by J. V. Jones
Baralis watched as the girl looked over the clothes that had been brought; he could see her pleasure in what had been selected. Judging by the tatty red dress she was currently wearing, she had not known the pleasure of fine clothes for some time.
The girl crossed the room and tested the bath water, then quickly withdrew her finger. Satisfied that Crope had spoken the truth, she poured the contents of the cold pail into the bath. Baralis wetted his lips as the girl began to unlace her dress. He had seen many women disrobe in his time, but it was always more interesting when the person in question did not know she was being observed. A woman with a lover will preen and strut, holding in her stomach and thrusting out her chest. A woman alone has no need of such show; she will slouch and scratch and fart.
Melli quickly took off her skirt followed by her bodice. Baralis admired her high, white breasts. She turned to her bath and Baralis took a sharp intake of breath. On her back were six deep, red welts. They were obviously only a few days old, for dried blood was caked around two of them. What is this, he wondered? The mercenaries never mentioned a beating. Baralis could not tear his eyes from the sight; such perfection, such beautiful, creamy skin, such fine legs and buttocks, all thrown into magnificent relief by the presence of the vicious, red scars. Instead of detracting from her beauty they seemed, by their very hideousness, to magnify it. Baralis felt a stirring in his loins.
Melli gathered the soap, brush, and linen swab that she needed for her bath and gingerly lowered herself into the water. She soaked for a while, her head barely above water.
Baralis looked on as she began to lather up her brush, she scrubbed her feet and her legs with the brush and then swapped to the cloth rag to clean her more tender areas. She then began to rub her back with the soapy cloth; she winced as it touched the welts. The girl put down the cloth and carefully felt the wounds on her back. She looked afraid of what she felt there. She stood up from the bath, water running in rivulets down her slender frame, and stepped out. She glanced quickly around the room. Baralis could guess what she was searching for: a looking glass. He was pleased that he had thought to provide her with one.
She rushed over to the mirror, her body scattering droplets of water onto the fine rug. She placed her back to the mirror and twisted her head and neck around so that she could see the cause of her distress. Baralis watched the girl's frightened face crumble into tears at the sight of her scarred back. She fell onto the floor, sobbing quietly.
Baralis moved away from the stone. He had seen enough for the time being. The sight of the girl crying had left him unmoved. He carefully replaced the tapestry and sat down in a comfortable chair, pouring himself a glass of wine.
He turned his attention to other matters, calculating if his letter to Bringe would have been delivered by now. He was anxious to go ahead with his plan to mutilate Maybor's orchards. Bringe, Baralis mused, was just the sort of man he liked-a greedy one.
Chapter Sixteen
Tvalisk was down in the palace wine cellar testing the various vintages. "I will try a cup of this one," he said to the young boy who was shadowing him.
"If Your Eminence pleases, I am not allowed to touch the barrels. I will call for the master cellarer."
"You will do no such thing, boy, I cannot bear the sight of that sanctimonious toad. He knows nothing about wine." Tavalisk smiled pleasantly. "Come boy, a glass of the red."
The boy reluctantly tapped the barrel, filled a cup, and handed it to the archbishop. "See, boy," he said, "you have already pleased me more than the cellarer ever did. He only pours me a mere quarter cup when I'm tasting." Tavalisk held the liquor up to the lamplight, admiring its rich color. A flicker of annoyance crossed his brow as he saw Gamil walking up to him.
"If Your Eminence would be so good as to forgive this intrusion?"
"What now, Gamil?" The archbishop swirled the wine around the glass.
"I have news for Your Eminence." Gamil eyed the young boy.
"There is no need for me to dismiss this young man, Gamil. I'm sure he can be trusted, and besides, he is being most helpful to me." Tavalisk favored the boy with another smile.
"I have delicate matters to speak of," persisted Gamil. "Do not contradict me!" The archbishop's voice was icy cold. He turned to the boy, who was now red-faced, and said sweetly, "Fetch me a glass of the Marls white." The boy rushed off to another barrel. "Now, Gamil, tell me your news."
