by J. V. Jones
Jack was sobered by such generosity. “Falk, I don’t know how to thank you.” He was saved from saying more by Falk, who grunted in a dismissive manner.
“ ’Tis nothing. Though I ask one thing in return.”
“What?”
“Don’t be bitter, Jack. You are young and life has set you a difficult path. Don’t make it worse by blaming others for its course.” The woodsman gave him a look filled with understanding. It was Jack who looked away first.
Satisfied, Falk busied himself with placing food onto a cloth. He then drew the cloth into a sling and tied the cord tightly. A few moments looking through a chest, and he pulled out a pair of boots. He looked at Jack’s feet critically, shaking his head in disbelief. When Falk handed the boots over to him, Jack didn’t know whether to smile or be ashamed. Lastly, Falk gave him a leather purse. “It’s not much,” he said, “a few golds, but it will help you once you clear the forest.”
Jack tried to thank him again, but his words seemed stiff and formal. “I owe you much, Falk. I thank you for your kindness and promise to repay you.”
“I want no thanks and I will have no man beholden to me. I absolve you of any debt or obligation.” Jack tried to think of a suitable reply. Not finding one, he decided silence was his best course.
The two companions left the den, and stood side by side. Although Jack had seen the den from the outside several times before, he could not help but admire it once again. It appeared to be nothing more than a mass of dense bushes. Falk caught Jack looking at it. “I have few things to be proud of, my home is one of them.”
They stood in silence for a few minutes, taking in the beauty of the forest.
Falk surprised Jack by coming forward and placing a light kiss upon his cheek. “I envy you, Jack. You are young and your life is ahead of you—make an adventure of it!” For the last time, Jack could find no words. The two men’s eyes met, and Jack turned and walked away.
He did not look back. He headed into the deep forest, checking the position of the sun to ensure he was walking east. All the great cities lay to the east. It didn’t matter where he ended up, what counted was the experience. Now that Falk had set his mind ablaze, he needed fuel to feed the flame.
Jack broke into a run. He enjoyed the sensation of cool air on his face, and when it began to rain, he counted it a blessing. Many leagues he traveled, his thoughts too joyful for contemplation. His life would be an adventure, and that was enough to sustain him through the day.
When night began to make its presence felt with cool breezes and a darkening sky, Jack slowed and looked for a place to sleep. He found a flat area of ground by a narrow stream and unpacked his bag. He was overwhelmed with the contents; there was a side of cured ham, a round of yellow cheese, salted venison, apples, nuts, dried fruits, and dried meats. Besides food there was a light woolen blanket and a flask. Jack drank from the flask and found it was filled with cider. Smiling, he cut himself a large wedge of cheese to complement the brew.
Jack opened the leather purse and found five gold pieces. To a boy who’d not owned a penny his entire life, five golds was a fortune.
He tucked in to a hearty meal, testing the blade of his dagger on the side of ham. As he ate, Jack wished he could have thanked Falk more eloquently for all he had done. He considered the strange character of his benefactor and realized the best thing he could do was simply to enjoy the bounty he had given. Jack raised his flask and made a toast: “To Falk, a man alone but at peace.” Jack downed the remaining cider and belched appreciatively. It was a good brew.
Baralis was not pleased. His dove had died; the wretched bird had finally succumbed to starvation and cold. Now he had no way of ensuring his mercenaries would pick up the girl. He would have to send out another bird. He would do it tomorrow—he had a meeting with the queen later this day and he needed his wits about him. To add to his displeasure, he had just received a letter by courier from the chubby, scheming Tavalisk, asking for his library back. The corrupt and corpulent archbishop was up to no good, he could feel it in his blood. The man lived for intrigue, and he wouldn’t let something as juicy as the marriage of Kylock go unquestioned. The map of the Known Lands would soon be changing, power would shift from the bloated south to the ravenous north. There was no place for a glutton in a world dominated by a lean and hungry empire.
Tavalisk would bear watching; he would not have his plans foiled by the archbishop’s pudgy hand.
Baralis did have some reasons to be pleased: the queen had finally acquiesced and had requested an audience with him this night. She wanted more of the medicine. Winter’s Eve festival was the following night, and he hoped to have the queen’s seal of approval on his proposal by then.
As Baralis thought, he mixed a batch of poison. A new formula—one that he had not tried before. With hands made deft once more by his painkillers, he ground powders and measured liquids, careful to attain the exact proportions. Too much of the moss extract might overpower the other ingredients and the delicate balance would be disturbed. Making poison required a meticulous eye and a steady hand.
This poison was not meant to be consumed—this was more subtle. Baralis smiled grimly as he considered his handiwork; this was undoubtedly the most amusing poison he had ever made. It was designed to be poured onto the victim’s robes. The poison was strong and would only need a few drops, preferably around the collar and shoulders. The victim would wear his cloak and be able to detect nothing amiss, for the potion was clear and had little odor. The victim would then proceed about his business unaware that he was breathing in the deadly fumes that the poison gave off. It would be a slow death, for the fumes would be slight and take many hours to work their deadly commission.
