was interesting. And not just in your common-all-garden interesting buildings and people way. No. Marls was interesting in a fiscal way. Very interesting indeed.