by J. V. Jones
"How unfortunate."
"But there was an exchange, Your Eminence. Just north of Camlee. We seized eight wagonloads of goods."
"Where are those goods now, Gamil?"
"They are being held in Camlee, awaiting further instructions."
Tavalisk smiled, plump lips parting to show a glimpse of tiny white teeth. "Distribute the goods evenly between Camlee, Marls, and Toolay. Rorn will have none of them. Make sure the details of the split are well spread."
"But I don't understand, Your Eminence."
"Really Gamil, like a tree you grow thicker by the day. Tyren is going to be looking to lay blame, and the cities that are holding the goods will look the guiltiest. I want Tyren and his northern playmates to think that all of the south is against him. With Marls, Camlee, and Toolay dividing the spoils, it certainly looks that way. And no one can say that Rom instigated the whole affair as we haven't got a bean to show for it." Tavalisk took a sip of wine. "Everything is going beautifully. All we need now is a good slaughter. I'm thinking one knight is no longer enough. Let's murder a troop of them."
"I'll pass on Your Eminence's wishes."
"Discreet as ever, Gamil."
"Of course, Your Eminence. If there is nothing more, I will take my leave."
Tavalisk stood up and handed the pot containing the braised brains to his aide. "Seeing as no one's working in the kitchens today, Gamil, just run down and prepare me a light dinner: meat, fish, pastries-you know what I like."
Gamil hid his annoyance badly. He stalked out of the room, broth splashing from the pan. The archbishop tut-tutted; his aide would have to clean up the stains when he returned.
THIRTEEN
The steel drew sparks when it met. Rovas was fighting like a demon. His face was red, and sweat scattered at every turn of his head. "Thrust, thrust!" he cried. Air burned in Jack's lungs. Frustration, not skill, was placing the blade. He was desperate to get near the man, and Rovas, well aware of this, was goading him to it. Again and again Jack lunged forward only to find his target had neatly sidestepped.
They were practicing in the meadow just south of the cottage. The blows exchanged had long since lost the caution of the training bout. The blood snaking down Jack's arm was proof of that.
Spring was close and the snow no longer crackled underfoot. The sound of running water could be heard in the distance and green spikes of grass cut through the white.
Jack had no time to appreciate the changes of the season. Rovas was bent on defeating him. "Come on," he goaded. "Take a go at me." Jack obliged the man. He thrust forward, bracing his body for the blow.
Steel screeched upon steel. Rovas was forced to step back. Jack remembered the smuggler's words: "Press any advantage, no matter how small. " He snatched his blade upward, forcing Rovas to raise both arms in defense. Quick as a flash, Jack was in with the dagger. A rake across the wrist forced the man to drop his shortsword. Kicking it away, Jack ensured the smuggler wouldn't get it back. The man was left with his dagger.
Jack considered his options. Rovas was fond of saying: "Surprise is the greatest weapon, " so surprise him he would. He flung his dagger toward the smuggler's chest. His aim was bad, but that didn't matter. The man was forced to turn to the side. Jack lunged forward and pressed the point of his shortsword to Rovas' chest. Rovas was forced to raise both arms in a sign of submission.
Jack had to resist the temptation to smile. It was sweet indeed to see the smuggler at a loss for both words and moves. "Do you surrender?" he said, voice betraying no emotion.
Rovas bowed his head and did not look up as he mumbled, "I do."
Removing his blade from the man's chest, Jack said, "Quite a fight, eh, Rovas?" He offered the smuggler his hand, but it wasn't taken.
"Think you're smart now, don't you?" Rovas said. He walked over to where his shortsword lay on the ground. "But that was just a lucky trick, nothing more."
Jack sat on the ground. He didn't care that the wet snow soaked through his britches. His hair was plastered to his face and he brushed it back. The stretch of leather with which he normally tied it was nowhere to be seen. "Would you judge me ready?"
"With shortsword maybe. The longsword needs work and your bow skills are poor."
Jack smiled. "You're a great flatterer."
Rovas smiled with him. "Flattery only leads to one thing in my book."
"What's that?"
"Fools." They both laughed and the tension that had built steadily over the past week was broken. "You did good, lad," said Rovas when they stopped.
