by J. V. Jones
"Just before the rack dislocated his left arm, he did express a degree of repentance."
"That is gratifying to hear, Gamil. I must commend you on your judicious use of torture." Tavalisk suspected he had pushed his aide a little far and was seeking to neutralize the threat. "Anything else?"
"The Knights of Valdis are becoming bolder, Your Eminence. Ever since they gained Bren's support, they have done nothing but cause us trouble. The rumors about them seizing all of Rom's cargoes heading north are true. Ten cartloads of salted fish and seventy bolts of finest silk were taken just past Ness."
Tavalisk was pleased to hear it. Now at last he could take firm action against Tyren and his circular friends. And he was just in the right sort of mood to take the offensive. "Send letters out to Toolay, Marls, and Camlee, demanding that they each supply five hundred troops to help guarantee the safe passage of southern cargoes. Tell them that Rorn will be committing a similar number." The archbishop considered for a moment. "Rom's five hundred will have orders to kill any knights they encounter-even ones who are not engaged in the confiscation of goods."
"But, Your Eminence, the other powers won't agree to patrol the trade routes if Rom is acting out a personal vendetta."
"The other powers won't know about the order until it is too late. When one of our men finally butchers a knight on neutral territory, he will not be seen as acting for Rom alone."
"Thereby implicating the other southern powers."
"Exactly, Gamil! Toolay and Marls might as well save their breath; nothing indicts more surely than a vigorous denial. Anyway, there'll probably be little time for finger pointing; these things have an uncanny way of escalating." The archbishop managed a wistful sigh.
"Your Eminence is most cunning."
"Thank you, Gamil." In his excitement, Tavalisk had stuffed his finger even deeper into the flute. Beneath the fabric of his cloak, he tried desperately to pull the two apart. "Of course, this will require delicate handling."
Gamil's eyes strayed to the archbishop's lap. He looked bemused for a moment, and then said finally, "Indeed it will."
"I don't intend to drag the south into a war that by all rights is the north's affair," said Tavalisk. "No. Let the north fight it out between themselves, I am merely seeking the means of bringing matters to a head. If things work out well, our southern friends will be eager to go along with any plan that promises to keep the knights away from their doorsteps."
"Your Eminence is playing a dangerous game."
"They are the only sort worth playing, Gamil." Tavalisk dismissed his aide. He was too caught up in the thrill of politicking to set him the usual demeaning task.
Once the door was closed, the archbishop turned his attention to the flute. Realizing he would never get his finger out by pulling, he smashed the instrument against the desk. The wood cracked, and as he freed himself the splinters drew blood. Tavalisk shrugged, brought his finger to his lips, and began to suck on the bloody tip. It would do until he got his next meal.
Forty-nine, fifty, done. Jack straightened his back and his vertebrae clicked in protest; he'd been bent over too long for their liking. Six blades, each drawn fifty times over the whetstone. He tested the sharpness of the last by splitting a strand of his hair. He'd done a good job.
Rovas had insisted that he learn how to take care of his large armory of weapons. So Jack had spent much of the day nailing leather to clubs, greasing blades, restringing bows, and filing the rust from spearheads. He enjoyed the simple discipline of having tasks to do, especially now, when, unlike his time at the castle, he was free to walk away if he pleased. It felt good to use his muscles, to sweat, to ache, and to work without having to think.
Jack brushed the hair from his forehead. It was much too long. Frallit would have reached for his knife at the mere sight of it. Jack paused, blade in hand, and wondered whether to hack it off. It was thick and wild and the winter sun had scattered gold amidst the brown. When the knife fell, it sliced leather, not hair. Jack cut a strip of cowhide and used it to tie his mane at the back. He didn't need to conform to anyone's rules now.
Satisfied by this small act of independence, he made his way back to the cottage. Strange how only two days ago he'd felt an overpowering urge to leave. He still couldn't understand the reason why. What was Bren to him? Even now he could remember the urgency; it had been just like the times at Castle Harvell, when he'd lain awake through the night, desperate to find adventure and purpose, yet by the time morning came the urgency had gone.
