by J. V. Jones
"Take the turn at the end of the corridor. At the bottom you will find a pair of double doors. Two guards will be at either side of it. They will let you pass unchallenged." Baralis drew his hood over his eyes. He was dressed in a cloak that matched the color of his shadow. "I must be off now."
"I thought you would wait for my return." Traff could see that Baralis was nervous; the great man did not want to be seen here with him.
"I will be back later." Baralis' voice was sharp. He kept looking from side to side. "I told you I will be waiting for you. You have my word on it. Now go."
Traff did not move. He was not about to be ordered around like a common servant. Besides, Baralis was lying; he would not wait for him.
"Stand there waiting any longer, my friend," said Baralis, becoming angry, "and the good duke will have broken in his new bride. Then dearest sweet Melliandra will be nothing more than used goods." Baralis drew closer. "Or is that the best a man like you can hope for?"
Traff went to strike him. His arm was stopped in midswing. He looked at Baralis; the man was smiling softly and shaking his head. "Come, come now, Traff," he said. "You should know better than to try and hurt me."
Struggling against the compulsion, Traff tried to move his arm. His muscles would not respond. The faint but unmistakable smell of hot metal filled the air. Then suddenly it was gone. His arm dropped down to his side; it felt heavy and sore.
Baralis turned the full force of his gaze upon him. "You know what to do. Now do it."
This time Traff moved. He turned and began to walk down the corridor. He did not look back. The muscle in his lower arm was cramping slightly, but he ignored it. He was used to pain. It was sorcery he couldn't deal with.
The passage curved around and a few seconds later he saw the double doors and the two guards. Both men were busy drinking. As soon as they spotted him, they got even busier, burying their faces in their cups, whilst turning away from the light. Traff fancied they looked familiar. He ignored them and opened one of the doors.
The mercenary found himself in a chapel. After sorcery, the thing Traff hated most was religion; he hated the scented candles, the long ceremonies, the self-satisfied priests. He reached in his tunic and brought out his snatch pouch. Pulling himself a fair portion, he slipped it between his lips. Even before it was soft, he spat a portion out. He felt a lot better after that; half the pleasure of snatch was the spitting. A man could say a lot with a spit. After a brief pause to grind the snatch into the chapel floor, Traff made his way behind the altar.
The middle panel, Baralis had said. He spoke the truth, for the panel swung to the side when Traff pressed on the left side of it. Looking inside the passageway, he hissed a curse.
Like a fool, he hadn't realized it would be so dark. Grabbing one of the altar candles, Traff stepped into the passageway. Before he moved up the stairs, he pushed the panel back into place. As he did so, he tilted the candle and hot, fragrant wax fell on his forearm. This time he named Baralis in his curse: the wax had landed directly on the burn the man had given him many months ago in Castle Harvell. The skin was still tender and the memory still sharp. Traff shook his head grimly; he hated Baralis about as much as it was possible to hate a man. That wasn't important now; claiming Melli for his own was what counted. She was his, after all-her father had promised her to him. Only now it seemed that Lord Maybor had gone back on his word. Traff began to climb the stairs. Maybor, like Baralis, would have to be dealt with later.
The stairs spiraled upward toward the heart of the palace. With each step, Traff felt his excitement growing. Soon Melli would be his.
"I could have swom that man was Traff, Bodger. What d'you think?"
"I think you're right, Grift. Looked a lot rougher than when I saw him last, though."
Grift shook his head. "This is trouble, Bodger. Real trouble. Traff is the sort who'd murder his own mother for a hundred golds."
"Best not ask any questions, Grift. Best not even talk about it."
Bodger was scared, thought Grift. He should have come here tonight on his own; there was no need for both of them to be outside the chapel. "Go down to the kitchens, Bodger. Grab yourself a bite of supper."
"No. I'm staying here with you, Grift. You don't know what will happen when Traff comes back."
"You're a good friend, Bodger." Grift looked at his companion for a moment. Bodger was too young to be involved in something like this, something that was going to end in disgrace either way. "You know what?"
"What, Grift?"
"We're gonna be in trouble no matter what happens. If we stay here until Traff has done whatever he's supposed to, then raise the alarm, we'll be thrown out of the guard anyway. Everyone will say we were drunk on duty, and we'll have no choice but to go along with it."
