The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  “Well, Your Eminence, it’s hard to tell which way it sailed, but I asked around, and the harbor workers said it was sailing to Larn.”

  “My, my, how interesting. Our knight has been most enterprising. How do you think he could afford to pay for such a charter?” Tavalisk saw with satisfaction that his last blow had finished the pathetic creature off. He could now settle down and enjoy its flesh.

  “A captain would demand a high price to sail to Larn, Your Eminence.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Gamil.” The archbishop now expertly gutted the lobster.

  “I have a suspicion, Your Eminence, that the Old Man might have something to do with it.”

  “I think that would be a fair assumption, Gamil. But why would the Old Man want to help our knight?” Tavalisk cut into the succulent tail, mouth watering in anticipation. “It’s probably that damned nuisance Bevlin again. He has no taste when it comes to friends. Probably asked the Old Man to keep an eye on his young knight.”

  Tavalisk felt something sharp bite into his tongue, followed by the distinct—but not unpleasant—taste of blood. It was a piece of shell. The cunning crustacean had got revenge from the grave! “Gamil, do we have any spies on Larn?” Tavalisk was now stuffing his mouth with lobster tail. His blood acted as a fair seasoning.

  “No one has spies on Larn, Your Eminence.”

  “Oh, how disappointing,” commented Tavalisk between mouthfuls of tail meat.

  The archbishop drained a cup of light wine. “Tell me, Gamil, did you feel anything unusual last night?”

  “What do you mean, Your Eminence?”

  “I felt something. It woke me.” Tavalisk now pulled the remaining leg off the lobster and sucked the flesh from it.

  “What did you feel, Your Eminence?”

  “I think it was the aftermath of a drawing. Must have been a damned powerful one. Only a few weeks back I felt something similar—may have come from the same man.” Tavalisk was now using his teeth to pry out the remaining meat from the leg. “I’d like to find out who was responsible for it. The man capable of such forces would be a useful person to know. See to it, would you, Gamil?” Tavalisk surveyed the lobster for the presence of any meat he might have missed. Finding nothing left, he turned his attention to a bowl of cherries at his side.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Your Eminence, I will be off. I have much to attend to.”

  Tavalisk’s eyes narrowed sharply. “Ah, before you go, Gamil, I wonder if I might trouble you to clear up this little mess I’ve made with the lobster. I know how you like to keep things clean and tidy.”

  * * *

  Melli was shaken violently awake. Hands picked her off the ground and stood her up. The sound of Mistress Greal’s voice rang through the air:

  “Yes, Master Hulbit, that’s the little thief.” Mistress Greal then stepped forward and slapped Melli sharply on her cheek. Melli was prevented from retaliating by the firm hold of Master Hulbit, the tavern keeper. She realized that she was freezing: she had fallen asleep in the middle of a field wearing nothing but a flimsy dress. Master Hulbit twisted Melli’s arm cruelly and guided her in the direction of the road. She was brought level with Mistress Greal, who gave her a venomous look. Melli ignored her and asked Master Hulbit where her horse was.

  Before Master Hulbit could answer, Mistress Greal jumped in. “You haven’t got no horse now, young lady. That horse has been confiscated by Master Hulbit to pay for the debts you incurred by staying in his tavern.”

  “I incurred no debts!” said Melli angrily. “I stayed at the tavern as your guest, Mistress Greal.” Mistress Greal slapped her again.

  “You little trollop!” she cried, and then, appealing to Master Hulbit. “Have you ever met such a bare-faced liar? My guest, indeed! You’re in real trouble now, my girl, I can tell you that. Running away without paying your bill, blatantly taking one of my dresses and stealing a leather saddle. And to top it all off, you assaulted one of Master Hulbit’s good customers.”

  Melli couldn’t believe what she was hearing, all the lies that Mistress Greal was making up. Melli appealed to Master Hulbit: “It is Mistress Greal who is lying. She took my dress away and tore it up. She forced me to wear this. And as for that man last night, he assaulted me! I was only trying to stop him putting his hands all over me. Please, Master Hulbit, you must believe me.” The tavern keeper seemed impervious to Melli’s plea.

  “I’ve known Mistress Greal for many years, girl. She’s a friend of mine, helps considerable with my business, she does. If she tells me you’re a liar and a thief, I believe her.” Melli watched as Mistress Greal threw the tavern keeper an approving look.

  Melli was led to the roadside, where to her relief she spotted her horse. Mistress Greal’s sharp eyes did not miss Melli’s expression.

  “I’ve told you, young lady, that horse is now the property of Master Hulbit. And what’s more, not only do you owe me for that dress you’ve ruined, but you’re going to have to answer to Edrad; it was his saddle you stole.” Mistress Greal walked off, heading toward the village and leaving Melli to Master Hulbit.

  Melli was shivering violently, chilled through. She wondered what could have possessed her to fall asleep in a field in winter. She was also feeling rather sick, and this time she recognized the symptoms of too much to drink the night before. Seeing her shivering in a thin dress, Master Hulbit gave her his horse blanket with which to cover herself. The kind gesture had the effect of making Melli want to cry—it seemed she had met with nothing but cruelty since leaving Castle Harvell.

  Master Hulbit noticed the tears well up in her eyes and patted her shoulder lightly. “There, there, young’un. It’s not that bad. I’ve taken your horse in payment, and if I do say so myself, I’ve got a bad deal. That’s one sorry looking animal.” Melli didn’t know whether to be indignant or to laugh. It was true: her horse was old and worn out. “See, there’s always something to smile about. I’ll make sure Mistress Greal doesn’t eat you up for dinner. You only took her for one dress. I’ll let you work in the tavern to help pay it off. Of course, the saddle’s another matter. It’s a serious crime to steal a man’s saddle, but I’m sure Edrad will deal kindly with you.”

