by J. V. Jones
"Perhaps she wanted to hide her shame, Bodger. She never did say who the father was."
The two men drank in silence for a while. They both felt the need to show a little respect for the dead.
Tawl was on his way back to Melli's chamber when he heard the sound of footsteps behind him. They seemed to have come from nowhere. Instinctively his hand felt for his sword. Spinning around, Tawl drew his weapon and turned to face his attacker.
"Don't hurt me. It's me, Nabber."
Angry, poised to strike, sword quivering in his fist, Tawl thundered at Nabber: "What in Borc's name are you doing here?"
Nabber shrugged sheepishly.
"Never do that again," hissed Tawl, shocked at how close he had come to hurting the boy. "You could have got yourself killed." He resheathed his sword.
Nabber risked a smile. "Sorry, Tawl. Just thought I'd test your reflexes, that's all. You're a bit jittery, if you don't mind me saying so."
Tawl had to turn away to hide a smile. It was impossible to stay mad at the boy. Looking back in the direction that Nabber had come from, he couldn't work out why he hadn't heard him coming sooner. The corridor was long and straight. "How did you manage to sneak up on me?" he asked.
"Don't insult me with a question like that, Tawl. I'm a pocket, ain't I? Stealth is my trade."
"Well, stealthily return the way you came."
"Can't I stay with you for a while? Ever since you got back to the palace, I've hardly seen you. Seems to me that you're dropping your old friends now you've got a high and mighty lady to look after." Nabber pulled himself up to his full height. "Well, let no one say that I ever stuck around where I wasn't wanted. I'm heading back to the streets." He began to walk away.
Tawl reached out and caught Nabber's sleeve. He felt very protective toward the boy and did not want him returning to a life on the streets. True, Nabber could be bluffing, but he didn't want to risk it. "All right, you can come and sit outside the lady's chamber with me. But you've got to promise to be good and not take any valuables."
Nabber smiled broadly. "I'll treat them as if they were my own."
"Hmm, that's what I'm worried about."
The two of them walked to the ladies' quarters. Nabber told Tawl about his two new friends=Bodger and Griftand then the conversation turned to Baralis.
"I tell you this, Tawl," said Nabber. "That Baralis is one scary devil. Just the sound of his voice alone is enough to send a man's knees aquivering."
Tawl had heard Baralis' name mentioned several times by the duke. He'd even seen him once or twice around the palace. Tall, dark, dressed in black, people always moved out of the way to let him pass. As soon as the announcement of the duke's marriage was made, Baralis was one man Tawl intended to watch closely. As envoy to the kingdoms, he would ill like Kylock being robbed of exactly what he had come here to secure in the first place: Bren's ascendancy.
Tawl was so busy with thoughts of potential threats to Melli that something important almost slipped his mind. Almost. Just as they turned in to Melli's reception chamber,
Tawl pulled Nabber back by catching hold of his tunic. "How come you have spoken to Baralis?" he asked.
With a great show of dignity, Nabber freed himself from the grip. His hand came to rest on his chest like an actor about to speak from the heart, and he said, "You know me, Tawl. Powerful people flock to me. I can't do anything about it."
Tawl winked at the two guards flanking the door. He then grabbed hold of Nabber's ear, twisted it sharply, and proceeded to march the boy into the chamber. Only when the door was firmly closed behind him did he loosen his grip a little. "Now, Nabber," he said, pleasantly. "You have two choices: one, you can either tell me the truth-in which case I will only hurt you slightly; or two, you can lie to me and I'll tear your ear off." Tawl demonstrated his ability to do this by tugging firmly on the ear. Nabber howled. "Now, which will it be?"
Nabber tried to wriggle free, but Tawl just pinched harder on his ear. "All right, all right," the pocket said. "Let me go and I'll tell you what happened."
Tawl shook his head. "I'm not going to release you until I hear the truth."
"You're a cruel man, Tawl." Nabber's face was turning an unpleasant red. He took a deep breath. "Baralis was asking me questions about Bevlin."
Bevlin? This was the last thing Tawl had expected. He let go of Nabber's ear. Suddenly he didn't feel like playing games. "Tell me exactly what happened."
