The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  As they walked back to the castle walls, Baralis considered the queen. It was now common knowledge that the king’s health had improved. It was only a matter of time before she would summon him again, and then they would strike a deal.

  Baralis and Crope approached a remote section of the castle wall. Baralis’ twisted hands felt carefully for the tiny protrusion in the stone. He caressed it gently and the wall swung open. The smell of dank earth met his nostrils. They stepped into the opening, Baralis closing it straight after, and headed into the dark depths of the castle.

  * * *

  The assassin watched as the wall sealed itself once more. Watch and wait. It always pays off in the end. Scarl had watched earlier as Baralis and his giant servant had discreetly left the castle. The assassin had been expecting them to return the way they had come. It was with growing interest that he watched master and servant as they veered off from the expected route and walked toward a seemingly unremarkable section of wall.

  Scarl was not usually a man given to outward show of emotion, but when he saw Baralis uncover an opening in the wall, he permitted himself a satisfied smile. He sat back among the tall grass and, picking himself a long shoot to chew on, prepared to wait for a while.

  After waiting what Scarl deemed to be an appropriate amount of time, he approached the wall. A thorough man, he checked to see he had exactly the right section. Yes, this was it. Two sets of footprints in the damp mud led into the wall: Baralis’ light and, in Scarl’s opinion, stealthy looking prints and Crope’s large and heavy ones.

  The assassin ran his fingers lightly over the smooth stone. Nothing. Undeterred, he attempted to repeat the gestures he had seen Baralis make earlier. To aid this ploy, Scarl cleverly placed his feet in Baralis’ own footprints. Once again he ran his hands over the cool gray stone. Still nothing. The assassin was not alarmed; he was a patient man, well suited to his particular line of work. He tried again, this time scanning one stone at a time, his keen eyes searching for something unusual. He could find nothing.

  The assassin moved away from the wall and considered his next move. He was sure that the entrance was not warded; he was able to smell out such things. No, there was some practical way to gain access, if he could just think of it. Scarl chewed on his blade of grass, finding its bitter taste pleasing, and regarded the wall.

  He desperately wanted to gain access to the entrance; he was sure the castle would be riddled with secret passageways and rooms. All these old castles were built by people who knew the value of a discreet escape. Scarl’s motives were more than just tracking his mark. Scarl loved secrets, underhanded dealing, deception, concealed motives—anything, in fact, that had the low whiff of subterfuge about it.

  He had it! Why had he not thought of it sooner? Baralis was over a foot taller than he. He had his feet in the right place, but his hands had not been high enough. He then realized why it had not occurred to him sooner: the enormous Crope had the ability to make anyone appear small, when Baralis was in fact a tall man. Excitement grew in Scarl’s stomach, registering only as a mere tightening of his thin lips.

  He returned to the wall, feeling higher this time. The stone was smooth; his fingers trailed its length. There was something, a tiny inconsistency. His fingertips brushed over it, and then back once more. Scarl stepped aside as the wall sprang open.

  The assassin stepped into the cavity. A smell old and damp assailed his senses. The darkness enveloped his unready eyes. He checked in his pocket and found flint and tallow—Scarl had been prepared for this event for some time now. With hands as steady as an assassin’s must be, he lit the candle. The light it gave was feeble, barely enough. Scarl began to check the inside wall for a means to close the opening. Some time later, he detected a similar protrusion to that on the outside, and the wall moved back into place.

  His eyes gradually became more accustomed to the blackness. Without his candle, he could not have seen anything. Scarl was faced with a choice: left or right. He chose the left. The passage took him downward and soon became a tunnel with rounded sides. The walls were dripping with damp, and pale mosses, of a kind that Scarl had never seen before. Impulsively, he reached out to touch some—it felt soft and springy and left a slight residue on his fingers. Scarl studied the sticky substance and then carefully wiped his fingers clean; one could not be too careful when dealing with strange moss. Although no expert on poison, Scarl was aware that certain mosses were often used in its manufacture.