Baralis now reached the point in the manufacture where he was forced to don a mask—he did not want to take any chances himself. The death that the poison brought would not only be slow but also painful. The victim would find himself short of breath as the noxious substance burnt into the delicate flesh of throat and lung. The victim would assume he had indigestion or heartburn and would think nothing of it. Gradually the poison would eat away at the victim’s lungs to such an extent that he would suffocate, desperately struggling for breath that could not come.
Baralis, having finished making the poison, cautiously tipped it into a glass jar upon which he placed a firm stopper. Tomorrow, when the attention of the castle was diverted by last-minute preparations for the festival, he would slip into Maybor’s chamber. Baralis would douse Maybor’s best robes in the poison. As there was to be a court dance that evening, the vain Lord Maybor would be sure to wear his most extravagant and expensive robes. Little would he suspect that the clothes he wore to impress the court would be the very instrument of his downfall.
Baralis was most satisfied with his plan. This time no unsuspecting servant would step in and save his master. Maybor had been lucky once; he would not be so again.
Maybor was waiting downwind of the middens once more. Impatiently, he stamped his feet on the hard ground. The assassin finally came, his diminutive figure emerging over the gentle rise. Maybor did not stand on ceremony. “Why have you not done what was agreed?”
The assassin did not appear to be concerned with Maybor’s angry tone. “The time has not been right so far. I would not endanger myself by moving too soon and without due care.”
Maybor was not happy with this answer. “It has been many days since we met last. I would have expected you to find a propitious moment before now.”
“I have been carefully monitoring Lord Baralis’ movements. He goes nowhere without his fool Crope.”
“That is not my problem. I want him dead, and I want it done soon.”
“You will not have to wait much longer, Lord Maybor. It is my intention to make my move soon.”
“How soon?” pressured Maybor.
“Lord Maybor, I will not tell you the details. It is better that you do not know when and where. Let it come as a surprise—you will be bet
ter able to act your part that way.”
Maybor knew that what the assassin said made sense. “Very well, so be it. I must have your word that it will be done soon though.”
“You have it, Lord Maybor.” The assassin was about to withdraw when a question occurred to Maybor.
“What have you found out about Baralis? Surely you must have seen some interesting things by following him around.”
The assassin appeared to hesitate for a moment before speaking. “I have found out little about the man’s secrets, he barely leaves his rooms.”
Maybor suspected that the assassin was holding something back from him. He decided to press no further until the job was done; he could not risk aggravating the assassin before then. Once it was completed was another matter. In fact, once the deed was done, he might even arrange for Scarl himself to have an accident. Maybor dearly loved his apple orchards and was loathe to part with thirty acres of them. These thoughts cheered his spirits considerably.
“Very well, Scarl. I trust you will do as you say.”
Scarl gave him a brief guarded look and said, “I will do my job, have no fear, Lord Maybor.” With that, he withdrew leaving Maybor to the stench of the middens.
Maybor watched as the assassin walked away. He did not trust him; after all, what was he but a hired murderer? He would do his job, Maybor was sure of that. Once he had done it, however, he might find himself a victim of an assassin’s knife.
Maybor waited a while and wondered how long it would be before his daughter was found. Twelve days now had passed since she bolted. He knew she would be alive and well: the girl had spirit and initiative—after all she was his daughter. Now he had his men riding into all the towns and villages that bordered on the great forest in case Melliandra turned up in one of them. He had even spread a discreet word about rewards that could be received, if information leading to his daughter’s recovery was given. There was a risk with doing so, but he was running out of time. He was forced to take broader measures: he had to find Melliandra. She would be betrothed! He would be father to a queen.
Melli awoke and immediately felt sick. She hurried to the washstand, where she threw up, retching violently. She felt awful. She returned to sit on the bed, as she was feeling a little faint, and tried to think what to do next. She did not trust Mistress Greal. She would retrieve her horse and move on. Unfortunately, she was feeling so weak that the last thing she felt like was walking all day.
There was the briefest of knocks on her door and Mistress Greal sailed in. “My, my. What’s happened to you?” She saw the mess in the washstand. “Oh, I see, not used to cider, eh? Well never mind, you’ll live. A jug of cider’s never killed anyone, save old Ma Crutly—she got hit over the head with one.” The woman busied herself tidying the room.
“I thank you for your hospitality, but I will be on my way today. I have left the pots we agreed upon on top of the chest. I trust you will be happy with the payment.” Melli indicated the plate and pots.
Mistress Greal’s already small eyes narrowed further. “You don’t look to be in any state to be off, deary. You’d best stay another day. Relax and have a nice bath. I drew one for you last night, but when I came to ready you, you were fast asleep.”
The sound of a hot bath and a day relaxing was far too tempting, and Melli relented. “Very well, Mistress Greal, I will stay another day. But I warn you, I have nothing else to pay you.”
“Don’t worry about that, deary, that’s nothing to me. I just want to help a fellow woman on her way. Now, I’ll have a nice breakfast sent up and arrange to have another bath drawn. I also took the liberty of seeing about a new dress. You can’t go having a nice bath and then put on those filthy clothes, can you?” The woman regarded Melli’s dirty and disheveled clothes with distaste, making Melli feel ashamed.