"But what about Baralis, Grift? He's not a man you want to cross."
"What's Baralis up to, though, Bodger? Where does that tunnel lead?" Grift's voice was a whisper now. "What if it leads to the duke's chamber? We might as well slit our own throats here and now." Grift took a quick couragegiving swig of ale. "I say we take action, Bodger. We ain't got much to lose."
"What action, Grift?"
Grift thought for a long moment. "I say we run down to the kitchens, find young Nabber, tell him what's happened, and then let him fetch that tall blond warrior to deal with Traff."
"You mean the duke's champion, Grift?"
"Aye, Bodger, that's the one. Are you with me?"
"I'm with you, Grift."
Tawl was sitting in his room at the back of the kitchens. The wedding had gone according to plan. He had just escorted Melli and the duke safely back to their chambers. His intention had been to stand watch by the door all night, but with eight guards stationed there, it hardly seemed necessary. Besides, he didn't have the heart for it. Not tonight. He couldn't stand by the door to the duke's chambers and not think of what was going on inside; the wedding night, the wedding bed. No. Best to stay here and have a few quiet drinks on his own. And then perhaps a few more as the hours went by. There would be no sleep for him this night.
Just as he brought his ale to his lips, Nabber burst into the room.
"Tawl! Tawl," he cried. "Quickly. Follow me." The young pocket stood in the doorway, breath coming fast and furious. He had been running.
Tawl was on his feet in an instant. His hand slipped to his waist, checking for the reassuring presence of his blade. "What's happened?"
Nabber was so excited he could hardly get his words out. He stamped his feet impatiently. "Baralis has sent someone to murder the duke."
Tawl sprang across the room, pushing the pocket out of his way.
"No, Tawl. Don't head for the nobles' quarters. Follow me."
"Where?"
"There's a passage leading from the servants' chapel to the duke's chamber. The man went that way."
Tawl changed his course. He sprinted through the kitchens and the bakery. Dimly, he was aware that Nabber was following him. He made it to the chapel doors in less than a minute. Two guards were stationed outside. He wasted no words on them. Barging into the chapel, he looked around wildly.
"Where is the entrance?"
Nabber came padding up behind him. "Middle panel behind the altar."
Tawl was there before the words left Nabber's lips. He tore the panel from the wall. Complete darkness met his eyes. He went forward anyway-a candle would only slow him down. There was a single staircase leading upward. Tawl took the steps four at a time. Minutes later, the staircase came to an abrupt end.
Unable to see anything, Tawl felt the obstruction: wood. Probably some sort of door. Backing away for an instant, he slammed his shoulder into the panel. It cracked, sending splinters stabbing into his flesh. He hardly felt them. Again he brought his weight down. There was something heavy on the other side. He started kicking at the wood. Light began to steal in through the breaks in the door. Tawl made out the shape of a large desk. Someone had dragged it in front of the entrance.
>
His ear picked up the sound of a woman screaming. Melli! Gathering all the strength in his body, Tawl crashed into the door. The desk shifted back a hand's length. It was enough. He broke through the door and slipped into the space between the entrance and the desk. There was no screaming now. Grabbing hold of the desktop, he pushed it back, sending it thudding to the floor. Behind him he heard Nabber scrambling through the remains of the door.
"Stay where you are," he warned. The noise stopped instantly.
Tawl was in a small room. A body lay in a pool of blood beside the desk. A guard: his throat had been slit. Tawl had no time for the dead. He looked around. He wasn't familiar with the duke's chambers, but he'd seen enough to know that they were large, with many rooms. Taking a deep breath, he drew his blade, then made his way toward the door. He passed into a room he was familiar with: the duke's study. The large doors at the opposite side of the room marked the only entrance to the chambers. Or what he'd thought was the only entrance. The duke had been a fool not to tell him about the secret passageway.
Spinning around, Tawl turned to face the second door. It had to lead to the bedchamber. It was closed. He stepped lightly toward it. The screaming had stopped, which meant Melli was either injured, dead, or silenced by the assassin. Tawl guessed that the assassin knew he was in the chamber; the break-in had made a lot of noise. He proceeded cautiously.