  The tunnel led downward for some time longer, and then there was another branching. Scarl decided to take it and soon came upon a flight of stone steps. He felt sure he must be under the castle by now. The stairway presented him with many options: it twisted around and upward and many passages led off on each new level. When the assassin had ascended enough for his liking, he took one of the passageways. It was long and straight with many doorways, some sealed. He was beginning to realize how vast and intricate the network of tunnels was.

  The assassin was full of admiration for the men who must have designed and built it. He was also a little envious of Baralis’ mastery of the system. He, too, yearned to know where all the doors and passages led. He was sure he had seen but a tiny fraction of the whole. Scarl was aware that the maze of tunnels promised access to many forbidden places: bedchambers, supply rooms, meeting areas. He knew well how such an extensive system could be put to great use. The assassin revised his estimation of his mark—Baralis was not only a man of great power, but also of great resources.

  He looked ahead, wondering how he could gain access to the inside of the castle. He picked a doorway at random and found himself at a dead end. Knowing that a passage usually leads somewhere, he felt the end wall and, sure enough, his fingers alighted on the tiny lump that marked an opening. Scarl stood to one side as the heavy stone wall drew back without a sound.

  He found himself in a part of the castle with which he was unfamiliar. Looking around, he was surprised to find that he was still underground. He had calculated he would be on the first or second floor of the castle. Instead he was in what looked to be an unused dungeon. His gaze took in the old torture devices. There was a rotting, wooden rack, a wheel, a press, and many others.

  Scarl looked over the devices with professional interest—before he became an assassin, he had gained some experience in torture. His trained eye told him that the equipment had hardly been used. It was also badly out of date. He had been in Rorn some months ago and had been impressed by the new devices they had there. Rorn was a city which kept abreast of the times.

  The assassin looked for a way out of the dungeon, vowing he would make it his business to become familiar with the secret passageways. He was sure they would prove to be useful to him.

  Melli noticed that the trees were beginning to thin out. The forest had gradually become less dense: there were more glades and patches of open land. She had even seen the roof of a small cottage the day before. She had been tempted to approach the dwelling, but caution won over curiosity and she had moved on.

  She’d been in the woods for ten days now and was surprised at how quickly she had adapted to the ways of the forest. She, Lady Melliandra of the Four Kingdoms, had actually enjoyed sleeping under the stars and drinking water from bubbling streams.

  Melli was both excited and anxious about leaving the woods. The forest had in some ways protected her from the worries of the outside world. Things were simple for her: she walked, she ate, she slept. Now there would be other things to deal with: people and money and shelter. She had been lucky with the weather; although chill, it had not snowed, and the thick forest was a natural barrier to the wind. Melli knew snow would come soon, and she realized she would need warmer clothes when it did.

  If only her purse had not been stolen! She could have bought a saddle and hastened her journey. As she was now, without her valuables, she did not know what she would do when her food ran out. There was always her horse, but she suspected she would only get a silver or two for him.
Besides, she didn’t like the idea of parting with him.

  As she walked in the bright cold morning, Melli began to notice signs of human habitation: smoke spiraling upward in the distance, a patch of grass grazed short, a cleared ditch. She quickened her pace, and the forest began to give way to open land. A farmhouse appeared on the rise, and then another one. Melli spotted a dirt track and led her horse onto it.

  By afternoon she had approached a small village. It boasted a tavern but no smithy. Melli’s appearance garnered much attention from the village people: the women looked at her with mistrust and the men with speculation. It was apparent to her that she must present a strange sight to the hostile villagers. She still wore her sack over her dress, and instead of a cloak she wore a blanket. She thought her face was clean, for she splashed it with water when she could, but she suspected her hair was a wild tangle.