"When do I get the captain's name?"
Rovas stood up. "Come help me paint some fish and I'll explain a few things."
Jack followed him to the smuggler's hut. This time the place smelled of fish rather than offal. "Here," said Rovas, handing him a cloth. "Hold that against the wound." He then turned his attention to the fish. "These need to be at market by noon."
"Judging by the smell, they should have been there yesterday." Jack winced as he pressed the cloth into the cut. "No matter, it's looks that count."
Jack noticed a pig's carcass had been set to hang, throat down. The blood had drained into a large bow. Rovas took the bowl, set it on the table, and then plunged his hands into the blood. Hands dripping with partly coagulated blood, the smuggler brushed them against the fish. The fish, which had been a sickly flesh color, began to take on the look of a fresh catch.
"Now, about this captain," said Rovas as he continued to paint the fish. "He's situated in a garrison that holds twenty score of troops, so he's not going to be easy to get to. You're going to have to enter the place at night, find him, do away with him, and then shift yourself out of there sharpish." Jack was surprised; he hadn't reckoned on this. "Is there any other way? Why can't I take him by surprise when he's away from the garrison?"
"You won't get near him. He never goes anywhere without a score of guards. They'd have you down in an instant."
Logical, but some shred of instinct deep within Jack warned him to doubt the smuggler's word. "I could pick him out with a bow."
Rovas shook his head. "No, lad, you're no archer. One misplaced arrow and the captain's guard would be down on you like vultures. My plan's best. Catch him when he's vulnerable. Sneak in, sneak out." The smuggler was up to his elbows in blood. "Besides, I know the garrison like the back of my hand; there's a couple of useful tunnels in there. Help you escape real fast, they will."
Jack was still suspicious. "If they'll help me escape, why won't they help me enter?"
"Tunnels like that are always bolted on the inside." There was a trace of woodenness in Rovas' voice, as if he'd uttered a set piece from a play. Perhaps aware of this himself, he hurried on in a more natural tone: "We'll pick a feast night, that way all the soldiers will be the worse for ale. Spring Blessing begins next week, so everyone's guard will be lowered by drink. It'll be perfect."
Wary, but not sure why, Jack tried to throw Rovas off guard. "Tarissa told me the reason why you wanted the captain dead."
The smuggler looked up from his work. "Did she, eh? Well, it wasn't her business to."
Jack was tempted to tell him that he knew Tarissa was supposed to kill the captain, but he stopped himself. Saying the words would only make him angry, and for the moment he was after information, not conflict. "So you and the captain were business partners?"
"Aye, and then the bastard got greedy. I pulled out of the arrangement, and now he's stooped to blackmail. Ten golds a month it costs me to stop him from running to the authorities." All the fish were now glowing with health thanks to the pig's blood, so Rovas wiped his hands on a cloth. "He's bleeding me dry."
"And the night of Spring Blessing you'll be rid of your problem." Despite the warning voice in his head, Jack was excited. The time was drawing near. Only when the Halcus captain was out of the way would he be free to live his own life, to go where he wanted and to do whatever he chose. He already knew where he wanted to go: Bren. His thoughts kept returning to t
he city. Even before Rovas had told him about Catherine of Bren's marriage to Kylock, Jack had felt a desire to go there. Sometimes in his dreams he saw a city with high battlements, nestled by the foot of a great mountain. It was Bren, he was certain of it.
"Any news of the new king?" asked Jack.
"There's rumors he's planning a full-scale invasion. If it's true he'll probably wait for full spring." Rovas rolled his phlegm, then spat. "No one in the north is taking any chances, though, especially Halcus. Smithies are making more money than's good for them, and every wisp of a lad over thirteen is busy practicing with a sword. The garrisons have been overrun with men wanting to join up and have a go at the kingdoms." The smuggler ran his hands across his beard. "Or Bren, or both."
Jack helped Rovas load the baskets of fish onto his wagon. The sun broke through the clouds and the wind died down to a breeze. "So war is coming?" asked Jack.
