The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  What had caused this watchfulness? This fear of strangers? To discover that, he must first find where she came from. His mother had left nothing for him to go on. She had been ruthless in withholding all information about herself. He knew nothing, save that she wasn’t from the Four Kingdoms and had been branded a whore. Through the long nights, when sleep refused to come, Jack dreamt of tracking down her origins like a knight on a quest, of finding out the truth behind her fear.

  Dreams were one thing, the reality of life in the castle was quite another. If the night stirred his imagination, then the day stifled it. What was he but a baker’s boy? He had no skills to speak of, no future to plan for, no money to call his own. Castle Harvell was all there was, and to leave it would be to leave everything. Jack had seen the way beggars were treated at the castle—they were spat upon and ridiculed. Anyone who didn’t belong was considered lower than the lowest scullery maid. What if he left the kingdoms only to end up scorned and penniless in a foreign land? At least the castle offered protection from such failure; whilst in its walls he was guaranteed a warm bed, food to eat, and friends to laugh with.

  As Jack climbed the stairs to Baralis’ chamber, he couldn’t help thinking that a warm bed and food to eat were beginning to sound like a coward’s reasons to stay.

  Baralis was well pleased with the events of the last five years. The country was still embroiled in a disabling war, a war that served only to sap the strength and resources of both Halcus and the Four Kingdoms. Many bloody battles had been fought and heavy casualties were incurred on both sides. Just as one party seemed to gain the advantage, the other party would suddenly receive some unexpected help; news of enemies’ tactics would be whispered in an interested ear, details of supply routes would fall into improper hands, or sites of possible ambush were revealed to unfriendly eyes. Needless to say, Baralis had been responsible for every fatal betrayal.

  Stalemate suited him nicely. With the attention of the country focused to the east, Baralis could hatch his own plots and follow his own agenda at court.

  As he sipped on mulled holk to soothe the pain in his fingers, he reflected on the state of the king. Since Lesketh had taken the arrow to the shoulder, he had never been the same. The wound had healed after a few months, but the king had been badly weakened and could no longer mount a horse. The king’s wits were also, sadly, not all they had been, not that the king had ever been a great thinker, thought Baralis spitefully. If anything, he may have gone a little easy on the poison the day of the hunt: after all, the king could still remember his name!

  The king’s affliction was never mentioned aloud at court. If people talked of it at all, it was in hushed voices in the privacy of their own chambers: it was not a subject to speak of lightly. The queen was known to view any such talk as treason. Queen Arinalda had unofficially taken the king’s place as ruler, and Baralis grudgingly admitted that the woman was doing a better job than her dull, hunt-obsessed husband ever had.

  She had performed a delicate balancing act; due to her efforts the kingdoms were not perceived as a weak country lacking a leader. She had kept up diplomatic ties with Bren and Highwall, and had even signed a historic trading agreement with Lanholt. The Halcus were seething at her success. But she had shown wisdom in her restraint as well as her strength, and had not given the Halcus too much cause to worry—else Halcus might be forced to go in search of allies and the war escalate beyond the control of the two countries.

  Today Baralis would tie up a loose end, one that had been left dangling since the day the king was shot. Lord Maybor had been a thorn in his side for many years now. The man had been party to the events leading up to the shooting, but it had become evident that Maybor regretted his actions and Baralis feared the man might use the incident against him. There was potential for blackmail and other unpleasantness, and Baralis ill liked having reason to be wary of any man.

  The portly lord was up to something else that gave him cause for concern. Maybor was trying to secure a betrothal between his daughter, Melliandra, and the queen’s only son, Prince Kylock. Baralis was not about to let that proposal take place: he had his own plans for the king’s heir.

  “Crope!” he called, eager to be relieved of his problem.

  “Yes, master.” His huge servant loomed close, blocking all light in his path. He always carried a small painted box and was busy stuffing it out of sight into his tunic.

  “Go down to the kitchens and get me some wine.”