Nabber brushed his tunic down and rubbed his ear. "He came down to the chapel when I was with Bodger and Grift. He asked me a lot of questions. You know, about where the wiseman lived, about his books. About you."
"What did you tell him?" Tawl's voice was grim. He didn't like the sound of this one little bit. Why would Baralis be interested in him? It didn't make any sense.
"Only things that were common knowledge, Tawl. I swear it. I told him where Bevlin's cottage was, how long I'd known you, that sort of thing. He already knew about the quest."
Tawl interrupted him. "He knew I was looking for a boy?"
Nabber nodded. "Swift's honor, he did."
"And why was he interested in Bevlin's cottage?"
"He was after his books. Apparently both men shared a love for crawling insects."
Tawl's gut sent him a warning; it tightened, forcing bile into his throat. Baralis wanted Bevlin's books. But why? Insects were a poor excuse. As he tried to work out what Baralis could want, another thought flashed across his mind, blocking all others in its wake.
"If he goes to the cottage, what will he find?" The last time he'd seen the place there was blood spread across the floor and a dead man in the middle of it.
Nabber immediately understood the question. "He'll find a nice clean home with everything in order."
"And the body?"
"I buried it."
Tawl looked deep into Nabber's brown eyes. The young pocket never ceased to amaze him. He had taken care of everything. When he himself had ridden away in a tortured, cowardly frenzy, Nabber had stayed behind and dealt with the body and the blood. Tawl felt ashamed of himself. He also felt a great respect for Nabber. "Thank you," he said.
"I was just doing what Swift taught me-looking out for my friends."
Tawl held his hand out and Nabber took it. "You're the only friend I have," he said, clasping the boy's arm firmly. "I'm the only one you'll ever need."
The door opened and in walked the duke. Seeing Nabber he assumed he was a servant. "Leave us, boy. I would speak to my champion alone."
"It was dark the night of the fight, Your Grace," said Tawl, preventing Nabber from leaving by placing a restraining hand on his shoulder, "so I will forgive you for not recognizing my second: Nabber of Rorn." He pushed the boy forward.
Nabber flushed with pride. He executed a rather impressive bow. "Your Grace."
The duke inclined his head graciously. "Please accept my apologies. Rorn, eh? Happen to know the archbishop, do you?"
"He's a slippery blighter, I can tell you that much."
The duke laughed. "You can come and work for me anytime, Nabber. I wish more of my counselors would put things as succinctly as you do."
Nabber was beaming from ear to sore ear. "Anytime you need a spot of advice, Your Grace, just look me up. Tawl always knows were to find me." He bowed again. "Now, I must be off. Commerce calls."
Tawl and the duke watched him go.
"A remarkable boy," said the duke once Nabber had left the room.
"In more ways than one," replied Tawl. He made up his mind that he wasn't going to question Nabber any further about Baralis. He had the strong suspicion that the boy had probably sold the man information, but that was Nabber's way. It was what made him who he was, and he could hardly be blamed for it. Besides, it sounded as if Baralis had another source of information. Someone else had told him about the search for the boy. Tawl scanned his memory for those who knew about the quest. The archbishop of Rorn. Tyren. Larn.
"Tawl." The duke interrup
ted his thoughts. "Are you all right? You look like a man whose thoughts are far from his body."
Very far. Hundreds of leagues to the south, across a stretch of treacherous ocean, on the cursed island of Larn. The place of his undoing. Were the powers that be still working against him? Were they not content with all that they had done? Tawl pulled himself back. "I'm a little tired, Your Grace. Nothing more."
"You have been spending too much time guarding my lady," said the duke.
"Do you wish to speak with me?"
"Yes. Briefly." The duke motioned toward the far door. "Is Melliandra in her bedchamber?" When Tawl nodded, he lowered his voice. "In two nights time, on the Feast of First Sowing, I will make my wedding announcement. I'm counting on you to monitor the events at the table. I will have my hands full fending off verbal attacks. I need you to keep an eye on people. Note their reactions-especially Lord Baralis'--and be ready to pull Melliandra out of there if anything should happen."