"Well, Your Eminence, I have confirmed that there was a fire at Castle Harvell the night of Winter's Eve-the same night you felt the drawing. I have heard reports of strange things happening at the time the fire started."
"Let me guess, Gamil. Metal objects warm to the touch? A wave of heat and force?" The boy had returned with another cup of wine and Tavalisk took a mouthful.
"Yes, Your Eminence." The archbishop savored the wine then spat it it out.
"Sorcery follows the same rules, whoever the practioner. It takes a strong aftermath to warm metals, though. Sounds to me like Baralis acted out of desperation, not cunning. He was trained at Leiss and should know the dangers of using such an indiscreet amount of force."
The archbishop paused to take a mouthful of wine. "This Marls white is quite delicious; here take a sip." Gamil lifted his arm to take the glass; Tavalisk ignored the gesture and handed the cup to the boy. "I'd be glad to hear your opinion of it." The archbishop averted his eyes so not to see the look of malice that momentarily passed over Gamil's features.
"Your Eminence has a wide knowledge of many subjects."
"I have a practical knowledge of sorcery, Gamil. As you know, I dabble from time to time; the odd ensorcelment here, the briefest of drawings there, but it is far too physical a pursuit to keep my interest long. Even simple things like the laying of a compulsion upon a dumb creature can make one weak for the day. Sorcery uses a man's strength as much as his mind, and can leave one's muscles as well as wits sorely strained."
Tavalisk beckoned the boy to bring him a glass from another barrel. "People make the mistake of thinking magic comes from the land and the stars, but it comes from within, and when it is drawn out, it makes its loss felt-a man could hardly be expected to lose a quart of blood and then carry on as normal, could he? The same for sorcery." The archbishop took the fresh cup from the boy. "Sorcery is too debilitating for everyday use. I will use it when necessary, but on the whole I prefer to conserve my strength for the good of Rorn. Sorcery is a poor substitute for cunning."
Tavalisk grimaced, finding the wine harsh and sour. "Here, Gamil, try this," he said proffering his aide the cup. "Any news of our friend the knight?"
"He is back in Rorn, Your Eminence. The first thing he did on leaving his ship was to make his way to the whoring quarter." Gamil sipped cautiously at the wine.
"Probably looking for his own little whore. Come now, Gamil, drink it all up. It's a fine vintage." Tavalisk watched as his aide was forced to drink all of the bitter wine.
"Well, he won't find her, Your Eminence."
"Not much chance of that, considering where she is." Tavalisk took the cup from Gamil. "Of course, I do not want the girl harmed in any way."
"Of course, Your Eminence."
"I'm merely holding her on the off chance that she might prove a useful gambit to use on our knight at some point. I understand he was quite attached to her?"
"By all accounts he was indeed, Your Eminence."
"The whore will prove the least of our knight's worries before long."
"What does Your Eminence mean?"
"I mean, Gamil, that it's high time I took some action against his brethren. I'm considering expelling them from the city. The Knights of Valdis have irked me too long and I feel the need to chasten their movements. I'm sick of them manning our harbors and interfering with our trade. Ever since Tyren took over, they've stepped up their patrolling-looking for illegal slaves, indeed! Only last week they seized a cargo of spices, worth over a hundred golds it was. Said it was pirated stock!"
"The sit
uation is intolerable. They hide behind noble motives when all they're after is trade. They undercut our prices merely to gain a foothold in the market. They have a near monopoly on the salt trade, and I need not tell you how dangerous that is to our deep sea fishermen-they depend upon salt to preserve the catch. I'm all for a man making a few golds, but let him not be a hypocrite when he does so." The archbishop thought his last words had a gratifying ring to them and ordered Gamil to write them down for the benefit of the masses.
"You may go now," said Tavalisk when Gamil had finished writing. He beckoned the servant. "Fill a flagon of the last wine for my aide, boy. I can tell that he enjoyed it enormously."
"There is no need to bother, Your Eminence."