"The minute Kylock invades Halcus there's no going back. Powers will line up on both sides, and once that happens war is inevitable. The scale of the thing is the question. If it's just a dispute between northern powers it might be settled, but if cities like Camlee and Ness become involved, then they'll drag the south along with them." Rovas sat up on the wagon and took hold of the reins. "The south has been looking for a chance to crack down on the knights for over a decade now, and a northern war will provide it with a convenient opportunity."
"So the war could spread south?" Jack felt foolish, he had no idea that matters in the Known Lands were so sensitive. He was beginning to realize just how isolated the kingdoms had been.
"Not so sure of that," said Rovas. "The south will be hoping that the war can be contained in the north. They won't like the idea of any of their dainty white cities being sullied by carnage." The smuggler pulled on the reins and the wagon lurched forward. "Mark my words, boy. We're being led as surely as lambs to the slaughter, and there are those who would shape an empire from our blood."
The wagon trundled away. Jack was shaking, and he hardly knew why. Rovas' words had stirred something within him. An empire of blood. The world began to spin around him. The sky came close and formed an arc above his body. He stumbled to the ground, sick, disorientated. The snow burned his fingers and the sun burned his soul. An empire of blood. Colors ran: green, blue, white; they all bled to crimson. Jack brought his hand to his eyes and tried to keep out the light. Madness came to fill the void. A thousand images beat like tiny insect wings. An empire of blood. A city with high battlements. A man with golden hair. A baby crying in a locked room. And Melli, Melli was there, but just as quickly, she was gone. So many more sights impossible to define: blood the only common thread.
Wet, his hands were wet. Panic brought him round. He opened his eyes and forced the sky back to its place. Colors refocused and the snow was cool beneath him. Tears, not blood, streaked across his palms.
Jack braced himself to stand. Nausea rose up like sorcery, both bitter to the taste. He had to concentrate to keep his legs from bending at the joint. Step by shaky step, he made his way toward the cottage. It felt as if the world had softened and shown its middle. His heart was still racing at the sight. An empire of blood. Yet what did it have to do with him? He was a baker, not a savior. He stopped in his tracks. How could he think, even for a minute, that he had some part to play in what was to come? Yet the images he'd seen had the unmistakable feel of a message. Or a warning. Surely warnings were only sent to people who could make a difference?
Sighing heavily, Jack tried to dismiss it all as nonsense. The fight with Rovas, followed by the bloodstained fish-it was easy to see how his mind might have deluded him. The latch on the door seemed impossibly heavy. It finally gave way and he found himself in the warmth of the cottage. Magra and Tarissa both looked up from their work. As soon as they saw his face they rushed toward him. Jack fell into Tarissa's arms. She pulled him close to the fire, and her words of gentle comfort were the last thing that he heard.
Melli paced the length of the room. Her reflection drew her eye despite her attempts to ignore it. She looked pale and older. The bones on her face had sharpened to angles and subtle lines traced her once-smooth brow. Nineteen this spring, but there would be no treats or fancy ribbons to mark her anniversary. A slight smile thinned her lips. Her father would miss giving her gifts. That was the one thing he delighted in more than anything else; he would buy her dresses, hand mirrors, carved boxes, slippers-all chosen with no thought to cost. If nothing else, he had always sought to please her.
She wondered where he was now and what he was doing. Probably at his estate in the Eastlands preparing for spring planting. Well, that was what he officially did, anyway; in reality he got drunk every night and went off hunting every day. The overseer saw to the land. Melli caught another glimpse of her reflection: there were tears in her eyes now.
She missed her father. She missed his proud, possessive love.
Scolding herself for her frailty, Melli brushed away the tears before they had chance to fall. She was strong--Maybor had given her that-and she had a low tolerance for weakness, both in herself and others. Strength in a person attracted her more than looks or titles or money. Looking back, she began to realize why the young men of the court had failed to catch her interest: they had no power, no experience, no guile.
Her thoughts turned before she could stop them. Baralis. There was a man to put others in the shade. Even now, months later, Melli could still feel his breath in her lungs. She had been breathing it ever since. Once she had heard a physician say that air became flesh in the body. Did that mean part of her was created by Baralis?