  Noticing the inimical stares, she decided the village would not be a good place to stop. As she passed the last of the buildings, a woman’s voice rang out, clear and shrill, “Good riddance to you. We don’t want your sort here. Go to Duvitt—that’s where your kind belong.” Melli could hardly believe she was being addressed in such a way. All her life she had been spoken to with courtesy and respect. The cruel tone of the woman’s voice caused her more distress than all the days she had been alone in the forest. Determined to be dignified, she did not look back, and she and her horse walked away from the village.

  Melli walked through the afternoon, and the road she traveled became wider and better maintained. Eventually, as it began to grow dark, Melli saw in the distance the lights of a town. Not wanting to make the same mistake twice, she took off the woven sack and smoothed her hair as best she could. Sometime later, she entered the town of Duvitt.

  Duvitt was enjoying a time of great prosperity. Situated between Harvell and the River Nestor it was in an ideal locale to exploit the war between the Four Kingdoms and Halcus. The past five years had seen a substantial increase in business, as the town catered to the hundreds of soldiers that passed through each week. Although Duvitt was firmly in Four Kingdoms’ territory, the enterprising business owners were not above catering to the needs of the Halcus. And so Duvitt had become an unofficial neutral zone, where a weary soldier in any colors could find lodgings and a cup of cool, albeit rather expensive, ale.

  There were of course drawbacks to this arrangement; drunken soldiers find it hard to remain neutral for long, and so there were many violent brawls. Minor property damage and a few dead men were considered a small price to pay for prosperity. The town now boasted more taverns than anywhere else in the Four Kingdoms, and many a tavern owner, in the privacy of his bed at night, prayed that the war would continue indefinitely.

  Melli approached the town warily. There were many people in the streets, none of whom gave her more than a second look. She had little idea of what she was going to do. She would perhaps try to trade the few pots and pans Master Trout had included in her purchase. Duvitt seemed bigger to her than Harvell; it was certainly busier. She noticed that many of the people on the streets were soldiers, and this she took as a sign that she had not gone too far off track.

  She slowed down, looking for a safe place to leave her horse, wishing that she’d had the sense to tie him to a remote tree or bush before she’d entered the town. Melli decided to risk tying her horse to a wooden fence in plain view of many people, hoping that no one would steal a horse so openly. She smiled a little at her own caution; her horse would hardly be a great prize for a thief.

  She hailed a young boy who was passing. “Can you tell me where I might be able to sell some items?”

  The boy was immediately interested. “What items?” he asked, feigning casualness.

  “Two tin cups and a plate and a copper pot.”

  The boy’s interest visibly waned. “You might try Master Huddle, two doors down.” Melli was about to thank the boy, but he was off, looking for more profitable prospects.

  She duly followed his advice and entered a small, dirty-looking shop crammed with all manner of wares. The shopkeeper looked at her as she entered, took in the poor condition of her clothes and then ostentatiously ignored her, turning his attention back to his other customer.

  “Yes, Mistress Greal, I’ll try and have your boots mended by this time tomorrow.”

  “See that you do, sir. And I want a good job, mind, no half stitches.”

  “I will personally ensure that my boy does full stitches.”

  “Very well. Good night, sir.” The woman turned around and was about to leave when she caught sight of Melli. Her eyes narrowed and she looked Melli up and down. She watched as Melli approached the shopkeeper.

  “What d’you want, girl?” demanded the man in an entirely different tone than the one he had just been using.

  “I would sell some items,” said Melli with dignity.

  “What’ve you got?”

  “Two tin cups and a plate and a copper pot.”

  “Not interested, girl. Now get out of here!” Melli’s face flushed with anger and embarrassment. She stormed out of the shop and was about to head for her horse when she felt a tap on her arm. She swung around and saw it was the woman customer who had stopped her.

  “What’s the rush, deary?” said the woman. “Got no money, no place to stay?” Melli did not reply, and the woman continued, “I can see you’re a pretty girl under all that dirt.” Melli blushed further and tried to move around the woman, who was now blocking her path. The woman stepped ahead of her and spoke once more. “I’ll give you hot food and a bed for the night.”

  “Why would you do that?” replied Melli, suspicious of the woman’s intentions.

