by J. V. Jones
"I wam you, Lord Baralis, the Royal Guard will find Maybor's daughter wherever she is."
"That remains to be seen, Your Highness. In the meantime I will arrange to have a portion of the medicine sent to the king's chamber." Baralis bowed once more and left. Once out of the meeting hall, his step grew light. The queen was a most enjoyable adversary. He almost admired her. It was too bad that she would lose the wager.
Maybor was studying his reflection in the mirror. He was pleased to see that his good looks were returning. True, the sores marred his handsome features somewhat, but they would fade. The soreness in his throat was not of such importance to him, that he could live with. Today he would leave his bedchamber for the first time in days.
He rose from his bed, slapping the wisewoman's buttocks to awaken her. As she woke, Maybor could not resist pulling back the sheets to admire her nakedness. He had found to his surprise that being with an older woman had its advantages; she was much skilled in the art of lovemaking and was not subject to a young girl's modesty. Why, if she'd had land of her own, he might even have considered marrying her!
The wisewoman arose from the bed and proceeded to dress with slow provocation. Maybor looked on in appreciation. When she had dressed, she kissed him lightly on the cheek and left. That was another good thing about her, thought Maybor, she had asked for nothing in return for her favors. He wondered, for a brief instant, if the ailing king had ever partaken of her services. After all, even a sick man has desires.
Maybor did not bother to call for Crandle. He would dress himself this day. He strolled to his wardrobe, deciding he would buy himself a new mirror; he missed looking upon himself in full length.
He was feeling decidedly pleased with himself. He had managed to turn his circumstances round-he had gained the sympathy of the queen. Just this morning, she had sent out the Royal Guard to look for his daughter. Everything could not have worked out better. Now the only thing he needed to make his happiness complete was news of Baralis' death. He decided he would meet with his assassin one last time; the damned man was taking too long about his business. He would have Crandle arrange an assignation.
Maybor opened the door to his wardrobe and surveyed its contents, deciding which robe to wear. He remembered with regret that the red silk he had worn on Winter's Eve had to be discarded-the punch had not washed out. The grayeyed vixen had ruined his best robe! Maybor's eye was caught by something in the corner-he looked closer and found it was a dead rat. This was most strange. If he remembered rightly, on the night of Winter's Eve, Crandle had come from his wardrobe carrying a dead rat. Rats were a constant nuisance in the castle, but it was unusual to find a dead one. Two dead rats were damned suspicious.
Maybor picked the stiff creature up by its tail. He held it at arm's length-it was well known they carried the plague. Maybor could see no obvious signs of the cause of the rat's demise. He brought the creature nearer. Now he could see that its nose was red and swollen. A thrill of revelation passed through Maybor. The rat had died of the same thing that had caused his affliction. There was something in the wardrobe that had killed the rat. Maybor thought back to Winter's Eve. He had been perfectly well; the illness overcame him only after he had dressed for the evening. His clothes had been poisoned!
Baralis had somehow managed to put poison onto his clothes. The fumes given off by the poison were what had caused his sickness. Everything fit into place: the reason he was not dead was that he had been forced to take off the doctored robe before it had finished its commission. The grayeyed snippit had unwittingly saved his life.
Maybor stepped away from his wardrobe. What if all his clothes had been doused in poison? They would all have to be burned. Maybor was furious. He had spent years acquiring the most exquisite robes in all the Four Kingdoms; he had spent a fortune on them. Baralis would pay dearly for this, he vowed. It is one thing to poison a man's wine, but quite another to poison his robes!
Tawl was led back into the room containing the large stone table. The four. were waiting for him.
"You have your answer," said the elder, more a statement than a question. Tawl nodded. "The seers seldom fail. God is benevolent to them."
"It seems to me that God is more benevolent to you." Tawl could not stop his anger. It was a welcome release from the horror of the cavern. "You are the ones who reap the benefits of the atrocities performed on those men. You use them for your own gain. God has no hand in this!" Tawl was shaking. The four were unmoved by his fury.