Melli cgarefully avoided her reflection this time; she was afraid of seeing a flush upon her face. Why did her mind insist on coming up with such nonsense? Trying to divert her thoughts as far away from the subject of Baralis as possible, she found herself thinking of Jack. What had become of him? He was alive and well; she knew it as surely as she knew her own name. Fate hadn't chosen him to let him die amongst the enemy.
Melli took a deep breath as her thoughts raced toward the very thing she had been trying to avoid for days: Alysha's words to Fiscel when they both thought she was asleep: "Where I come from, we call people like her thieves. Their fates are so strong they bend others into their service. And what they can't bend they steal. " Had fate chosen her, as well?
A soft knock on the door was a welcome interruption. "Enter," she called, falling into the old habits of a court lady. Bailor walked in the room. He was dressed more finely than the last time she saw him. The silks were well tailored, but the overelaborate style suited neither the roundness of his belly nor the spindliness of his legs. He looked toward the empty food tray that rested upon the bed.
"A healthy appetite, I see."
"If you're worried about my figure, bring me less next time. Like a good milk cow, I eat all that's set in front of me." Gone was Melli's nervousness of the day before. She was ready to challenge anyone or anything that came before her. Plenty of food, a good bed, a night of total privacy, and the absence of Fiscel and Alysha had all combined to invigorate her flagging spirit.
"No, no, my dear," said Bailor. "You misunderstand me; it was a compliment. The duke is fond of women who eat with their bellies, not their waists."
Melli had encountered men like Bailor before; although servants, they were used to being treated well by everyone, including noblemen. They gained power over courtiers by discreetly supplying them with whatever illicit commodities or diversions were currently in fashion. Castle Harvell boasted more than its fair share of such enterprising individuals.
"So when will I meet His Grace?" said Melli with what she hoped was a pretty smile. It would do her no harm to befriend the man.
The smile provoked a little anxious vanity on Bailor's part. He sucked in his stomach and smoothed down his tunic. "That's what I came to talk to you about. Tomorrow night there is a big event happening in Bren. The duke's champion is fighting the mysterious golden-haired stranger-half t
he city will be watching. His Grace will be in attendance with two important foreign dignitaries. Usually after such affairs the duke likes to retire to his chambers for ... how should I put it? A little feminine comfort."
"So bloodshed whets his appetite."
"I wouldn't put it quite so crudely," said Bailor.
"No. That wouldn't be your style." Realizing that she had spoken before thinking, Melli worked quickly to mend her error: "You're a man of too great a sensibility to stoop to such coarseness."
Bailor seemed pleased with the compliment. The belly receded even further into the silk. "And you're a lady of obvious breeding. Tell me, who are your family?"
A strong warning flashed through Melli's mind. He was trying to catch her out: she had already told him where she was from. She cursed her foolishness. Here she was acting like a great lady when she was supposed to be a minor nobleman's bastard. No one must find out she was Maybor's daughter. She had already shamed her father enough by running away; she would not shame him further by claiming his name. Another thought occurred to her: Bailor was exactly the sort of man who would blackmail her father if he ever discovered the truth. Maybor would pay dearly to prevent the news of his daughter's disgrace reaching the ears of the court.
Remembering the lie she used on the Halcus captain, Melli said, "My father is Lord Luff of the Four Kingdoms. My mother was a servant girl from Deepwood."
"Aah." Understanding dawned on Bailor's face. "I see, I see. The kingdoms, eh? Your king looks set to marry Catherine."
"King?" Melli felt a deep hollow in the pit of her stomach.
"Yes." Bailor beamed. "Didn't you know? Lesketh is dead, and Kylock is now king."
She had to sit down. Her first thought was for her father. He would be taking this hard; by all rights his daughter should be a queen this day. She should be a queen this day.
Melli tried to shrug it off, but the reality was so weighty it bore her down. The power that could have been hers! Regret wormed its way into her brain and she was helpless to stop it. Only months earlier she had assumed that Kylock and Maybor would divide up whatever power was bestowed upon her. Now she realized that power was never given, it was taken. By leaving the castle she had stopped her father from controlling her destiny. She had taken the power for herself. If she were queen today, it would be more than in name alone.