"Nonsense, Gamil, it is my pleasure. Think of it as a reward for your scribing." The boy returned with a large pot of the sour wine and handed it to Gamil. "Be sure to drink it soon; it may lose its distinct flavor if left too long." Gamil withdrew, struggling to carry the large pot.
"Now, boy," said the archbishop, addressing the young servant, "let's move on to the next barrel."
After a few moments there was a soft patter of feet and a tall, thin man approached. "Ah, Master Cellarer, it is always a delight to see you. I was just telling your boy how much I value your opinion on wine."
Tawl picked his way around the filth on the streets. The stench of excrement and putrification was overpowering. The people of Rorn relied on the rains to wash the sewage from the streets, but the skies had not unburdened themselves for many weeks, leaving the city displaying its waste for all to see and smell.
He had taken his leave of The Fishy Few earlier that morning. He'd been sorry to bid farewell to the crew, for they had become his friends. Carver had told him he'd turned out to be a better cook than the one they'd left behind. Captain Quain had grasped his hand warmly and offered him help if he ever needed it. "Come down to the harbor any time," he'd said "I'm usually here. 'Less I'm at sea o' course. You'll always find a measure of rum and a helping hand." Tawl did not doubt the offer for an instant, the captain was not one to promise his help lightly.
Tawl first made his way to the whoring quarter, hoping to see Megan one last time and perhaps stay with her overnight before leaving the city. He needed to talk to her.
Ever since leaving Larn, her words had played upon his mind: "It's love, not achievement, that will rid you of your demons." How had she known so much? Achievement was all that mattered. It was all that he lived for, his personal curse. It was this longing for achievement-this need for fame and glory-that had marked him all his life. Searching for its elusive source had proven his downfall.
From the earliest he could remember he'd wanted to be a knight. Every day while fishing, his mind would soar eastward to Valdis. Knights were noble: they saved princesses from towers and fought long battles with demons.
To become a knight required money for training, and Tawl had started selling any surplus he caught. Four extra fish a day meant a copper penny a week. One morning he calculated it would take him fifteen years to make up the required sum. It made him more determined than ever.
He hid his stash at the bottom of the salt barrel. On many an occasion, when they were short of bread or tallow, he'd been tempted to hand it over. By the time his mother died, he had a cup full of coppers. Things were so bad for so long after her death, that he was eventually forced to spend it. Anna caught wet-fever, and the baby, by this time well over a year old, needed to be baptized. There was no choice but to use his savings. Oh, he'd been furious, taking his anger out on his sisters, storming and sulking and making everyone's life a misery. They didn't realize how important it was to him, and how, by giving up his stash, he was saying good-bye to more than money alone.
His sisters won him over with tenderness. Sara did the fishing for a week and Anna painted him bright pictures from her sick bed. Perhaps they had understood after all-he just didn't see it at the time.
It was so hard to see things clearly then. There was the family and nothing else. The responsibility was so great. He took whatever labor he could find: as a farmhand, a tavern boy, a peat cutter-there was always work for someone willing to take his pay in goods, not coinage. The hours were long and grueling. He'd go weeks without seeing the cottage by daylight.
The only time he had to himself was the early morning. His stash might have gone, but the dream still remained. He was strong; he'd known that for as long as he could remember. His fishing hole was precious and he'd defended it many times against newcomers. No one dared bother him anymore. The village cleric had told him that strength alone wasn't enough to be a knight. So each morning there'd be a book in his pocket as well as a knife. He could never manage to make much sense of old Marod, but if it was important that he could read, then read he would. Even after his coppers were gone, he still took his book along on his fishing trips. He'd tell himself it was force of habit, that the book was useful for securing his line, that old Marod would make a good weapon if he were attacked. The truth was something deeper: as long as he had the book, there was hope. If ever the chance to be a knight came along, and in his dreams it always did, he would be ready for it.
His memory of that time was marked with the sound of taunting. The village boys would never tackle him one-onone but formed gangs, and when they spotted him going to market-sisters at his side, baby in a basket-they'd laugh and call him the "good housewife," and tell him to go home and suckle the baby. Sara and Anna would pull on his arm, begging him to come away. The fear in their voices was the one thing that stopped him from taking them on.