He reached the door and pushed gently against it with his foot. As it swung back he stepped back against the wall, out of sight.
"Stay where you are," came a voice from inside. "Or I'll cut her open."
Her open? That meant the duke might already be dead. Tawl heard the sound of footsteps and the rustle of silk. "Back away," said the voice. "I'm coming through and I've got the girl."
Slowly Tawl shifted away from the door. As he moved back, he knocked against a bureau. Reaching. out a hand to prevent it falling over, Tawl's fingers brushed over a candlestick. Instinctively he grabbed hold of it, keeping it hidden behind his back.
Melli emerged first through the door. Tawl took a sharp intake of breath. Her face, neck, and chest were sprayed with blood. Her hair was tangled; there were dark stains on her dress. She stepped forward just enough for Tawl to see the knife at her back.
"Throw down your blade," said the one holding the knife. "Now!"
Tawl bent low. He sent the blade skittering forward. It landed at Melli's feet. She looked at him for one brief moment. Her eyes were bright with tears. She was shaking, terrified. Tawl nodded at her. She stepped forward and with her came the assassin. Turning his head, he spotted Tawl. "Get back," he screamed.
Behind his back, Tawl altered his grip on the candlestick. Just as he began to step away, out shot his arm. He flung the candlestick straight at the man's face. Tawl leapt after it. Landing right at Melli's side, he pushed her out of the way, sending her careening forward. "Go!" he cried. Even as the syllable left his lips, he felt the knife in his side. Pain exploded in his body. Anger flared with it. He swung around and punched the assassin in the jaw. The blade was up again, but his fist was faster. Elbow followed fist and the assassin was forced back against the door frame. Tawl felt hot blood running down his thigh. He grabbed hold of the man's wrist. His left arm pitted against the man's right. It was deadlock. The assassin's grip held firm.
An idea flashed through Tawl's mind. A second later he eased up his grip on the knife. The assassin smiled, thinking he'd got the better of him. The smile was Tawl's cue. Drawing back his head, he whipped it forward, butting the assassin squarely in the nose with his forehead. Bone cracked. Blood flared. The man screamed. Tawl slammed the assassin's wrist into the door frame, forcing him to drop the knife. .
Ignoring the reeling in his head, Tawl punched the man's face again-right on the broken nose, sending splinters of bone flying back toward his brain. The assassin swayed, losing his footing. Tawl let him fall, using the time to snatch the knife from the floor.
By the time the assassin reached the ground he was dead, his own blade in his heart.
Tawl slumped against the door frame. Melli came rushing forward. "I told you to go," he said between ragged breaths.
She pushed past him, stepped over the assassin's body, and rushed through to the bedchamber. Turning around, Tawl saw her kneel by the body of the duke. He pressed his fist into the knife wound in his side and came to kneel beside her. Like the guard, the duke's throat had been cut.
"He's dead," he whispered, putting his arm around Melli's shoulder. "It was a clean blow."
Giant tears ran down Melli's cheeks. She didn't turn to look at him. She didn't say a word.
"Come with me," he said softly. "You can't stay here." Already his mind was racing ahead. Melli was in great danger. They would have to leave the palace tonight, before the body was discovered. He did not want to risk her being implicated in the murder; better by far for her to be safely away.
"He was waiting in the bedchamber for us." Her voice was devoid of emotion. "He just jumped out and..."
"Ssh." Tawl took hold of her hand. "Come with me. You're not safe here." He pulled, but she would not move. Her other hand was clasped around the duke's. She brought it to her lips and kissed each finger one by one. Gently she took them into her mouth and sucked upon the tips.
Tawl looked up to see Nabber standing in the doorway. "Get Lord Maybor," he mouthed to the boy. Melli was in shock; she needed someone familiar to help her round. Nabber scurried off. Tawl stood up and went over to the bed. Lilies and rose petals were strewn over the covers. The marriage had not been consummated-so legally it wasn't even a marriage. Melli would have no rights, everything would go to Catherine. Kylock would have Bren after all.
