by J. V. Jones
Just this week she had taken on three new girls, each and every one of them good and plump, with bellies as round as cheeses and thighs as wide as milk chums. Not a beauty amongst them. That didn't matter; crooked teeth, a few pockmarks, and a sallow complexion could either be hidden, disguised, or overlooked. A pancake for a bottom, however, was a flaw far too serious to ignore. Men needed a good handful down there.
"Sister, dear," came a voice from behind, "might I offer a humble suggestion?"
Madame Thornypurse turned to face her sister, Mistress Greal. Two weeks ago, about the time her beloved Corsella went missing, Mistress Greal had arrived from the kingdoms.
Sadly, she had lost her looks. Two of her front teeth were missing, and her left wrist was curiously misshapen. Ringed with broken bones, it looked as if she were wearing a strange, primitive bracelet. Madame Thornypurse would have liked to question Mistress Greal about the mishaps and her reasons for leaving Duvitt, but she was a little afraid of her older sister and so tactfully held her tongue.
"Yes, dearest sister. I treasure your advice as if it were Tyro gold."
"Get those lazy good for nothing girls off their buttocks and make them stand by the windows. At the moment the only thing they're liable to catch is a cold."
Madame Thomypurse nodded. Her sister's suggestion was, rather annoyingly, a good one. She clapped her hands. "Girls! Girls! Go to the windows and call to every man who passes."
"And pull your dresses down low, so they can see your wares," added Mistress Greal sharply.
The girls moaned and scowled and adjusted their ruffles downward. They went over to the windows, casting resentful glances toward Mistress Greal as they settled themselves against the sills. Madame Thomypurse had noticed that none of the girls liked her sister very much, but they always obeyed her.
"May I be so bold as to make another suggestion, sister dear?"
"Certainly, dearest sister."
Mistress Greal came forward and laid her good hand upon her sister's arm. "We need to invest in a great beauty."
"We do?" Madame Thornypurse admired her sister greatly, yet she couldn't help feeling a touch of peevishness. It seemed that Mistress Greal was intent on running her business. In just over two weeks she had taken over the ordering of food and drink, started supervising the maids, and now, it seemed, she dared to challenge her choice of girls!
"Yes, sister dear. The last girls you acquired are all a little, how should I put it ...?" Mistress Greal's thin nose went into the air like a dairyman sniffing for mold. "Ugly."
"Ugly?" Madame Thornypurse spat out the word. Mistress Greal's good hand squeezed like a vise. "Don't take on, sister dear. I meant no offense. They'll all as plump as sausages and I'm sure you got them cheap, but we need one girl, just one, whose beauty is so compelling that tales of it travel throughout the city. The beauty of that one girl will draw men here by the dozens."
"But a single girl can only service four men in one night."
"Aha! There you have it." Mistress Greal's crooked finger poked against the flesh of her sister's arm. "Most of the men will have to settle for the other girls instead."
"But won't they just leave?"
"Not after two glasses of my Duvitt special brew, they won't." Mistress Greal smiled thinly, lips pressed together to hide her stretch of toothless gum. "Once men have had a few, one woman begins to look much like another. We'll snuff out most of the candles, block off the chimney to increase the smoke, and serve them the strong stuff. They won't be able to see their hands in front of their faces, let alone tell the difference between a filly and a mare." Mistress Greal was triumphant. "The secret, sister dear, is to get them here in the first place."
Madame Thornypurse tried to find flaws in her sister's reasoning, but came up blank. "It does sound rather profitable."
"It's the oldest business practice in the Known Lands, sister dear: bait and switch."
"Bait and switch?"
Mistress Greal nodded. "In your own small way you were doing it before Corsella went missing. My niece was quite beautiful enough to attract men from far and wide."
Madame Thornypurse was torn between indignation over the phrase your own small way and pride at having her beloved daughter complimented. Pride won. "She takes after me, you know. Everyone says so."
"Beauty runs in our family, sister dear." Mistress Greal's hand rose to her bony breast. "It breaks my heart that I haven't been able to see my precious niece. Do the bailiffs have any idea what has become of her?"
