by J. V. Jones
Jack lay flat on the ground. His legs and stomach were mired deep in the mud. It had been drizzling steadily for the last hour and he was soaked from head to foot. He barely registered the cold and the rain. He was watching Rovas' cottage.
The heavy clouds had forced the night's hand, making it come earlier than spring usually allowed. Lanterns had been lit in the cottage; Jack could see their warm glow escaping through knotholes in the shutters. The fire was burning well, too, as hearty puffs of smoke came bellowing from the chimney. All in all it was a heartwarming sight. A cozy home where ivy formed a living frame around the door and where the whitewash shone a welcome for its master.
Jack spat out a mouthful of bile. He swung his head around and scanned the road to the left. Still no sign of Rovas.
How long he'd been lying here was hard to tell; certainly long enough for midday to turn to dusk. After he'd left the waterfall, he had come straight here. The nearer he got, the lower he stooped, until in the end he was crawling on all fours like a dog. He didn't want them to see him. Through all his dealings with the three in the cottage, they had been the ones with all the advantages. It was they who trapped and manipulated. They who watched and monitored him like an insect under glass. Now it was time he had the upper hand.
There was power to be gained by being an observer. Jack felt the thrill of the spy as he lay and watched the cottage from the darkness; it gave him a feeling of control.
Things would move at his pace, when he was good and ready. When Rovas had returned from market, and when everyone was in their place. The element of surprise would be his.
Jack's ears caught the sound of something rattling in the distance. After a few moments, Rovas' cart lurched into view. The man himself sat on top of it, a heavy cloth pulled over his back to keep out the rain. Even before he had jumped down from his seat, the door opened. Jack caught his breath. It was Tarissa.
For hours he had known that she was in the cottage. Once or twice, before the shutters had been closed, he had spotted her silhouette against the oilcloth. Yet seeing her now, in the flesh, was still a shock. Close enough to see unfamiliar lines of worry on her face, yet not so close he could hear her speak, she took the cloth from Rovas' back and then let him through. As the door closed behind them, Jack saw her hand steal up to test the temperature of his forehead. The sight of that small intimate gesture, so casually offered and accepted, caused the last vestiges of softness to harden within Jack's heart. They were in league with each other, there was no doubt about it. The two of them had plotted everything out right from the start. Tarissa had just pretended to love him, just as she had pretended to hate Rovas.
Jack scrambled to his feet. His legs had been so long without weight that they buckled under him and he fell back down to the ground. "Damn!" he hissed. He was sick of being weak, angry at his body for failing him, tired of existing in a world where he had to run or hide. Rovas had a lot to answer for.
This time when he stood, his legs stayed firm. As he walked toward the cottage they became firmer. Firm enough to kick down the door.
Crack!
Pain shot down his side and through his shoulder. The door hinges splintered and gave way. He heard Tarissa and Magra scream. A second kick and the door fell inward. The first person he saw was Rovas. He had a carving knife in his hand. Behind him were the two women.
"Jack!" cried Tarissa, lunging forward.
Rovas elbowed her back. "Stay where you are."
Tarissa thumped him hard in the back. The sudden burst of strength caught the smuggler off guard, and she managed to dodge round him. Arms outstretched, she ran toward Jack.
She looked so frantic he almost gave in to her. But he didn't. He turned to the side. "Don't come near me, Tarissa." She came anyway. The same hand, which moments earlier had reached out to touch Rovas, now reached out toward him. "You're soaked through and hurt." Turning to Magra, she said, "Mother, put some water to boil."
"Don't bother, Magra," said Jack. "I won't be staying long."
Tarissa laid her hand upon his arm.
Jack pulled away. "Tarissa, go outside and take Magra with you."
"But Jack-"
"I said go!"