  For the briefest instant, a look of cunning passed over the woman’s face. “I have need of some pots and pans, of course.”

  Melli did not believe the woman, but the sound of hot food and a bed was very tempting to her. “Is there somewhere to stable my horse?”

  “There most certainly is, my pretty. Follow me. I’ll have a boy see to your horse.”

  Melli followed the woman to a large tavern. Seeing Melli’s puzzled look the woman said, “Oh, I have my rooms upstairs. You’ll be staying there with me.” Melli was forced to walk through the tavern to reach the stairs at the back. As they passed one man, he shouted to her companion:

  “Mistress Greal, I see you have a new girl.” Mistress Greal did not look very happy at this outburst and hurried her along. Melli wondered what the man had meant by his comment, however she soon forgot about it when Mistress Greal showed her to her room.

  “This will be yours, deary. I’ll see about some food and hot water for a bath.” With that she was gone. Melli looked around the small room—it contained a bed, a chest of drawers, and a washstand. The room made Melli feel a little caged in at first, for she had become used to the vast forest as her bedroom.

  She started to feel better when Mistress Greal returned carrying a huge tray full of delicious smelling food. There was hot game pie, thick leek soup, a wedge of crumbly white cheese, and crusty bread lavished with butter. To her delight Mistress Greal left her to dine alone, and so she felt free to eat as much as she liked as fast as she liked. When she had eaten her fill, she wrapped the leftovers of pie and cheese in a piece of cloth and tucked them away with her other possessions. Then, as an afterthought, she rummaged in her blanket and found the cups and pot that formed her half of the bargain. She placed them on the chest of drawers: no one would say she did not pay her debts.

  Melli drained the last of the tall mug of cider that Mistress Greal had provided with the meal. As a lady of court, she had only been permitted to drink watered wine, and the strong and heady cider of the region went straight to her head. She lay on the bed, noting that it was rather lumpy, and fell fast asleep.

  Lord Maybor was not at all happy about what he had to do. He had asked the queen for an audience and she had granted him one. Ten days had passed since the betrothal was agreed upon, and now it seemed i
t was more unlikely to happen than ever. He paced his room. Damn Melliandra. The girl had made a mockery of his plans, and now he was forced into telling a dangerous lie to the queen.

  He regarded his reflection in his shattered mirror. He did not feel his usual satisfaction at the sight of himself in fine robes. Nothing was going right—even the assassin was slow in slitting Baralis’ treacherous throat. Scarl had been much faster the last time he’d commissioned his services. Lord Glayvin was seen to within three days.

  Reluctantly Maybor proceeded to the meeting chamber, knocked on the door, and was bidden enter.

  The queen held out the royal hand for him to kiss, a warm smile gracing her lips. “Lord Maybor. I take it you are here to discuss the details of the betrothal?”

  “I am, Your Highness. But I fear there may be a delay.”

  “Delay.” Gone were the queen’s pleasing tones. “What delay? I had hoped to announce the betrothal on Winter’s Eve festival. It was to be a double celebration—the king’s improved health and the announcement of the betrothal to the court. And now you speak to me of delay. I can brook no delay, Lord Maybor.”

  Maybor could understand the queen’s nervousness; just last week news had come from Bren of the duke’s advancement. This year alone he’d already conquered three towns to the southeast of the city. The man would soon style himself a king. “Your Highness, my daughter is not well.” Maybor inwardly cursed his daughter once more.

  “That is no problem. The marriage will not take place until spring. The betrothal ceremony is a brief one. Surely your daughter could make an effort to attend.”

  “Your Highness, Melliandra cannot leave her bed. She has a bad fever and is most seriously ill.” Maybor watched as the queen’s face became grave.

  “Maybor, has she the pox? I can not risk marrying Kylock to a girl who has had the pox.” It was well known the pox caused disfigurement and impotence.

  “No, Your Highness, it is but a wet fever. She will be well in a few days. That is all I ask for: ten days.”