"I will be there," said Tawl.
The duke nodded. "Good. Do you want to sit at the table next to Melliandra, or would you prefer a more discreet vantage point?"
"I would rather be concealed."
"As you wish. Arrange whatever is necessary." The duke looked grim. "That's all for now. I mustn't keep my bride-to-be waiting." He walked over to the connecting door. "Remember, Tawl, I'm counting on you to tell me who my enemies are."
Darkness had fallen and it was time to look for shelter. The land he was walking across was plowed and ready for sowing, so that meant that there was probably a farm nearby.
Farms boasted outbuildings and chicken coops and barns: places where a man could rest undisturbed for the night. Provided, of course, he was prepared to leave before dawn. Farmers woke earlier than priests.
Jack scanned the horizon. Which way to turn? Since leaving Rovas' cottage, his instincts had pointed him to the east. Why should he change his course now? Tired, hungry, cold and alone, he carried on walking straight ahead.
The last time he had eaten was two days back. Almost crazy with hunger, he had risked nearing a farmhouse in daylight. The chicken coop was farthest away from the main building, so he headed there. He managed to crack open and eat half a dozen eggs before the dogs were set on him. With yolk dripping down his chin and a few more eggs stuffed down his tunic, he made a run for it. He had escaped unharmed, though sadly he couldn't say the same for the eggs. Not only had the shells cracked open, but the yolk had somehow gotten down his britches. A few hours later, the smell was enough to put him off eggs for life.
In the end he'd finally thrown himself, fully clothed, into a stream. Having lived through the rains of a week ago, he was not only accustomed to being soaked to the skin, but he'd also built up a certain immunity to it. It would take more than a quick dip in the stream to kill him-even if it did take his clothes a full day to dry.
Sometimes Jack just wanted to laugh. Here he was: onetime baker's boy and scribe to Baralis, fleeing across eastern Halcus being pursued by the enemy, nothing to his name except the clothes on his back and the knife at his waist, and with a body bearing so many wounds that he had to keep checking to see if any had reopened and started to bleed. This was definitely not how adventures in books went. He should be famous by now, rich and accomplished, a band of ardent followers in tow, and royalty waiting upon his every word. He should have the girl of his dreams, too.
Sometimes Jack just wanted to cry. When he thought of Tarissa, of leaving her kneeling in the rain outside Rovas' cottage, her saying that she was sorry and pleading to come along with him, he wondered if he'd done the right thing. Those were the worst times of all. The times when it was hardest to carry on. The times when he had to physically stop himself from turning around and running back to her door. Once, just once, he'd given in to the impulse.
It was late at night-always the worst time for people alone-and he couldn't sleep. No matter what he tried, he could not get Tarissa off his mind. And then, as the moon began to dip toward the west, he reached a point where he no longer wanted to. He wanted to see her, touch her, put his arms around her, and whisper softly that everything would be all right. He headed back there and then, not bothering to wait until dawn. Hours he walked, retracing steps he'd already taken, walking paths he'd already walked. The darkness was his ally and the shadows were his friends. They led him on through the night, making him feel so small and insignificant that he questioned his own judgment. Who was he to condemn another? Who was he to walk away from someone, when he himself was guilty of so much? In a world made large by the glimmering of distant stars, Jack began to feel that nothing he said or did was important. To be alone was frightening, and he needed someone else to make up for all that he was not. He needed Tarissa.
The sunrise changed everything.
Pale and majestic, the morning sun rose above the hilltops. Its gentle rays searched out uncertainties just as surely as shadows and made them both disappear with a speed unique to light. As the rays from the sun strengthened, so did Jack's willpower. As the sun rose higher, Jack's steps became slower. The world had boundaries again: hills and streams, forests and mountains. It was smaller, less intimidating: a place where one man could make a difference. Resolution returned to him. Tarissa had betrayed him. He didn't need her; better to be alone than with someone he couldn't trust.
Stopping by a stream, he brought water to his lips. He could feel the sun on his back, warming, encouraging, beckoning him to turn around. He had already said his farewells and come so far, it was pure foolishness to return. Standing up, Jack spun around and began once more to walk east, toward the sun.