  “There’s wine here already. I’ll fetch it for you.” Crope started to reach for the wine jug.

  “No, you repulsive simpleton, I need another type. Now listen carefully, for I know you’re liable to forget.” Baralis spoke slowly, pronouncing each word distinctly. “I need a flagon of lobanfern red. Have you got that?”

  “Yes, master, but you always say lobanfern red tastes like whore’s piss.”

  “This wine is not for me, you feckless imbecile. It’s a gift.” Baralis stood up, smoothing his black silk robes. He watched Crope leave the room and then added in a low voice, “I hear Lord Maybor has a fondness for lobanfern red.”

  Crope appeared some time later with a jug of wine. Baralis snatched it from him. “Go now, fool.” Baralis uncorked the jug and smelled its contents. He grimaced; only a barbarian could like this sickly brew.

  He took the wine and moved over to a tapestry hanging on the wall, lifted it up, and ran his finger over a particular stone and entered his private study. No one besides himself knew of its existence. It was where he did his most secret work, wrote his most confidential letters, and manufactured his most potent poisons.

  Poison was now one of Baralis’ specialities and, since gaining access to the libraries of Tavalisk—who was himself a poisoner of high repute—Baralis had honed his skills to a fine art. He now realized that the mixture he had used on the king’s arrow was the crudest of potions.

  Baralis could now make poisons that were infinitely more subtle, less detectable and more varied in their results. It was a foolish practitioner who thought a poison’s only use was to kill or disable. No, poisons could be used for much more: they could be made to slowly debilitate a person over years, effectively mimicking the characteristics of specific diseases; they could corrupt a good mind and turn it rotten; they could weaken a heart to a point where it stopped of its own accord; they could paralyze a body but keep the mind sound.

  Poison could rob a man of his virility, his memory, or even his youth. It could stunt the growth of a child or, in the case of the queen, prevent the conception of one. It was all a matter of the skill of the poisoner, and Baralis was now in command of such skill.

  He moved toward his heavy wooden desk where an array of jars and vials were placed. Most poisons were better made fresh as needed—for poison, like men, lost potency over time. Baralis smiled inwardly: time to cook up a batch.

  Tavalisk entered the small, damp cell. He held a scented handkerchief to his nose; the smell of these places was always most unpleasant. He had just eaten a fine meal of roasted pheasant stuffed with its own eggs, a truly remarkable dish, the flavors of which still played in his mouth, whetting his plump tongue. Unfortunately, as well as lingering on his tongue, a small portion of the tenacious bird seemed to be caught between his teeth. Tavalisk pulled forth a dainty silver toothpick from his robes and skillfully dislodged the offending piece of fowl.

  He found that inflicting pain and food complemented each other perfectly: after eating a fine meal he liked nothing better than to dabble in a spot of torture.

  He regarded the prisoner dispassionately. He was chained up by his hands to the wall, his feet barely touching the ground. Tavalisk had to admit that the young man did have an unusually high tolerance for pain. He had been kept in this dungeon for over a year now. It might have been enough to kill another man. This one, however, had proven to be most exceptional.

  Tavalisk had personally supervised the program of torture. Torture was, he considered, a special skill of h
is. He had designed a specific schedule just for this one prisoner, but was his prisoner grateful? No. This prisoner didn’t even have the decency to succumb to the torture. Burns to the feet had been useless, starvation had been useless, the strain on his arms and wrists had been useless. Even his personal favorite—hot needles in soft flesh—had proved useless. He had been careful not to cause too much damage, though, and had practiced great personal restraint, for Tavalisk had far worse punishments in his repertoire.

  He didn’t want to see this young man permanently disabled. He knew that the prisoner was a knight of Valdis, that much was evident from the mark upon his arm—two circles, one within the other, meaning the knight had attained the middle circle and was obviously young to have done so. Unfortunately, the young man had visibly aged since he had been under his care. No longer did the golden hair shine and the cheek run smooth.