"You know nothing of God. You know less of Larn." The elder was perfectly calm. "We do not use the seers, we are here to serve them. They are blessed by God and we are humbled by that blessing, we are their servants. Do not let the sight of them mislead you. They exist in God's own ecstasy. We can only guess at what joy is theirs."
"I am not fooled by your fine words. Where I have just come from is no place of God's; no heavenly ecstasy exists there. The seers are living closer to hell." The four looked upon Tawl as if he were a foolish child.
"The sight can be a little disturbing, but I can see you have no wish to understand. You did, however, use their services, and so now you must pay your due." The elder regarded Tawl with the slightest trace of contempt.
"What is my due?" said Tawl looking directly into the elder's eye.
"We require a service of you." The elder's voice became soft and seductive. "Nothing really, a mere trifle." Tawl felt his eyelids grow heavy. He struggled to keep his wits about him. The elder continued, his voice low and inviting, "The smallest of favors, the easiest of tasks." Tawl's eyes closed. "The tiniest of services, the most innocent of undertakings. . ."
Chapter Fifteen
Tawl awoke and wondered where he was. As his head cleared he realized that he was still on Larn. He puzzled over how he had fallen asleep. He was in a small room, lying on a stone bench. As he rose, his aching back told him he had spent some time lying on the hard surface.
He had no memory of being brought to this place. He could recall nothing after leaving the cavern. Tawl felt alarmed. He could remember the seeing clearly, but nothing else. He realized he had to get back to the ship. Captain Quain had said he would sail after one day. Tawl had no way of knowing what time or what day it was. He had to leave immediately. As he made his way from the room, the youngest of the four entered.
"Greetings," he said. "I hope you are well rested."
"How did I come to be here?" demanded Tawl.
"It is a natural side effect of the seeing. The one who seeks answers is usually drained of all his strength.. It is nothing to worry about. Seeing takes its toll on all of us. You became tired and we brought you here so you could sleep."
"How long have I slept?" Tawl did not believe a word the younger had said. He remembered feeling fine immediately after the seeing.
"You have slept for many hours. There is a new dawn."
"I must go. My ship is due to leave soon." Tawl remembered the earlier talk of price. "Tell me what due I must pay."
"Oh, that." The younger's tone was casual. "I think the price will not be high. I believe you will be asked merely to deliver some letters on our behalf in Rorn. You are sailing there, I take it?" There was something about the man's voice that made Tawl suspicious. He had been given the impression earlier that his due would be much greater than acting as a messenger.
"Is that all?" he asked.
"Why, of course. You should not believe all those fireside stories you hear about Larn. All we ever ask in return for a seeing is some small service. We looked upon you with benevolence and decided you should not pay too dearly. If you follow me, I will give you the letters." The man turned and walked from the room and Tawl followed.
He was given two letters, both sealed with wax. He was told where and to whom they should be delivered. He was then led by a hooded man down through the cliffside. As he walked, Tawl found he could not shake off his uneasiness. Something was not right. He could not believe the four were letting him off so easily-letters to deliver in
a city he would be in anyway? The most disquieting thing to Tawl, though, was how he had managed to lose the greater part of a day and night.
Tawl was forced to focus on other matters as he approached the beach. He must row fast if he was to reach The Fishy Few before she set sail. The fresh air seemed to Tawl like a blessing after the stale atmosphere of temple and cavern. With every breath he took, he felt his mood growing lighter. Soon he would be free from this cursed place. He decided that when he eventually returned to Valdis he would talk to Tyren about the terrible plight of the Seers of Larn. He wanted to make sure that no more young men would ever be forced into such a life.
Tawl launched his rowboat into the surf, reveling in the cold water about his waist. He jumped into the boat and took up the oars, glad that his feet were no longer on the island.
He was soon making good time. He put all his energy into pulling the oars. It helped him to put Larn out of his thoughts.