The cottage was a welcome haven from the cold. The fire burned brightly, casting a glow of kinship on its surroundings. Magra sat in a tall chair, sewing, while Tarissa tended the stew. Jack was filled with a sudden envy for Rovas. The man had this sight to come home to every night: two women waiting for him, logs on the fire, and hot food above it.
Rovas himself was engaged in one of his many dubious practices. He was blowing air into legs of mutton. Inflating the tendons like a bellows made the meat appear fatter and more succulent than it actually was. Jack was well pleased that the smuggler-cum-con-artist hadn't asked him to do that particular job.
Magra began to lay food on the table: crusty bread, roasted chickens stuffed with apples and hazelnuts, rabbit stew, and turnips braised in cider. The one thing that a smuggler was always sure of was good food on his table. They sat down and picked up their knives. As in most country households there was no talking whilst eating.
Jack still hadn't managed to figure out what held these three people together. At first he'd assumed that Rovas and Magra were man and wife, but he'd since learned that was not the case. They were a curious group: Magra with her elegant manners and cool demeanor, Rovas with his bluff good humor and disregard for the niceties of life, and Tarissa falling somewhere in between the two. Lacking her mother's noble ways, she was softer, more easygoing, yet she still retained something of Magra's character. Her pride, perhaps.
The food was delicious, flavored with strong herbs and seasonings favored by the Halcus. Jack used the opportunity of sitting around the table to steal glances at Tarissa. He'd had no chance to talk to her since the day he'd sent a week's worth of food into the fire. He still remembered her kiss. Kisses he'd had before: Castle Harvell was full of young maids willing to give a young lad a teasing peck on the lips, some even offering their tongues and tender breasts. He'd even kissed the daughter of a lord, Melli. But Tarissa's kiss had meant more. It held all the power and mystery that only an older woman could bestow.
Jack supposed that she was at least five years older than he. She was of medium height and full figured, with hips that curved more wickedly than any young girl's. He watched her as she ate. She had an appetite to match Melli's, tearing away at chicken bones and washing the meat down with cup after cup of cider. Unlike Melli, however, Tarissa helped prepare what she ate. The pies and the broth were made by her own hand. She knew how to keep a flame on the fire and how to bank the ashes overnight. Her hands were callused, her arms were muscled, and her face was freckled by the sun. Tarissa was no highborn lady; she was used to hard work and fresh air. Jack admired her as she wrapped the remains of the cheese in a cloth she first dampened with ale. He could be friends with a girl like this.
Only he wasn't sure if friendship would be enough. His gaze moved upward to her face. He saw her lips were glistening with chicken fat. The cider had flushed her cheeks, and the heat of food and fire had brought moisture to her skin. A droplet of sweat gathered mass in the dip of her neck. When heavy enough it trickled downward to her breast. Jack followed its progress as it slipped down the pale skin, eventually sequestering itself beneath the fabric of her dress.
Tarissa looked up and caught the object of his gaze. To his horror he felt himself blushing.
"It is hot in here, isn't it?" Tarissa's smile was that of a woman who knew her charms were being appreciated.
Jack was thankful that she'd provided him with an excuse for turning red, but he was still embarrassed at
being caught staring at her breasts. To cover this he uttered the first words that sprung to his lips. "A little too hot for me, I fear. I think I might take a brief stroll outside."
"That sounds like a good idea," said Tarissa. "I'll join you."
Jack was too surprised to think of a reply. His problem was solved when Magra spoke up. "It's too late for you to be going out, Tarissa," she said.
"Aye, too cold as well," added Rovas.
Jack could tell that Magra and Rovas were just using excuses to mask the fact that neither of them wanted Tarissa to be alone with him. Which was rather odd, since he'd been alone with her three days earlier. Tarissa, however, had no intention of having her wishes curtailed. "Nonsense," she said. "I'll wrap up well and we'll only go as far as the gate." She favored Jack with an intriguer's smile.
Together they walked toward the door, Tarissa pausing to don her cloak. Jack felt the pressure of disapproving gazes. For some reason Rovas looked more annoyed than Magra.