  But that was of little consequence to Tavalisk. What did matter was what the young man had been doing when he’d been picked up. The knight had been snooping around asking questions, wanting to find somebody, a boy he had said. When the spies had brought him, bound and gagged, to their master, he had refused to speak.

  There was one thing which made Tavalisk suspect the knight was involved in something of importance: when he had been brought in, he had in his possession a lacus skin. That skin had Bevlin’s mark upon it. Tavalisk was determined to find out what connection the knight had to the aging wiseman.

  Bevlin was considered an old fool by most people, but Tavalisk preferred to give him the benefit of the doubt. Eighteen years ago there had been a momentous sight in the night sky. Tavalisk himself had even heard of it. Most people said it was a sign that the next five years would bring good harvest. And indeed Rorn hadn’t had a bad year since—though gold not grain was harvested in this fair city. But that aside, Tavalisk had the uncanny feeling that the sign had meant more, and that Bevlin had somehow discovered what it was. The wiseman had ranted on about doom and its usual accompaniment, destruction. All but Tavalisk had ignored him: it never hurt to keep an eye on the doings of wisemen—like birds they always knew when a storm was coming. If this prisoner before him was sent on a mission by Bevlin, then Tavalisk was determined to find out the reason behind it.

  Of late, he had grown frustrated by the prisoner’s silence and had decided upon another way to discover who the knight was looking for and why. That was what brought him here today. He was going to let the knight go free. All he would have to do is watch and wait; the knight would lead him to the answers he sought.

  “Guards,” he called, moving the silken handkerchief from his face. “Free this man and see he gets some water.” The guards hammered the metal stakes from the wrist irons and the prisoner fell heavily to the floor.

  “He’s out cold, Your Eminence.”

  “I can see that. Take his body and dump him somewhere in the city.”

  “Any special part of the city, Your Eminence?”

  Tavalisk thought for a moment, a mischievous smile spreading across his full lips. “The whoring quarter will do nicely.”

  The city of Rorn boasted the largest whoring quarter in the known world. It was whispered that there was not a pleasure imaginable, no matter how illegal or bizarre, that could not be bought for the right price.

  The quarter was a refuge for the miserable and the wretched: young girls barely eleven summers old walked the streets, beggars racked with disease could be found on every corner. Pickpockets and cutthroats waited in the shadows for a chance to relieve an unsuspecting passerby of his purse or his life. Weapons and poison and information could be purchased from the countless inns and taverns that jostled for business on the filth-ridden streets.

  The streets themselves were so thick with human waste and rotting vegetation, it was said one could tell an outsider by the cloth he held to his nose. It was not a good idea to look like an outsider in the whoring quarter. Outsiders were an easy mark for con men and thieves; they were asking to be robbed or tricked out of their money. But still they came, drawn by the promise of illicit diversions and the thrill of danger. Young noblemen and honest tradesmen alike stole into the quarter as the day grew dim, looking for a game of chance, or a woman for the night . . . or both.

  The sharp smell of excrement was the first thing he became aware of. The next was pain. It was unbearable, pulling every muscle into its knotted snarl. He tried to move through it, to come out where there was now light, but he was too weak. He spiraled downward to meet oblivion and found that it too was crafted from pain.

  The dream tormented him once more. He was in a small room. There were children around the fire; two young girls, golden haired and rosy cheeked, smiled up at him, and there was a baby in his arms. The door opened and something glittered brightly on the threshold. Light from the vision eclipsed the glow of the fire, but not its warmth. As he reached toward the brightness, the baby fell from his arms. Stepping through the portal, the door closed behind him. The vision fled, receding to a pinpoint on the horizon, and he turned back to the door. Only the door wouldn’t open. Try as he might, he couldn’t get back to the room and the children around the fire. In desperation he flung himself against the door. His body met with stone.

  He awoke with a start, sweat dripping into the corners of his mouth. Something had changed and unfamiliar air filled his lungs. It made him afraid. He was accustomed to his cell, and now even the comfort of familiarity was denied him.