The force of his words were so great they made her flinch. He saw her look toward her mother. Magra nodded faintly. Both women made their way to where the door once stood. As Magra stepped past him, she whispered something low, meant for his ears alone, "It's not what you think, Jack." He heard, but did not acknowledge her with either look or gesture. His eyes were on Rovas. The smuggler was standing comfortably, even cockily, resting one arm against the hearth whilst the other held the blade at his side. Despite his air of nonchalance, Jack noticed his knuckles were white above the hilt.
Behind him he heard the two women leave the cottage.
He waited a moment to give them time to walk away a little and then said, "So, Rovas. What's your life worth to you?" Rovas smiled his old, familiar charming smile. "Lad, I tell you now, my life's not yours for the taking."
"Isn't it?" Jack was surprised at how cold he sounded. He stepped forward, hands by his side.
"What you gonna do, lad?" Rovas' voice was rising to a taunt. "Make me burst into flames?"
Jack was across the room in one leap. Knife still at his waist, he lunged for Rovas' throat with bare hands. The smuggler raised a fisted hand from the hearth and smashed it right into Jack's arrow wound.
Pain exploded in his chest. Tears filled his eyes. He went reeling backward, arms flailing, searching for something to break his fall. His flank caught the corner of the table. The point stabbed into his kidneys. The extra pain focused his reflexes and he shot his arm around to steady himself against the table edge.
Even as he righted himself, Jack felt the flare of sorcery in his gut. His skull seemed to contract around his brain, forming a tight band of pressure round his thoughts. No. No, he willed himself. He was going to deal with Rovas alone. Quickly, desperate to do something physical, Jack grabbed at a bowl that was resting on the table. Heavy, filled with cooling chicken broth, he threw it straight into Rovas' face.
The smell of chicken and onions filled the air. The broth splashed over Rovas' chin and shoulders. He brought his arm up to stop the bowl from crashing into his face. It went flying into the hearth, smashing against the stone.
Jack tasted something salty and metallic in his mouth. It was blood. Sorcery was choking in his throat, and his desire to keep it back was so strong that he had bitten straight through his tongue. He clamped his lips tightly together, afraid of letting even a breath of power out through his mouth.
Rovas wiped his face on his sleeve. With knife held out in front of him, he stepped forward and then to the side, effectively cutting off the entire area surrounding the hearth.
Jack realized what he was doing: he was trying to claim as much of the available space as possible for his own. It was a form of intimidation, designed to make one's opponent feel cornered. Rovas rocked on the balls of his feet, his legs slightly bent at the knee. "Come on, then, Jack," he said. "Let's see if you're good enough to beat your teacher."
Talking was a distraction. Jack didn't listen. He didn't speak. He didn't even breathe.
He leapt forward and down, slashing at Rovas' thighs with a blade he was hardly aware that he'd drawn. The smuggler was forced to bend low to guard himself, awkwardly arching his back. Jack felt the rake of Rovas' knife against his shoulders. He welcomed the feeling. Anything real, any sensation, any action--even pain was a welcome distraction to sorcery. Jack shot up from his squatting position. Raising his elbow above his head, he caught Rovas hard on the chin. The smuggler countered by trying to knee him in the groin. Jack was all reflexes. He jumped back, just enough to protect his vitals, whilst his knife came up to slash at Rovas' leg.
His mouth was full of blood, his lungs were bursting with spent air, and his belly was bloated with sorcery. Still he didn't breathe. Keeping everything inside was the only way to retain control.
In that fraction of an instant, Jack focused his thoughts. Not on Rovas, but on the object he held. He opened his mouth and let a wisp of sorcery out.
"Aagh!" screamed Rovas. The heavy copper pot dropped out of his hands and onto the floor. It landed-hissing and spluttering-in a pool of chicken broth. Jack caught a glimpse of Rovas' palm: it was seared like a piece of meat. Jack was shaking. He felt the warm trickle of blood down his chin. The power had lost its push and he felt free to breathe once more. There was a part of him that felt triumphant: somehow he had mastered the sorcery, managing to let out just enough to do what was needed.