Madame Thornypurse sighed heavily. "No, they say she will turn up sooner or later. I pray to Borc each night to keep her safe."
"Sister dear, come and lie down," said Mistress Greal. "I can see you're upset. I'll have the maid send in a drop of brandy."
"You loved Corsella, didn't you, dearest sister? You sent her all those gifts: the necklaces, the bracelets . . ."
"She was like a daughter to me, sister dear. When you were ill with the pox that time, I looked after her as if she were my own." Mistress Greal pulled herself up to her full height. "If any man has harmed as much as a hair on her head, I swear I will see him in hell for it."
On hearing her sister's words, Madame Thornypurse felt a warm glow in her heart. Mistress Greal might be many things-overbearing, bossy, and shrill to name but a fewbut she was, above all, a woman of her word.
A sudden distraction caused both women to turn toward the windows. The girls were shouting and cheering. One of them, a sweet-looking girl with a harelip, turned around. "We've got one, madame. He's on his way in right now."
Madame Thornypurse rubbed her hands together. "And so early in the day, too." She nodded graciously to her sister. "Wise as ever, Mistress Greal."
Mistress Greal inclined her head like a queen. "You know me, Madame Thornypurse: anything to improve business."
Both women went to the door. Due to Madame Thornypurse's sore foot, Mistress Greal got there first. She swung open the door. A man, lean and travel-weary, waited on the other side. "Good morning, kind sir," she said. "Are you looking for a little comfort?"
"That, some decent food, and a bed for the night, if you've got one." The man spat out a wad of snatch and ground it into the step with the heel of his boot.
"Come in, come in," said Madame Thornypurse, pushing her sister out of the way. "Hot food, a warm bed, and the comeliest girls in Bren await you."
"After you've put down a small deposit first, of course," added Mistress Greal.
The man pulled out his purse and pressed a gold coin into her palm. "Now, woman," he said, "run along and fetch me some ale."
Mistress Greal had little choice but to do his bidding. Off she went, her skirts swishing violently in protest. Madame Thornypurse turned toward the man; she linked her arm around his and smiled coquettishly-she at least had all her front teeth. Leading him into the room, she said, "So, handsome sir, what do they call you at home?"
"Traff. They call me Traff." The man was busy eyeing up the girls.
"And what line of work are you in, Traff?" Madame Thornypurse beckoned over her two best: Dolly and Moxie. The girls came quickly, giggling and jiggling, just as they'd been taught.
The man reached out a hand to squeeze Moxie's breast: "I'm a mercenary."
Madame Thornypurse was well pleased. His kind always had cash, or the means to get it. "So, what brings you to our fair city?" She disengaged herself from his arm, freeing it up for Dolly. If she was lucky, he'd pay for both of them.
Traff's mouth twisted to a bitter smile. "I've come to find my betrothed," he said.
Tawl knocked softly and then let himself in. Melli was standing in the middle of the room, legs apart, arms out, brandishing her silver blade at an imaginary foe. The instant she saw him she blushed and dropped her arms to her sides.
"You might have knocked," she said. "I did. You might have listened."
Tawl could see her deciding whether to frown or smile. Over the past few days he had learned that Melli's emotions we
re always written openly on her face. Fear, joy, pain, anger, and most commonly, indignation, could- be seen flashing regularly across her eyes, bending the curve of her lips, and raising the furrows on her brow. Even her skin tone changed. She could never hide a thing.
"Well, knock louder next time," she said, settling for half a frown.
Tawl bowed in acknowledgment of the reprimand. He came over to her and laid his hands on her shoulders. "When you have a real opponent to wield your blade at, don't stand so rigidly, bend your knees a little." He pressed her down to the right position, tilting her back and raising her arms. "This way there'll be less chance of being thrown off balance." His hand closed around her fingers as he felt how she held the knife. Gently, he adjusted her grip to the correct position. "Your wrist, on the other hand, should never be bent. Or all the strength in your shoulders and flank will go to waste." Demonstrating his point, he ran his fingers along the muscles in her side and shoulders. "If you bend your wrist, you break the line, and the only muscle you'll be left with is your forearm. You try and stab a man like that and at best you'll strain your wrist, at worst you'll break it."