It was difficult for him to remember the location of The Fishy Few. Mists swirled at a convenient distance from the shores of Larn, hiding its presence from passing ships. Tawl tried to keep a heading southwest, hoping to eventually stumble upon the boat. After a few hours of rowing, he became anxious: surely he would have spotted the ship by now. He stopped rowing and started listening. He thought he heard a faint call. It came again: the sound of a fog horn. The crew of The Fishy Few were trying to help him by making their presence known. Tawl immediately became heartened and started rowing with renewed effort in the direction of the horn call.
Not much later, Tawl caught sight of the ship's high masts above the mist. His heart filled with joy at the sight. The Fishy Few had not abandoned him. He drew nearer and the mists parted; he was greeted by the sound of a cry, "Boat, ahoy!"
Tawl looked on as the crew of the ship gathered to watch his approach. He made out the form of Captain Quain, who raised his hand in greeting. Tawl heard the crew join in a loud cheer and then, as he drew alongside the ship, he heard the captain shout, "Break open a barrel, shipmates, our good friend has returned."
"No, Bodger, it ain't the miller's wife who'll tumble for a length of cloth and a spring chicken."
"That's what I heard, Grift."
"No, Bodger, there's no one better off than a miller's wife. No, it's the tallow maker's wife who'll tumble for goods. Everyone knows there's no profit to be made in tallow."
"The tallow maker's wife never looks short to me, Grift. She always wears the prettiest dresses."
"Exactly, Bodger! How can a woman whose husband barely makes one silver a month afford fine linen? She sets a good table, too, plenty of roasted chicken."
"Still, Grift, Master Gulch told. me that he managed to take a tumble with the miller's wife by giving her one length of cloth and a spring chicken."
"Master Gulch should have saved his money, Bodger. The miller's wife will take a tumble with just about anybody in breeches, and for no reason other than she's just plain randy."
"Do you think I'd have a chance with the miller's wife, then, Grift?"
"I'm not sure that you'd want to, Bodger."
"Why's that, Grift?"
"Unfortunately, Bodger, it appears that the miller's wife has been spreading her favors so far and wide that she's caught the ghones. And unless you fancy the idea of watching your balls slowly putrefying and then dropping off, I'd stay clear of her."
"I'm glad you warned me, Grift, you're a true friend."
"I consider it my duty to keep you informed of such matters, Bodger."
"What about Master Gulch, Grift? Did he catch the ghones?"
"Well, Bodger, all I can say is that judging by the way he's been walking recently, it won't be long before his plums hit the deck."
The two guards sat back against the wall and relaxed for a while, supping their ale.
"Hey, Grift, while I was up on the battlements this morning, I could have sworn I saw a group of horsemen in the forest."
"Whose colors were they wearing, Bodger?"
"Well, Grift, they were quite a distance away, but they looked like mercenaries to me."
"They'll be the ones in the pay of Lord Baralis, then. I wonder if they've found young Jack?"
"I didn't spot him, Grift."
"I hope he's got well away by now, Bodger. The boy's better off gone from the castle. He never fit in. Just like his mother, head in the clouds the pair of them."
"I heard say his mother was a witch."
"Aye, Bodger, the rumors abounded. Beautiful girl she was. Judging from her accent she came from the south, but whether she was a witch or not, I couldn't tell you. Though I did hear a few stories."
"What sort of stories did you hear, Grift?"
"It was said that she once turned an over-ardent suitor bald."
"Bald?"
"As a coot."
"It wasn't Master Frallit, was it, Grift? He's got a head as bald as your own."
"My lips are sealed, Bodger." Grift took a long draught of ale and said no more.
Maybor was beginning to wonder what had become of his assassin. He had sent Crandle to find the man, but his servant had been unable to locate him. The assassin had obviously not done his job, for Maybor had seen Lord Baralis with his own eyes that morning.
Maybor had been walking in the gardens, taking the air that the wisewoman had advised, when he had seen Baralis slithering around the castle walls, trailed by his lumbering idiot, Crope. It had suited Maybor that the man had not seen him; he had no wish to confront Baralis, he would rather stay in the background until his enemy was disposed of. Only now it seemed that the man commissioned to do that very job had disappeared.