As the day went on the sun slowly arced across the sky. Eventually, when it reached the point where it was shining from behind him, the very nature of its rays changed: no longer did they beckon, they pushed.
In the distance, Jack spotted a pinpoint of light. A farmhouse. His heart thrilled at the sight of it. If he was lucky he'd have shelter tonight. Making his way toward it, he took stock of his body. The gash Rovas had given him on his forearm was healing nicely. Running his fingers down the scab, he could detect no wetness or swelling. Good. His kidneys had pained him on and off for the past few days-the table corner had delivered quite a punch but for now there was just a bearable dull ache. Bringing his hand up he felt his lip: it was still as big as a barmcake. Magra had wielded the copper pot like a prizefighter, catching both his jaw and his lip in one well-placed blow. Jack dreaded to think what his face looked like: bruises, swelling cuts, and a week's worth of beard on his chin. He had taken to tactically avoiding still water in order to postpone the shock of seeing himself. He always drank from moving streams.
All the old injuries to his arms and legs--the dog bites and other wounds he'd received from various exchanges at the garrison-were in the process of changing from scabs to scars, and so they no longer bothered him. However, the one thing that did cause him trouble was his upper chest on his right side, where the Halcus arrow had hit. Mrs. Wadwell had tended the wound, and it would probably have been all right by now if only Rovas hadn't landed a punch squarely in its center. Jack found he had to be careful with it. He could never put too much pressure on his right arm, nor bear any weight on his right shoulder. All he had to do was slip his hand in his tunic to know that the wound was infected.
Bloated, sometimes weeping after a long day's walk, it looked about as bad as it smelled. Purple veins ran close to the surface, and it was now ringed, courtesy of Rovas, by a yellowy green bruise.
It throbbed as he approached the farmhouse. Later, before he slept, he would have to slice it open to let out the pus. He tried to keep it clean and always bathed it once a day, but he needed wine, not water, to do the job properly. That or a cauterizing iron.
Jack stooped down in the bushes. There was now only a small meadow between him and the farmhouse. This was a dairy farm. He listened for the sound of dogs or geese. He heard nothing but the gentle lowing of cattle and their young. He risked moving forwa
rd. The cattle picked up his scent, but after a few warning sounds they settled down. He was not a fox, and they knew it. Quickly he cut across the meadow. Stepping in cow pats wasn't pleasant, but it was useful; it made him smell familiar if there happened to be any geese or poultry around. He made his way around to the back of the building. There was a large pigpen, which he stayed well clear of, a bam and a dairyshed. He made for the dairyshed. If he was lucky, there would be cheese, cream, and buttermilk.
His stomach grumbled loudly at the thought of food. Jack whispered gently to it, as if it were a small animal. "Not long now," he said.
The door to the dairyshed was held closed by a rusty latch. It lifted easily. In he went, plunging from moonlight into darkness. For a few minutes he stood still, waiting for his eyes to grow accustomed to the dark. His nose, however, needed no such luxury. It told him food was around, most precisely cheese.
Hunger did strange things to a man. Jack didn't feel in the slightest bit guilty about eating whatever he could find. If he had money, he would have left it. But he didn't, so he would take what he wanted anyway. He needed to survive, and if he had to steal to do so, then so be it. The one thing that he'd learned since leaving Castle Harvell was that the world wasn't a fair place. The farmer who woke in the morning to discover half a cheese missing should count himself lucky. A lot worse could happen to a man.
Too many things had happened to Jack over the past months for him to remain naive. When he'd left the kingdoms, he was little more than a boy. Trusting and innocent, he had taken everyone at their word. Not anymore, though. It would be a long time before anyone fooled him again. Still, in some ways he'd been lucky. Even amidst all the fire and chaos at the garrison he had been treated with kindness. Dilhurt and Mrs. Wadwell had saved him in more ways than one that night. They had shown him what goodness people were capable of. With generous hearts they had taken him in and cared for him. They asked no questions, nor for anything in return. Jack would remember that always.
No, the world wasn't a fair place, but it wasn't a bad one, either.