“You are too good to me, Mistress Greal. But if you could just have my clothes cleaned, I would not trouble you for new ones.”
“Nonsense, that dress is badly torn. Besides, the clothes won’t be new. They’re very pretty, though—show you off to your best advantage.” Mistress Greal left the room, and Melli had no chance to ask what she meant by showing her off to her best advantage. Melli had no desire to be shown off.
Her attentions were diverted by the arrival of a hot and delicious breakfast: crisp bacon, poached egg, grilled mushrooms, and plenty of bread and butter. She tucked in heartily. Whatever Mistress Greal’s motives, Melli thanked her for providing such delicious food.
After she had eaten, a sallow-faced girl appeared and led Melli to a small room that contained a round, wooden bath. The water was steaming hot and Melli soaked for a long time, soothing the aches of her body. After a while she permitted the girl to scrub her back and wash her hair. She dried herself on a woolen towel: it felt so good to be clean. She looked at the bathwater and was horrified to see it was a murky brown color. She had obviously been a lot dirtier than she had thought.
Once dry, the girl handed Melli a deep, crimson-colored dress. It was not to Melli’s taste, but as her own dress had been taken away, she was forced to put it on. The bodice was cut low and exposed much of Melli’s breast. The girl then pulled the lacing so tight that Melli could hardly breathe, and her breasts were pushed up high toward her chin. There was no mirror so she could not see what she looked like, but she suspected she must look rather improper, not at all like a lady of the court. She asked the girl to loosen the lacings a little, but the girl refused.
“That’s the way Mistress Greal likes ’em,” she said.
A few moments later, as the girl was dressing her hair, Mistress Greal herself walked in. She seemed pleased at what she saw. She walked around Melli, making approving, clucking sounds. She finally spoke. “My, my. Who would have guessed you would have turned out so well? Of course, I have got a good eye for beauty, but I can see I’ve surpassed myself this time.” She then spoke to the girl, “Keddi, leave her hair down. Such fine hair, it’s a waste to tie it up.” The girl obediently took the pins from Melli’s hair. Mistress Greal came toward Melli and smoothed her hand over Melli’s face and bosom.
“My, my, you are a pretty one.” She noticed Melli’s distaste at being touched. “No need to be coy, girl. I would have thought such a pretty posy as you would be well used to being admired.”
“Please, Mistress Greal, I find this all rather embarrassing. If you could ask your maid to hurry washing my dress, I would be most gratified. I fear that this one is not to my taste.” Mistress Greal’s expression turned cold as Melli spoke.
“Nonsense, this dress suits you fine. You should be grateful! That dirty thing you wore is not a patch on this one for quality.” Melli had to bite her lip. Torn and dirty though her dress was, it was made from the finest lambswool and was by far the better quality of the two. However, Melli knew better than to speak of such things. She did not want Mistress Greal to know of her former position as a lady of the court.
Mistress Greal seemed to regret her sharp words, and when she spoke again it was in a more beguiling tone. “Perhaps you would care to join me for a sup of ale in the tavern?” Melli most definitely did not wish to do so.
“I would prefer to spend the day in my room. Of course, I would like to check on my horse first.”
“There’s no need to check on the horse,” said the woman quickly. “It is well looked after, my boy has seen to that.” Melli began to feel decidedly uneasy. She did not press the point further, but resolved to go and check on her horse later anyway.
“Why don’t you join me for a sup? It would be a shame to waste such a pretty dress. Besides, you must be hungry and the tavern keeper does not serve midday meal in his private rooms.” Mistress Greal shot a glance to the maid, warning her not to contradict what she said. Melli knew she was being forced; she also knew she couldn’t now refuse.
“Very well, I will join you for a short while.”
Mistress Greal was most pleased. “Very good, very good. We shall have a nice time.”
Melli sat quietly and drank little of the ale. Mistress Greal appeared to know everyone in the tavern: she nodded and waved at all of the men. In fact, their little party seemed to be the focus of attention in the room. Melli hoped that no one who knew her from Castle Harvell was there. On a brief scan around the room, she saw no one familiar.
After a little while, a man came up to them. He spoke to Mistress Greal, but his eyes were on Melli. “I wish you joy of the day, Mistress Greal,” he said, his eyes lingering over Melli’s exposed bosom.
“Joy to you, Edrad,” replied Mistress Greal, noting with approval where the man’s eyes looked.
“May I have the pleasure of being introduced to your lovely companion?”
“Why, certainly, sir. This is Melli. Where did you say you were from my dear?”
Melli had not said; she struggled to think of a suitable place. “I am from . . . Deepwood.”
“Deepwood? Never heard of it. Where might that be?” asked the man.
“It’s far south of here.”
“It must be very far south if I have never heard of it,” remarked Mistress Greal sharply.
Melli was thinking of a polite way to excuse herself when the man spoke to her companion: “Mistress Greal, I wonder if I might have a word with you in private?” The woman agreed, and the two withdrew beyond Melli’s hearing distance. She watched as the man asked something and the woman shook her head. The man then asked something else and this time Mistress Greal nodded. The man departed, with one last look toward Melli, and Mistress Greal returned to the table.