Maybor did not even know if Scarf had been staying in the castle or the town; the assassin liked to keep his movements to himself. Perhaps the assassin decided that Baralis was so dangerous that he backed out. Maybor decided against that theory. He had dealt with Scarl before and knew him well. He was not a man to flee from danger.
Maybor was walking the length of his chamber wearing his servants' clothes. He had insisted that every robe in his wardrobe be burnt and now found himself in the humiliating circumstance of having nothing to wear. His sons were too slim to lend him any of their clothes, and so he had been forced to don the rather disgusting and none too clean clothes of his servant, Crandle. Maybor had commissioned the castle robemaker to fashion him some new robes, but they would not be ready for a week.
He, the great Lord Maybor, had been forced to walk in the castle gardens dressed like a common servant. Baralis had a lot to answer for!
Maybor was understandably beginning to develop a deep fear of being poisoned. What might Baralis try to poison next? His bedclothes? His shoes? Maybor had tried to force Crandle into testing his food and wine for him, but the thankless servant had adamantly refused. If Baralis was not out of the way soon, he would be forced to spend good money hiring a food taster and their services did not come cheap. It was, Maybor grudgingly supposed, a risky profession to be in.
He was not pleased with his assassin; he had waited too long to make his move. He decided that when Scarl finally did his job, he would have absolutely no qualms about having the man's throat slit. There was no way he was about to give up thirty acres of his orchards to a man who was so slow about his work.
Crandle entered the chamber with a brief knock.
"What do you want? Have you managed to locate the man named Scarl?"
"No, sir, it appears that no one knows where to find him."
"Where has that damned man disappeared to?" Maybor stamped his foot.
"Well, your lordship, a thought has occurred to me. Of course, I might be wrong."
"Get to it, man, do not dither." Maybor picked up his sliver of mirror and examined the sores on his face.
"You know, sir, that a fire occurred in the banquet hall after you left."
"Yes, yes." Maybor was becoming impatient.
"Well, there was one man killed in the fire. He was burned to death."
&n
bsp; "What on earth has that to do with you not finding Scarl?" With great satisfaction Maybor squeezed a pus-filled boil.
"Not one person could identify the body, your lordship, and nobody came forward to report anyone missing." Maybor grew still. He knew what Crandle was saying. He thought for a moment and then asked, "What state was the body in?"
"I heard the poor soul was bumt to a cinder, nothing of his face left."
"Was he found with anything on him?"
"I'm not sure. I heard his knife was the only thing that held up to the flames."
"His knife?"
"That's what I heard, sir. Right funny knife, too, by all accounts. Not your usual hand knife."
"Be gone!" Maybor spoke calmly, and watched as his servant left the room.
He had never seen Scarl's knife, but Maybor knew it would be something special: it was the only tool of an assassin's trade. He sat on his bed and pondered the implications of what Crandle had said. Maybor had last seen the assassin the day before Winter's Eve, he had not heard from him since, and Scarl had not carried out his commission.
Maybor shivered involuntarily. What if Scar] had attempted to murder Baralis and had failed? Baralis might in turn have killed the assassin and started the fire to cover up any evidence. Maybor had heard the strange rumors about the fire. Crandle had even said that a squire saw a man in black walk away from the flames. Baralis was known to be a man who liked to wear black. Maybor rang for Crandle. He could no longer call, his throat would not take the strain.
"Yes, sir," said Crandle, reappearing.
"I would speak with the squire you mentioned. The one who saw the fire start."
"Oh, you mean Squire Tollen. He met with a terrible accident just the other day."
"What happened to him?" Maybor grew chill.
"Well, it appears that he fell on a wheat scythe and ripped his guts open. He died instantly."
"Does it not seem strange to you, Crandle, that a man would fall on a scythe?"
"Now you mention it, it does seem rather odd. Squire Tollen was no farmer."
"Leave me now, Crandle. You have given me much to think on."