Only one day he came alone. He could still recall it now: the sky was blue and full of flies, the ground underfoot was firm. A leg of mutton was his downfall.
Summer Festival was approaching and he'd promised his sisters a treat. To girls who lived on fish and goose, a joint of meat seemed an unbelievable luxury, and no matter how much they annoyed him, Tawl loved to see them excited. He'd left Sara banking the fire in preparation for the joint. She was twelve now, and Anna was eight, the baby just turned three.
There was joy in his step that day. Not only would he buy a leg of mutton, there were extra coppers for ribbons and preserves. Sara and Anna had only rope to tie their hair. He'd seen the way they looked at the village girls with bright posies in their tresses; they longed to have them, yet never dared ask. Sara and Anna both knew there was no money to spare, and would not add to his burden by asking for things they couldn't afford. They were good girls, really. What they didn't know was that ever since the baby had been weaned and the wet nurse's services no longer needed, he had extra fishes to sell. It wasn't much, just enough for a little surprise on Summer's Eve.
Tawl bought the mutton; it was stringy and a little tough. He was a novice at haggling and paid the asking price. He had a hard time with the flies on the way back. They buzzed and bothered, trying to land on the meat. Just as he left the town he heard a voice: "Hey, mother's boy, best hurry home and brown the joint!" Laughter accompanied the remark. Tawl didn't turn to look and carried on walking.
"Trouble with flies? They're attracted to the smell of girls!" A second voice. More laughter.
"You'll be sprouting breasts soon."
Tawl spun around. "Say another word and I'll kill you!" He had the satisfaction of seeing them flinch. Five of them. He knew them well. The leader smirked.
"What you gonna do, housewife, poison us with your cooking?"
Something snapped. Tawl lunged for the leader's throat. It was in his hands before he knew it. The boy's face turned red then purple. Someone at his back kicked him. Spinning round, he punched the attacker squarely in the face. Bone crushed beneath his fingers. A third jumped on his back. Tawl threw him off with such frenzy, the boy landed a horse's length away. A fourth boy hovered, clearly frightened; Taw] chased him and pulled him down. He kicked and kicked until the fury left him.
There was blood on the ground and on his clothes, the leg of mutton lay in the dirt and there were
four men down, one wisely fled.
Tawl was close to tears, not because of the fighting, but for the ribbons and the meat. All ruined. He hated the thought of disappointing his sisters. Picking up the joint, he tried his best to brush it free of dust. The ribbons were bloodied, but might wash clean.
He started to walk home, basket in hand, limping slightly from a blow to his leg. Seconds later Tawl heard footsteps behind. He readied himself to fight again.
"You're strong when angry, young man," came a voice. Tawl looked round. A man stood in his shadow, a foreigner from his coloring and accent. "That was a very impressive show you put on. You're vicious but badly in need of training."
"I asked for no opinion, stranger." Tawl studied the man. He was dark of hair and eyes. A sword was at his waist and a dagger at his breast, a deep blue cloak gave bearing, and well-oiled leathers suggested wealth.
"I am a man who likes to get what he wants. And I'll not dance around the maypole: I want you." The stranger spread his lips in something akin to a smile. He bowed. "I am Tyren, Knight of Valdis."
Tawl approached the whoring district. He was desperate to see Megan. More and more the past was catching up to him, and he needed her tenderness to help him forget.
He was bitterly disappointed when there was no answer at her door. Forcing his way into her room, he tore off a section of his deep green cloak as a message that he'd been there-Megan would be unable to read a written note.
He took a moment to look around. It was obvious that Megan had not been there for several days; rats scuttled across the floor, flies swarmed around a slice of rotting pie, and dust lay thick on table and chair. Megan was a girl who liked to keep things tidy. Puzzled, he searched around some more, noting that her few dresses and belongings were still there. He looked under the heavy hearth stone where Megan had kept her money; there was no sign of the gold coins. He sighed sadly. She'd taken the money and left. He could hardly blame her-he had urged her to go-it was just that he had not expected her to go so soon.