Night had fallen while they ate. The sky was dark: there was neither moon nor stars to relieve the blackness. They didn't make it as far as the gate. They sat on the wall that formed part of the dairy shed. The only light was a glimmer escaping from the shuttered window of the cottage.
Tarissa turned to Jack. "So you like my breasts, eh?" Jack smiled despite himself, liking her forthrightness, and at the same time thrilled by the sudden intimacy. With that one sentence, she had become, in his eyes, a woman of the world, daring and openly sexual. He cursed himself for not being able to think of a suitably gallant and risque reply. Tarissa, for her part, didn't seem the least put out by his silence. "You do admit you were looking at me over the dinner table?"
"Would you be offended if I said yes?"
"I'd be more offended if you said no. A woman likes to feel she is attractive."
"Surely you don't need my looks to confirm that." Tarissa smiled, the curve of her cheek catching the shuttered light. "How old are you, Jack?"
"One and twenty," he lied.
"Well, you're tall enough for it, and broad as can be hoped, but your face tells a different story from your body." She laughed. A warm and pretty sound, that was, in Jack's opinion, exactly what the night needed to make up for the lack of stars.
"I'm eighteen."
"Aah." Tarissa settled herself comfortably on the wall. "Do you want to know how old I am?"
"No."
At last he'd said something that pleased her. She leaned forward. Her cloak fell apart; the cleft of her breast was deep with shadows. Gently, she pressed her mouth against his.
Her lips were soft and still salty with chicken fat. Her tongue was cidered and succulent. Their bodies drew close with little prompting. Jack's hand strayed to the meat of her hips.
His saliva washed her palate clean and he tasted the woman beneath the meal. Tarissa pulled back abruptly. Her breath came heavily, emphasizing the swell of her breast. There was a look to her face that Jack could not comprehend. She gently eased his hands from her hips.
"Perhaps you are too young for me after all."
It was a cruel blow, which she was well aware of, for her eyes carefully avoided him. Jack was confused but not surprised. He'd spent plenty of time listening to Grift's advice about women, and the one thing the castle guard was consistent about was that women had been born to confound men. Jack knew Tarissa had been more than willing: her tongue had been his guide. Thwarted desire turned to anger.
"Why did you pull away?" he demanded, grabbing hold of her wrist.
"I already told you. Or do you need me to repeat it twice, like a nurse to an infant?"
Jack's arm was up in an instant. Only a great feat of willpower stopped him from slapping her. And she knew it. "Tell me the truth," he said, his other hand still holding on to her wrist. "What am I to you?" It became clear to Jack that his demand went deeper than what had happened between them this night. "Ever since I've been here, I've heard nothing but lies and evasions. Why are you so interested in murdering the captain who killed Melli? And what really happened to her?" Jack was shaking. "You were there the day she was murdered. Tell me what you saw."
Tarissa turned back to the light. "Let go of my wrist, and then I will tell you what I can."
Jack obliged, and seeing the red marks that he'd raised on her flesh, he felt a measure of remorse. This he hid as well as he could; anger was getting him further than moderation.
An owl called out, its baleful cry announcing the darkest hours of the night, hours given to witchcraft and deception and worse. The wind, which had been a cold but gentle breeze, showed its teeth and gnawed at Jack's bones. Tarissa spoke:
"I didn't see much the day your friend died. I had to keep myself hidden. I couldn't risk being picked up by the Halcus guard. I was a distance away, in the trees that surrounded the pond where you laid the dead man to rest. I saw the riders approaching. Two men, the captain and his deputy, entered the coop, closing the door behind them. They were in there less than an hour, and when they came out, there was blood on the deputy's club."
"Later on, when the riders had withdrawn, I went down to the coop. The girl Melli lay dead on the floor."
Jack's stomach constricted and his throat became dry: Melli had suffered more than he thought. He should have been the one to die. He should never have left her alone that day. His thoughts turned abruptly, as if his mind was defending itself against the torments of guilt. "The body is still there, then?"
"No, no," said Tarissa quickly. She would not meet Jack's eye. "The captain sent two soldiers out the next day to pick up the body."
