The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  “There’s a girl!” cried Edrad. “They obviously teach women how to drink like men in Deepwood.” Melli could not help but smile. The strong ale was making her feel lightheaded, and she was beginning to wonder why she complained against coming to sit in such a pleasant place. Seeing Melli smile, the men smiled, and seeing the men smile, Mistress Greal smiled.

  After a while, Melli began to feel decidedly merry. She laughed at the jokes made by Edrad and Larkin at Lester’s expense, and downed more of the reserve. She caught Edrad and Mistress Greal exchanging glances and saw the woman’s barely perceptible nod. “You know what you need, my dear?” she said.

  “No, what do I need, Mistress Greal?” replied Melli.

  “You need a little fresh air. A short walk to cool your face and clear your head.” The idea of a walk in the cool, early evening was most appealing to Melli, who was feeling a little flushed and warm. She nodded enthusiastically.

  “Will you accompany us, Edrad?” asked Mistress Greal casually.

  “It would be my distinct honor.” He bowed, and offered her and Melli an arm. The party of three walked to the door, to the great interest of the other tavern drinkers, and left.

  The evening was refreshingly cool after the heat of the tavern. Melli stumbled slightly, finding it difficult to walk straight. The strong arm of Edrad steadied her. After they had walked a short while, Mistress Greal spoke up, “If you two will excuse me, I must pop back to the tavern for my wrap. I seem to have forgotten it. I’ll only be an instant.” With that she was off.

  Edrad took this opportunity to steer Melli toward the stables, and it seemed like a good idea to her. “I’ll be able to check on my horse,” she said. Edrad smiled and nodded, and guided her into the darkened interior. He then led Melli toward an even darker corner. “I don’t think my horse is here,” commented Melli, her speech slurring slightly.

  “We’ll see your horse later,” said Edrad as he guided Melli against a wall. He began moving his hand up from her arm to her breast. He leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers. Melli was feeling confused and light-headed. She reluctantly agreed to the kiss, and soon found Edrad’s tongue in her mouth. The next thing she felt was his hand squeezing her breast.

  “Oh, you’re such a lovely one,” he murmured as he bent to kiss her breast. Melli was beginning to feel that this wasn’t very nice, but her head was lazy with ale and her reactions seemed slow. She was backed up against the wall and Edrad was slavering over her breasts. She felt his warm hand reach under her skirt. Melli was beginning to feel a little panicky: kissing was one thing, but a hand under her skirt was quite another.

  Fleetingly she remembered the armed men who had torn her dress. It occurred to her fuddled brain that Edrad was no better than those men. She felt his hand move toward her thigh. She decided she would tolerate this invasion no longer. With all the strength in her body, she raised her knee and violently slammed it into Edrad’s groin. Edrad immediately fell back onto the floor murmuring cries of, “Bitch!” and clutching his vitals.

  Melli had not expected her blow to be so effective. He seemed unable to retaliate in any way. Pleased with herself, but still confused by drink, she wondered what to do next. She had the distinct feeling Mistress Greal would not be too happy with her. Melli decided that since she was in the stable, she would get her horse and leave. She would even take a saddle—she had no intention of returning to the tavern, so they could keep her possessions as payment for it.

  Melli walked past the groaning Edrad and wondered why he was still doubled up and obviously in great pain. Rather merrily she hurried on to find her horse.

  After much fumbling in the dark, she located her horse. It seemed pleased to see her and whinnied softly. Melli searched, found rather a nice saddle, and placed it on her horse’s back, not concerned too much with fit. She then led her horse out of the stable and, after a few tries, somehow managed to mount him, despite feeling rather dizzy.

  She rode as quietly as she could out of town. Before long, however, both her head and her stomach began to feel very unsteady, and she realized she could go on no longer. She guided her horse off the track and managed to find a quiet glade out of sight of the road. Dismounting from her horse, she threw up in the bushes, and fell asleep on the cold ground.