Rovas' left hand lay limply by his side. The knife was in his right. "You're not a man," he hissed, drawing circles in the air with his blade, "you're a freak of nature."
Filling his lungs with new air, Jack threw all his weight into his free arm and punched Rovas in the face. The smuggler's blade caught him as he drew back. Jack was hardly aware of it. He felt strong, powerful, in charge. And it was time to make Rovas pay.
Jack took over the fight. He knew Rovas' moves before he made them, anticipated his defenses and countered his attacks. As soon as a weakness was spotted, it was exploited. At the first hint of an advantage, Jack was there nipping it in the bud. He allowed Rovas neither time, nor space, nor opportunity. He was younger, faster, and fitter, and he wore the man down.
Before he knew it, Rovas was on the floor and Jack's hands were at his throat. Both knives were long gone. Jack squeezed the red and fleshy neck, his fingers pressing against the windpipe. Rovas' eyes were wet and bulging, and blood trickled from his nose and temples. As Jack bore down on him, his tongue began to protrude from his lips. A choking noise gurgled at the back of his throat. Jack pressed harder. He could now feel the curve of the windpipe, and forcing it closed was all that mattered. The smuggler's face began to take on a bluish tinge. The choking noise faded away, replaced by a weak hiss.. Jack's thumbs were knuckle-deep in Rovas' throat. His mind was playing pictures of the garrison alight with flames, of the escape tunnel ending in a dirt wall, and of Tarissa reaching up to feel the temperature of Rovas' forehead. Laughter, cruel and taunting, sounded in his ears. His thumbs dug deeper.
"Stop! Stop!"
Jack felt someone tugging at his arm. He lashed out blindly. He heard the skitter of pots and pans, followed by a dull thud as someone slammed against the wall. Glancing up, he saw Tarissa lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. Before he had time to react, something hard slammed into his jaw. The force of the blow sent him reeling. He fell sideways, losing his grip on Rovas' neck. Struggling to his feet, he whipped around and was presented with the sight of Magra brandishing the same copper pot that had been used against him earlier. She had drawn it back for a second blow.
"Get away from him," she cried. "Or as Borc is my witness, I swear I will kill you."
Jack stepped away from Rovas' body. His vision was blurred and his jaw felt as if it had been smashed with a hammer. Behind him he heard Tarissa getting to her feet.
Magra placed the pot on the table. She went over to Rovas and knelt by his side. Putting her ear to his mouth, she listened for the sound of breathing. Her fine features were taut with worry. She looked ten years older than when Jack had seen her last. After a moment, she straightened up. "He's alive," she said. Her voice was oddly unemotional. Sighing heavily, she stood up. "Fetch me some water, Tarissa, and a little soured wine."
"No, Mother." Tarissa stepped forward and shook her head. "I'm going to see to Jack."
The two women looked at each other. After a moment Magra shrugged. "Do whatever you have to." She turned and walked toward the larder.
"Jack," said Tarissa softly. "Are you all right? You're covered in blood." She raised her hand nervously, afraid to touch him, yet wanting to all the same.
"I'm fine." Jack stepped away from her. He was confused and tired, drained of all strength and emotion.
"We were so worried about you," said Tarissa quickly. Her eyes were bright with tears. "Rovas has been staking out the garrison. When you didn't turn up that night I didn't know what to think. I couldn't sleep or eat."
"You should be on the stage, Tarissa."
"What do you mean?"
Jack spoke quietly; he was too exhausted for anger. "You know very well what I mean. The tunnel was blocked. You and Rovas sent me running into a dirt wall."
Tarissa's mouth fell open. "But Jack-"
"No," he raised his hand, "I don't want to hear any more lies."
"I'm not lying." Tarissa's spirit was returning. Her cheeks were red and blotched. "Every day since you left we've been out looking for you. As soon as I learned you were captured, I begged Rovas to try and rescue you."
"Didn't do it though, did he?" Jack's voice was sharp. "No. It was too risky. We were going to leave it until the day they took you for questioning."