All the time he was speaking, Tawl was acutely aware of Melli's nearness. She smelled fresh and clean. Her dark hair shone brilliantly and her skin was so smooth it was like touching sun-warmed marble. She had been in the duke's palace for four days now, and her appearance changed everytime he saw her. She was growing stronger and plumper, the dark circles around her eyes had disappeared, and there was color in her cheeks. Gone was the thin, pale girl he had first set eyes on. In her place was a woman, strong and vibrant, with a mind and will of her own.
He was beginning to realize what the duke saw in her. The precautions for the ride had proven unnecessary. Tawl was almost certain that the falconer had spoken to no one before he was confined, and therefore tales of the proposal had no chance to spread. The only danger during the journey had been the incessant rain. The ground quickly became slippery and waterlogged, and the horses had to be prodded into making every step. Fearing for Melli's health, he had stripped off his outer cloak and wrapped it around her. Looking back sometime later, he had caught a glimpse of her face. She looked ill: skin gray and shiny, lips drawn together in pain. Lifting her from her own horse, he had put her on the back of his. The ride had taken nine hours, where normally it took six, and Melli spent most of it resting against his back, hands clinging around his waist, silent all the way.
The duke had come down to the stables to greet them when they arrived. By this time they had both dismounted, and Melli never mentioned the fact that she had ridden most of the way at Tawl's back. Neither did he. Tawl saw the way that the duke looked at his bride-to-be, and although the man had encouraged him to become friends with Melli, he doubted if he would be pleased to learn that for nearly half a day they had sat so close to each other that even the rain couldn't come between them.
For Tawl the journey had been a time to think. Brought up in the marshlands, he loved the rain. He grew up to the sound of it falling. The taste, smell, and touch of it brought back memories older than the woman he rode with. His earliest recollection was lying in his cradle, listening to the slow drip of water as it leaked through the thatch. His mother never bothered having the roof repaired, she` said there was never enough money to pay the thatcher, but Tawl suspected she liked to watch the raindrops as much as he. After the rain had stopped was the best of all. His mother would gather all the water from the waiting pots and pans, put it into her best copper pot, add various herbs and spices, and then warm it over a gentle flame. Nothing in his life had ever tasted better than his mother's rainwater holk.
Tawl's thoughts drifted from childhood to knighthood, from his quest to his oath, from his past to his present. There was much he left untouched. Some things were still too painful to think about. Some things would always be too painful to think about.
He had found a certain peace within himself on the journey in the rain. He had a purpose here in Bren, and a sworn oath to bind him to it. Loyalty was in his blood: he needed someone or something to give his life to. It had always been that way. Ever since his mother had made him swear to look after his sisters, he had existed to serve others. It was what he was born for.
Now that his ties to the knighthood had been broken, fealty to the duke had taken its place. The quest was in the past-he had accepted that now. It was far better to put the failure behind him than to relive it every night in the pits.
The one thing that dragged him back was the letter. It plagued his dreams and shadowed his days. He would never know what Bevlin wanted to say to him. The wiseman's words were gone forever, the paper rotting in a roadside along with the slops and the dirt. With all his heart, he wished he could have taken it from Moth and Clem. If only they had found him earlier, before he'd sworn himself to the duke, things would have been different.
Loyalty had its price, and it always closed more doors than it opened. The wiseman's quest was one of those closed doors. It had to be. Tawl knew himself too well: if he had taken that letter from Moth and Clem and read it there, down the darkened alleyway with the stench of the abattoir filling his lungs and the scurry of rats as accompaniment to the text, he would never have returned to the palace. No matter what the letter said, what promises it held, what explanations it gave, or what favors it asked, he would have been bound by them. Once he knew the contents, the city of Bren would not have been able to hold him.