  Ten

  The great banquet hall was aglow with the light of a thousand candles. The walls were strung with garlands of sweet-smelling winter flowers, and countless silk ribbons hung from the rafters.

  Long tables were heavily laden with many foods: four whole suckling pigs, mouths stuffed with peaches; five roasted lambs; two sides of venison seasoned with rosemary and thyme; twenty silver salmon from the Farlands; and a score of lake trout from the east. There were platters of tender sheep’s kidneys and plates full of steamed pheasant. There were a dozen varieties of cheeses and huge baskets filled with fresh fruits imported from the south.

  There was a great selection of drinks to choose from: for the ladies’ fancy, wines and sherries, sweet ciders and aromatic punches. For the men, potent ales and smooth stouts, strong ciders and pungent meads.

  The room was full of exquisitely clothed women, wearing high-necked dresses of blue and green and gold, their hair piled high in elaborate curls, and their arms and necks bedecked in jewels which sparkled brilliantly in the candlelight. The men too wore their best, richly colored robes of scarlet and purple. They mingled with the women, bowing and giving gracious compliments, and flirting suggestively.

  Servants were adorned in their best liveries, running around the room, filling cups and plates and attending to the slightest wish of the court. If the guests had been more observant and less drunk they would have noticed many a serving boy slipping sides of salmon and wedges of cheese beneath his tunic.

  Winter’s Eve festival was only the second most important festival of the year; Mid Winter was usually the most anticipated. But this year, the court at Castle Harvell had much to celebrate: the war with the Halcus was rumored to be going well and, more importantly, the king’s health had improved. There was a feeling of hope and excitement in the room. The future of the Four Kingdoms looked bright and the court was eager to celebrate.

  The banquet hall was huge and filled to capacity. People had come from the four corners of the kingdoms. There were visitors from Annis and Highwall and envoys from Lanholt and Silbur. All had come to pay their respects and win favor with the queen. The men talked of the war whilst the women talked politics. All who counted were here; they were aware of their importance and basked in the glow of shared privilege.

  The wine was strong and heady, and the ladies of court, who normally drank their wine watered, found themselves giggling and merry and ready to dance. The men, noticing this change, grew eager to please, fetching delicate morsels for them to eat, kissing their hands gallantly and escorting them onto the floor.

  As the night progressed, the nature of the evening changed. Politics gave way to passion. The music of strings and flutes filled the air; its soft cadences vying with the sound of talk and laughter, enticing people to the dance. The music worked its magic in subtle ways, making the ladies flushed and excited, and tempting the men to make indiscreet suggestions and clandestine assignations.

  Later there would be singing, the beautiful Hanella of Marls was to perform songs requested by the queen, songs telling of love and passion and intrigue. Harvell’s own great tenor Tarivall would later perform, beguiling the women with his glorious voice and his magnificent bearing. There was said to be five breathtaking women from Isro who would perform the exotic dance of their distant land—dancing naked except for their golden bracelets.

  It was to be the greatest and most splendid night of the year. Nothing had been spared: maids had spent months sewing dresses, cooks had spent weeks preparing foods, and servants had spent days hanging garlands. The banquet hall on Winter’s Eve was a place of great excitement and captivating spectacle.

  Baralis surveyed the room with a cynical
eye, noting with distaste the excesses of the evening. Great ladies were acting like tavern wenches, lords were drinking and eating like gluttons, and the lowly gentry were trying to ingratiate themselves with anyone who would listen.

  Baralis thought the whole evening was a waste of time and money. He looked at the brightly dressed women and saw vanity and frivolity. He looked at the drunken lords and saw greed and stupidity. The court of the Four Kingdoms was filled with fools!

  He would be careful to play his part, though. He would have no one know what dark thoughts nestled in his heart. He caught the eye of one of the court beauties; he bowed gallantly and the absurd creature blushed and giggled. She was far too red of face and big of bosom for Baralis to find her attractive—he preferred young girls, slim of hip and breast. However, he knew he must go along with such charade, and so made it his business to bow and smile to any lady who crossed his path.