Jack shook his head. "Look, Tarissa, I don't care what you say. Rovas wanted me dead. He sent me into the garrison knowing the tunnel was blocked." He hung his head down; looking at Tarissa only confused him further. He didn't know what to believe.
"I didn't know the tunnel was blocked." There was an edge to her voice now. "I waited all night for you. It was morning before I left the tunnel entrance."
In the background Magra tended to Rovas. The smuggler was regaining consciousness. His coughing and spluttering was a sign to Jack to move on. He hadn't achieved anything by coming here. It had been a mistake. Better to go now and never return.
Jack glanced around the room looking for his knife. He spotted it lying underneath the table. Bending down to retrieve it, he said softly, "I know you lied about Melli being killed. I need to know what became of her." Hearing Tarissa's sudden intake of breath, he braced himself for another lie.
"I'm sorry, Jack," she said, her small pink lips quivering. "The whole thing was set in motion before we even knew you. After that it was too late."
"Set in motion, " repeated Jack, anger flaring fast. "You mean when you and Rovas deliberately set out to lure me into acting as your personal assassin."
"It wasn't like that." Large tears rolled down Tarissa's cheeks.
His hand enclosed around the knife's hilt and he stood up. "I don't care anymore. Just tell me what happened to Melli."
Tarissa wiped her face. "She was sold to a flesh-trader called Fiscel. He took her east toward Bren."
"Was that where he was going to sell her?"
"I don't know. He might have headed south once he crossed the mountains."
"That's all you know?"
"Yes."
Jack looked into the hazel of her eyes. He was sure she was speaking the truth. "Put some supplies in a bag for me: food, water, clothing, you know the sort of thing."
"You're not going?" Tarissa looked horrified. "You're wet and you're bleeding. You can't go."
"Watch me." Jack made his voice harsh-he was afraid of giving in to her. Stepping over the door, he made his way outside into the cool night air.
Tarissa followed him. "Take me with you," she said. Jack shook his head. "No."
She grabbed hold of his hand. "Please, Jack. Please. I'm sorry about the lies. I never wanted to hurt you. I tried to tell you about Melli that day by the pool."
"It's too late, Tarissa." He pulled his hand free. "Get back inside. Don't bother with the supplies."
She fell down to her knees and clutched at his britches. "Jack, don't leave me. Please, I beg you." Her voice was high, almost hysterical. "Take me with you. There's nothing for me here. I hate Rovas."
"Stop lying, Tarissa." Gently he pried her fingers away from the fabric. The temptation to bend down and take her into his arms was so great that he had to turn his back on her.
"Please, Jack," she said, kneeling fo
rward on the wet ground. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"I can never trust you again, Tarissa. Never." He cursed his voice for breaking. He couldn't look back now-if he did she might see the tears in his eyes. He began to walk away.
"Where are you going?" she cried. Her voice sounded small and frightened.
"East," he said softly.
The wind picked up, brushing his hair into his face and carrying the sound of Tarissa's sobbing straight to his ears. He didn't stop. He carried on walking, step after step taking him further away from the woman he loved.
THIRTY
It was a beautiful morning in Bren. The rain that had dogged the city for seven full days had finally stopped and everything-the sky, the streets, the buildings, and even the people-was brighter because of it. The sun shone gold, giving out the first real warmth of the year, and the fragrance of mountain flowers was carried on the breeze. Women dressed more boldly than they had in months, walking the streets with hips that held messages in their sway. Men leaned out of windows to watch them pass, puffing out their chests and whistling like songbirds. Spring had come to the city by the lake, late as usual, but glorious nonetheless.
Madame Thornypurse ordered the maid to open the shutters. As a rule she didn't like fresh air-it caused the rat oil to evaporate faster-but it was spring, and as a business woman and a lady of the world, it was her job to make the proper seasonal adjustments. Men's fancies turned to lust in spring, and nothing, absolutely nothing, was as good at attracting that fancy as a house full of whores.