The owl called again. To Jack, it was as if the unseen predator was confirming his doubts. Tarissa was not telling the whole truth. He studied her as best he could in the darkness. Her eyes were downcast, a tendon on her neck quivered delicately, but it was her hands that gave her away. She was clutching the fabric of her dress with such force that the fabric was beginning to rip.
Jack reached for Tarissa's shoulders and began to shake her. "I want the truth!"
"Easy now, Jack." It was Rovas. His voice was a thickly buttered warning.
Tarissa stepped back and looked toward Rovas. "Go on in, Tarissa," he said. She stood defiant. "I would speak with Jack man-to-man. Now be gone." Tarissa held her position a moment longer and then made her way back to the cottage. Both men watched in silence until the door was closed behind her.
Rovas turned to Jack. "You touch one hair on her head again, and as Borc is my witness, I will kill you!"
Jack was almost pleased by the threat; his anger now had a legitimate challenge. "I wouldn't be so sure that you could."
"You're no match for me, boy." Rovas was contemptuous. "You're nothing more than an overgrown sapling. You can barely hold a blade."
"There are things more dangerous than any weapon." Rovas looked at him keenly, eyes narrowing to slits in his brawny face. Moments passed while the two men stood against each other. Then, to Jack's surprise, Rovas slapped him hard on the back.
"You have a nice way with intimidation, Jack," he said. "Have you ever considered joining the Halcus? Intimidation is the one element of soldiering they take seriously." Rovas laughed merrily at his own joke.
Jack could feel the smuggler's will upon him, encouraging him to laugh along. He obliged, but not because he found the joke amusing.
The laughter died as abruptly as it started. Rovas placed a paternal hand upon Jack's arm. "Listen, my friend. You were right when you said Tarissa wasn't telling you the truth. But don't blame her; she spoke only to spare your feelings." Rovas took a deep breath, drawing the darkness of night into his lungs. "The girl was raped and then beaten. When Tarissa found her, her head had been cut off." One final squeeze of his arm, and Rovas was off, back to the cottage.
The owl called again. Jack barely heard its cry. He leaned against the wall and wept.
NINE
Baralis walked over to the window. He unlatched the shutter and gazed upon the Great Lake. The north
ern wall of the duke's palace rose from water, not from soil. Early morning mist robbed the lake's surface of its gleam and stole both scale and grandeur from the view. The worst of the mist's sins, however, was the damp.
Baralis rubbed his hands. They ached with a pain so biting he wished he could cut them off. He considered going to the head of the duke's household and demanding that his rooms be changed for ones with a more southerly position. He decided against it. It would be perceived as a sign of weakness and the duke, who was both physically and mentally strong, might use the knowledge to his advantage. Better to suffer than to be thought a weakling.
He called for Crope to lay out his robes of state and bring a shine to his chain of office. Maybor was right, prince's envoy was now a worthless title. It was time to be known as king's chancellor.
The welcoming feast was to be held tonight. The duke had been thoughtful in delaying it a day to give the weary travelers time to rest. Baralis' lip curled at the breach. Canceling the feast had been an act of caution, not courtesy. The good duke would spend today seeing how Bren took the news of Kylock's recent elevation. Only when he had assured himself that there was still enough support for the match would he give the order to his staff.
The Hawk still wanted his prey. Oh, he called a fine warning, but Baralis could tell the difference between genuine reluctance and merely the show of it. The duke needed an alliance with the kingdoms; not only did he have no male heir, but the city consumed grain and timber at such a rate that it could no longer support itself. By allying with the knights he was courting trouble in the south, and by annexing bordering towns and villages he was courting trouble in the north. To top it all off, he wanted to be named a king. An alliance with the kingdoms would bring wealth, might, and titles his way.
The duke might not be pleased that Kylock now had sovereignty, but he wouldn't let that displeasure spoil the match. It just suited him to pretend that it would.
Baralis made his way down toward the center of the palace. His steps were slow and he paused many times to admire the skill of the masons, who had managed to make walls so thick seem so graceful, Less than a year from now it would be he, not the duke, who presided over this domain. Even now, as he descended the stairs to greet his host, Crope was above in his rooms, unpacking the poisons that would kill him.