  Baralis made sure that he spoke to the lords that counted: the ones with great holdings of land, the ones who wielded power at court, and the ones who had influence with the queen. They were all a little uneasy in his presence, but this served only to amuse him. He encouraged his companions to drink heavily, while careful to take only a few sips of wine himself.

  He approached Lord Carvell; the man had financial interests in Bren and would prove a useful ally in the months to come. Carvell was in deep conversation with a nobleman from Annis. Fergil of Grallis was both cunning and wealthy. He had a daughter of Kylock’s age, by all accounts a sickly girl with eyes as large as mushrooms. Baralis spoke to Fergil, but his words were intended for Carvell: “Annis does well in keeping its distance from Bren,” he said. “Though I doubt if it would fare so well, if it decided to ally with the kingdoms. Bren well likes its position as the mightiest power in the north and may balk at the joining of two of its rivals.” Baralis shrugged. “Of course, it might not lead to war. But if it did, the first thing Bren would do would be to seize all foreign assets in the city.”

  There. That should be enough to put Carvell off listening to any proposals Fergil might make regarding his daughter and Kylock. Carvell might like to politic, but his financial interests would always come first. Sure that his words had hit the mark, Baralis bowed graciously and moved on. Fending off potential brides for Kylock was almost second nature to him. For nearly twenty years now, countless dukes and lords had tried to marry their daughters to the heir to the Four Kingdoms. Baralis counted it among his greatest achievements that none had found their match. As king’s chancellor he was perfectly placed for diverting suitors away from the eyes and ears of the court, and if politics didn’t work, poison or sorcery always did.

  He greeted Lady Helliarna with a kiss to her hand. The old dowager simpered like a virgin. Besides the queen, she was the most powerful woman at court. As her beauty faded, her determination grew, and she had more influence with Arinalda than any other. She also had a son, an interesting boy, whose ambitions equalled her own—they would both be careful to choose the winning side if matters should come to a head.

  Not that he had any intention of letting that happen. No, things would go smoothly, but it never hurt to tilt the land in case of rain.

  Lord and Lady Hibray acknowledged him with all the aloofness of co-conspirators. It was partly due to them, many years before, that he was made a lord. The good lady had a problem holding her babies till term. Six had been born too soon—four of them sons. He’d helped her out, as only he could, in return for introductions in high places and a bequeathal of one of their many unused titles. It was a fair deal: they had three grown children now—two daughters and a son. Baralis was sure he could rely on their support for his choice of royal bride. If it wasn’t given willingly, there was always blackmail to tip the scales.

  Lord Vernal had come from the front to attend the celebrations—the battle would go worse for his absence. He was a sound military leader. Baralis made a point of raising his cup in the great man’s direction. He might be a good friend of Maybor’s, but he had sons and, much like Helliarna, would do what was necessary to secure their positions.

  The two knights of Valdis were here. For five years they had traveled between the courts at Harvell and Helch, playing at peacemaking. Their efforts had waned over the past years, and Baralis suspected it was the desire for information not peace that kept them here. The knights were led by a dangerous fool. Tyren was close with the duke of Bren, and he was doubtless using his knights’ presence in the kingdoms as a means to feed intelligence to the good duke. Let the knights act as spies; the duke of Bren would hear nothing save reports of stalemate about the war.

  Baralis made a mental note to let Lord Vernal in on his suspicions about the knights. It was to his advantage to have the court wary of Bren’s interest in the kingdoms. Fear of invasion had helped seal many an alliance.

  Baralis managed to catch the eye of the queen and she gave him the most imperceptible of nods. He in return smiled graciously. He could well afford to be gracious; with Maybor and his daughter out of the way, the queen would soon submit to his proposal. He would then be able to influence who Prince Kylock would marry.