Which would have meant two oaths broken, not one. Good work could be done here. His presence was of value. The Known Lands were dissolving into a whirlpool in front of his very eyes. Forces were coming together, and as they vied with each other for mastery, they formed a current so strong that they sucked others in with it. At best the whirlpool promised the redistribution of power in the north, at worst war and destruction. One thing was certain: Bren was at its center.
And Melli, proud and beautiful and with secrets to hide, was about to become the eye of the storm. The danger to her life was real, especially once the engagement was officially announced. There would be those who wanted her dead. Catherine, the duke's daughter, was one of them; Kylock's chancellor, Baralis, was another. Not to mention a court full of nobles; bound together by generations of petty rivalries, they would not look kindly on their duke marrying an outsider instead of one of their own.
Another factor was the lady herself. Melli was not who she said she was. Her accent placed her from the kingdoms, and her bearing placed her in the nobility. Tawl could not believe she was an illegitimate daughter of a minor lord. She was too nonchalant about being in a palace, too comfortable with luxury and command to be a naive member of the country gentry.
Well, if she was lying it wasn't his concern. Protecting her was. Melli was his responsibility, and guarding her had become the most important thing in his life. For over a week now, he had watched her day and night, afraid to leave her door for even an instant in case he returned to find her gone. She would not end up dead in his absence like his sisters. He would never make that same mistake again, and protecting Melli was his one chance to prove that to himself. Keeping her safe would never make up for his sisters' deaths, but perhaps, just perhaps, it might prevent them from being in vain. The past could not be changed, but it could be learned from. And that, Tawl had realized long ago, was the best he could ever hope for.
The door opened and in walked the duke. Tawl had his hand on Melli's hand and his arm around her waist.
Melli pulled away. "I've had enough of your self-defense lessons for one day, Tawl," she said, her voice conveying boredom and irritability in equal amounts. Turning to the duke, she added, "A woman can only take so much thrust and parry before she gets battle weary and needs to eat." Tawl could not help admiring her quick wittedness. She had turned a potentially embarrassing situation into something perfectly innocent. Both of them had been enjoying the lesson in knifeplay, and they had, without realizing it, moved closer together, so that their bodies now stood only
a finger's length apart. Tawl chided himself for his stupidity. He should have known better than to draw Melli into a position that could have compromised her honor. As a knight he had been trained to protect a lady's reputation at all cost.
Hearing her words and tone, however, the duke seemed satisfied; his expression visibly relaxed. He walked over to Melli and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "So, Melliandra, you have been learning the art of self-defense?"
"Tawl insisted upon it. He says it's no use me having a blade if I cannot handle it properly."
The duke nodded and looked at Tawl. "You are right, my friend. I am glad you thought to teach her." There was genuine gratitude in his voice. "If anything happened, and you or I weren't around, I would feel better knowing that Melliandra could at least put up a fight."
Tawl wanted to say that he would always be by Melli's side, but he judged it prudent to hold his tongue. Instead, he bowed and said, "Your future wife will make a fine swordswoman. Now, if you will excuse me, I will leave you alone." The duke put out a restraining arm. "I would like you to stay a few minutes, Tawl. I have just received something you might be interested in seeing." From his tunic, he pulled out a roll of paper. It was damp and watermarked; the ink had run and it was badly creased. He handed it to Tawl. "Take a look, see what you think."
Tawl took the letter. Still wet around the edges, it threatened to fall apart in his hands. Addressed to Tyren, it was a point by point account of a proposed treaty between Valdis and the Four Kingdoms. In return for the knighthood agreeing to fight with the kingdoms against the Halcus, they would be given exclusive rights to trade routes in the northwest and a cut in the spoils of war. Tawl handed the letter back. "How do you know it's genuine?"
"I don't." The duke gave the letter to Melli. "It came this morning on the leg of an eagle. It's my guess that the archbishop of Rorn sent it. He has men throughout the Known Lands-mostly clergy-who act as his spies and informants. He makes it his business to know what's happening before anyone else does."
Tawl changed the subject. He had no love for the archbishop of Rorn. "Do you monitor the passes?"