Grabbing hold of the top cover, he pulled it from the bed. Petals went flying into the air. Tawl crossed back to Melli and placed the blanket over her shoulders. She was sucking on the duke's thumb and didn't even acknowledge the gesture. Tawl brushed the hair from her face; it was sticky with blood. The bodice of her dress was wet with tears. There was nothing he could do to help her.
Feeling useless, Tawl left the room. He was impatient. He didn't know how much time they had. He doubted if any of the fighting or screaming had been overheard by the guards; they were one floor down, on the other side of two separate sets of doors. But the one who sent the assassin might raise the alarm. It was probably Baralis, acting with Catherine's help. In all likelihood the duke's daughter would have known about the secret passage. Tawl tore a strip from his tunic and bound it tightly around his side, stopping the flow of blood. If Catherine was somehow involved with the murder, then Melli was in even worse danger. Catherine hated her with a vengeance. She would have Melli imprisoned or executed. She was duchess of Bren now, she could do what she liked.
"Where is she?" It was Maybor, striding into the room with Nabber at his tail. "Where is Melliandra?"
"She is in the bedchamber with the duke," said Tawl, putting a restraining arm upon the lord. "Be gentle with her." Maybor nodded. "I will."
Tawl and Nabber watched as Maybor stepped into the bedchamber. Tawl put his arm out and rubbed the pocket's hair. "You did well, Nabber. I'm proud of you."
Nabber looked grave. "No, Tawl. It was you who did the good stuff. I was just the messenger."
Tawl shook his head slowly. "I failed, Nabber. I failed again."
Maybor appeared in the doorway. Melli was at his side, leaning heavily against him. Her eyes were focused upon some distant point.
"Come on," said Tawl. "Let's go."
"Where are we going?" asked Maybor.
"We need to get Melli--"g Tawl corrected himself "Melliandra out of the palace. Her life is in danger if she stays here. Catherine will come after her once the news is out."
"You're right," said Maybor heavily. He pulled a piece of paper from his tunic. "I know of a place we can go." He handed it to Tawl.
Written upon it was an address. "Whose house is this?" Tawl asked.
"Lord Cravin's. It's on the south sid
e of the city. He said I could use it if I ever had need."
"We'll head there, then." Tawl turned to Nabber. "Do you know any way we can get out of here without being spotted?" He wasn't at all surprised when the pocket nodded.
"Yes. By the entrance to the passage, on the opposite side of the stairs, there's a hole we can squeeze through. Once we're on the other side, I can have us out of this place in no time. The whole place is riddled with tunnels. Course some of them are a bit smelly, and old Lord Maybor here is going to have a hard time fitting through the gap." Nabber gave Maybor an appraising glance. "Reckon we'll have to make it bigger for him."
"Enough, Nabber." Tawl's voice was hard. "We'll manage. Now come on." He led the small party through the duke's chamber and then down the staircase. As Nabber predicted, the gap was too small for Maybor. Tawl took the hilt of his knife and chipped away at the stone piece by piece. Once through the ventilation hole, Nabber guided them out of the palace and into the darkness of the city.
It was a cold and moonless night in Bren. There were neither stars nor people to bear witness to their passing. The wind howled from the surface of the Great Lake, and as the four sped through the streets to safety, it seemed to push them on their way.
THIRTY-SIX
Baralis sat at his new desk in his new apartments and smiled. Two weeks the old duke had been dead now. Two exquisitely perfect weeks.
Everything had worked out beautifully, better than he could have ever hoped. The duke was cold in his grave; Traff was dead, and so could tell no tales, or name no names; Melliandra had fled the palace-the marriage obviously not consummated, so not only was there no possibility of an heir, but she had no legal claim on the duke's estate either; and lastly, Maybor had gone with her. After all these months he'd finally succeeded in ridding himself of the vain and meddlesome lord. Fate was surely his partner for the dance.
As he thought, Baralis cut the string surrounding a bundle of books. Just this morning the courier had arrived from Bevlin's cottage, and resting on the desk before him lay the first of many deliveries. If he was lucky he might discover why the wiseman had sent the knight on a quest. If he was unlucky he simply received a few more books to add to his library. Baralis slipped off the leather wrapping and glanced at what lay beneath: some interesting books, indeed.