  He scanned the room for Lord Maybor, but couldn’t spot him at first, for the hall was crowded with people. He eventually spied the portly lord. Maybor had managed to surround himself with the pretty daughters of minor noblemen and was currently flirting outrageously and generally making a fool of himself. He was wearing the doctored robe. Baralis smiled, almost sadly. It would not be long before Maybor would begin to feel the sting of the poison at his throat. Maybor would collapse before the night was over, and people would nod and say it was due to immoderate drinking and a weak heart.

  After a while, Baralis felt he’d had his fill of court pleasantries and he decided he would retire to a less crowded part of the banquet hall. He made his way to the back of the room where it was darker and there were few people around—save a few couples who were too overcome with passion or drink to notice his presence. It suited him well; he could watch the foibles of the court and not become involved with them.

  The assassin was listening hard in the concealed passageway. The evening seemed to have reached the drunken fever pitch that was required for him to perform his task successfully. For the last time he checked his blade, more from habit than anxiety. And then, his face taut with concentration, he stepped out.

  The assassin crept from the passageway. The only occupants of the small antechamber were an old man and a young girl, who were both so embarrassed to be caught in such a compromising position that they did not notice from whence the intruder came. The old man was about to speak—probably some excuse. Scarl drew a finger to his lips, halting any speech. He smiled understandingly and encouraged the man to continue with a small gesture of his arm. The old man, much relieved, returned to running his age-marked hands over the breasts of his adolescent companion.

  The assassin slipped into the banquet hall. He was momentarily dazzled by the bright light and the noise. He checked carefully to make sure no one was looking his way, then slunk up against the wall. Feeling the brush of tapestries against his back, he made for the deepest shadows. The lords and ladies appeared not to notice the passage of his slight, unassuming figure against the dark recesses of the wall.

  As he drew near the back of the hall, the assassin spotted his mark. Lord Baralis was there, dressed in fine, black robes, sipping from a golden cup and watching the revelry of the court with detachment.

  Scarl reached the end of the room. Hanging from the ceiling was a huge satin curtain which would provide cover until he was ready to make his move. With practiced stealth, the assassin crept to the back wall, lifted the rich curtain, and drew himself behind it. His body flat against the stone, he moved level with his mark. He was now a mere few feet directly behind Baralis.

  Scarl checked through an opening in the curtain and was pleased to find that apart from two men in the corner—who were so inebriated they could barely stand—Lord Baralis was alon
e. The assassin’s heart thrilled with anticipation. All was as he hoped.

  The assassin drew his knife. He lifted the satin curtain. Blade poised in hand, he moved forward.

  Lord Maybor realized that he was drunk. He was not just drunk, he was rip-roaring, out of his skull drunk. He was enjoying himself immensely.

  Not only had everyone admired the magnificence of his robes, but he had also managed to attract all the young beauties of the court to his side. There is no one like a young girl for being impressed by great wealth and good looks, he thought. Who knew, he might even remarry! He fancied an attractive wife for a change. Of course, the catch was that the pretty ones never had any land—it was always the ugly girls who had the best dowries. Maybor decided that his next wife would be ugly, after all.

  Who needed a comely wife when there were so many young poppets willing to jump into his bed and ask no more than a golden trinket or a new dress for the privilege?

  Maybor tried to focus his bleary eyes. He was sure the queen had given him a most hostile glare earlier. Never mind, he would doubtless find out what the problem with Her Highness was in the morning, when he had his audience with her. The evening was far too stimulating to be worrying about the dour face of the queen.

  He called loudly for more ale. As he did so, he detected a soreness to his throat. He hoped he wasn’t coming down with a fever or the pox. He had noticed earlier that he had a certain shortness of breath, but dismissed this as an effect of the ale. The special brew was particularly potent and could easily be responsible for such symptoms.

  Maybor had not spotted Baralis all evening. He hoped most fervently that his assassin would not wait much longer before murdering the demon! The thought of the man’s imminent death cheered him and he downed more ale, feeling its liquid coolness most welcome on his burning throat. It was time to have some fun.