  When had he been released? He could barely recall when he’d last felt the cool brush of water upon his lips. One thing was fixed in his mind, though, and that was his name: he was Tawl. Tawl—but there had been more than that. Surely he had been Tawl of somewhere or something. The vaguest of stirrings rose in his breast; his mind tried to focus, but it was gone. He could not remember. He was just Tawl. He had been imprisoned and was now free.

  He forced his mind to deal with the present and he began to take in some of his surroundings: he was in an alleyway between two large buildings, there was a chill in the air, and he was alone.

  Tentatively, he raised an arm and pain coursed through his body. His arm was bare and he noticed the two-circled mark. It was familiar to him, it meant something, but he didn’t know what. Tawl looked up as the sound of voices approached him.

  “Hey, Megan, don’t go near that man there. He looks as good as dead.”

  “Hush, Wenna. I’ll go where I please.”

  “You’re not liable to get a penny out of him. He doesn’t look up to it.”

  Tawl watched as a young girl approached him—he was unable to do anything else. A moment later, her friend also drew close and he began to feel uncomfortable under their scrutiny.

  “He smells really bad, like he ain’t seen water for a year or more.”

  “Wenna, be quiet, he might hear you. Look, his eyes are open!” The one called Megan smiled gently. “He’s not like the usual type down here.”

  “He’s half dead, ain’t he? To me that’s the usual type.”

  “No, he’s young and golden haired.” The girl shrugged, as if to excuse her own folly. “There’s something about him . . . look, Wenna, he’s trying to say something.” Tawl had not spoken for many months and could only manage a bare murmur.

  “I think he’s saying his name. It sounds like Tork or Tawl.”

  “Megan, come away before you land us in a pickle. You’re right he ain’t the usual type and that spells trouble.” The one named Wenna pulled at her friend’s arm, but she would not be budged.

  “You go if you choose, Wenna, but I can’t leave him here all alone. He’ll surely die before the night is through.”

  “That, my girl, is not my problem. I’m off. I’m wasting precious time here when I need to be earning. If you’ve any sense in that pretty head of yours you’d do the same, too.” With that, the older of the girls marched off, leaving him alone with the other.

  Tawl tried to raise his arm again, and this time the girl took it. “Here, let me help you
up.” She noticed the mark. “Oh, that’s strange. I’ve never seen a knight’s circle with a scar running through it.” Tawl let the girl help him to his feet and then promptly fell over again. He could not stand; his legs were not used to carrying any weight. “Oh, you poor thing. Here, try again. My little place ain’t far from here. If you could just manage to walk.” They tried again, this time Tawl leaning on the girl for support. He was surprised that she could bear his weight for she was slightly built.

  “Come on,” she encouraged him. “There’s not far to walk. We’ll be there soon.” Tawl struggled along by her side, learning to master his pain.

  Baralis carefully allowed four drops of the pink-tinged poison to fall into the jug of wine. The poison rippled and then thinned, its deadly transparency soon lost to the eye. He was rather proud of his latest brew, as it was nearly without odor. He washed his hands thoroughly in a bowl of cold water. It wouldn’t do to have any residue of the materials left on them; this was a particularly lethal mixture and he could already feel a burn upon his flesh.

  His hands bore the marks of years spent working with deadly substances. Corrosive acids had gnawed the fat from his flesh, leaving his skin upon the bone. The skin itself was taut and red, and as it tightened he could feel it pull upon his fingers, drawing them inward toward his palms. Every day he rubbed warm oils into the straining flesh, hoping to retain what little mobility was left. His fingers, once long and elegant in youth, were now old beyond their years.

  It was a price he paid for his expertise. It was high for one who valued manipulation and swiftness of hand as much as he did, but he would have it no other way. There was a cost to all things, and glory only came to those who were willing to pay the price.

  It was time to place the jug of wine in Maybor’s chambers. The lord was usually away from the castle in the afternoons, hunting or riding. This was a job he would have to do himself. He could not trust Crope with a task that required such stealth.