  Melli thought it was most unlikely that Edrad would deal kindly with her. She had hurt him badly last night, she remembered. So badly that he couldn’t even stand up. Not to mention the obvious blow to his pride at his advances being rejected. Melli dreaded having to face him again. She did not appear to have any choice in the matter; kind though Master Hulbit was, he obviously had no intention of letting her go.

  Master Hulbit still had a tight hold of Melli’s arm. He took the reins of her horse and they walked the short distance back to the town of Duvitt. Melli was surprised at how near they were; she was sure she had ridden longer last night. She supposed the drink had clouded her senses. She counted the days since she’d left the castle, then wished she hadn’t: thirteen wasn’t a good sign.

  Once they arrived at the town, Mistress Greal appeared and took over once more, guiding Melli into the tavern, where, to Melli’s horror, she came face-to-face with Edrad.

  “So you managed to find the little tart, Mistress Greal,” he said, giving Melli the full benefit of his menacing stare.

  “Farmer Trill spotted her horse this morning, Edrad,” replied Mistress Greal. Melli noted there was someone else present, someone whom she had never seen before. The man spoke:

  “Please if you would, Edrad, recount to me the events of the previous evening.” Melli concluded from his rather pompous air that he must be Duvitt’s magistrate.

  “Certainly, sir. This young woman asked me to go with her for a walk. It was a fine evening so I foolishly agreed. She then lured me into the stables by promising me a kiss; the next thing I know she’d drawn out a knife. She threatened to stab me if I moved. I wasn’t about to let a mere wisp of a girl get the better of me. But before I could make my escape, the little viper kicked me hard in the privates. Then she stole
my saddle.” Melli had to admit, Edrad sounded convincing.

  “Are there any witnesses?” asked the magistrate, sweeping the room with his eyes.

  “I was there when the little hussy asked Edrad for a walk. I also heard her promise him a kiss.” Mistress Greal gave Edrad a conspiratorial glance.

  “Well, as the young girl was found in possession of the saddle and did indeed leave without paying her bill, I can only presume her guilt.” The magistrate was obviously pleased with the outcome. Melli could bear it no more.

  “They are lying!” she cried. “It was Edrad who lured me to the stables. He kissed me against my will, that’s why I kicked him.”

  “See!” shouted Mistress Greal. “The little hussy admits it; she has no shame. If you don’t mind me saying, sir, I think you should deal most harshly with the girl. Although young, she is obviously a practiced liar and a hardened thief.”

  Melli couldn’t believe this was happening to her. How could the magistrate take their word against hers? She wondered with dread what her punishment would be.

  The magistrate coughed loudly and spoke again, “I can see you speak the truth, Mistress Greal. The girl is obviously a bad seed. Master Hulbit has agreed to take her horse in payment for the tavern bill; however, I feel the girl must be punished. We must beat the evil from her. Not only must she pay a fine of five golds, she will also be flogged twenty times, in full public view in the town square.” The magistrate looked to Mistress Greal and Edrad, both of whom looked satisfied with his pronouncement.

  “It is a fair sentence, magistrate, very fair,” said Edrad.

  “Will she be flogged with a leather or a rope?” asked Mistress Greal.

  “I think the rope will prove most unpleasant, don’t you agree, Mistress Greal?”

  “You are most wise, magistrate. The sting of the rope will certainly force the evil from the girl.” Mistress Greal looked pleased. “Though may I be so bold as to make a suggestion?”

  “Certainly, Mistress Greal, I value your judicious opinion in all matters.”

  “Perhaps the rope should be soaked in salted water first. We wouldn’t want the girl’s punishment to be a half-measure, would we?”

  “Wise as ever, Mistress Greal,” said the magistrate. “Now, I believe that Master Hulbit has said the girl can work in his tavern to pay off any fine?”

  “He has indeed, magistrate,” replied Mistress Greal, shooting a malicious glance in Melli’s direction.

  “Excellent. After the girl has recovered from the beating, she will be sent back here to work. This has turned out most neatly. She will be flogged at two hours past noon tomorrow. She will be kept in my custody until then.” The magistrate turned to Melli. “Follow me, girl, and quick about it.”

  He led her out onto the street and through the town. Everyone on the streets was staring at Melli, and she hung her head in embarrassment. After a while they approached a stone building. “You’ll be spending the night in the pit,” said the magistrate. “Let it be a lesson to you.”

  Jack shifted against his bindings. Pain coursed through his arm and down his back. For the briefest instant, the pain crystallized into something tangible. The pit of his stomach contracted and pressure flared within his head. Even as Jack recognized what it was, it left him. The loaves. It was the same feeling he’d experienced before the loaves. Jack rested his head against the huge oak. There was no doubt now. The loaves hadn’t been a lone occurrence. He’d felt power again, and its taste was sickeningly familiar.

  He was suddenly afraid. It seemed to Jack as if his fate was now sealed. All his life, he’d lived in a world full of reason: dough rose because of yeast, the longer the rising the better the bread, the larger the loaf the fresher it kept: simple truths that never changed. Now he was in a world where nothing was certain; where burnt loaves turned to dough, where anger or pain could spark the flare of power, and where the future held no promise of peace.

  Jack pulled against the rope—there was no give.

  The mercenaries had bound him to a tree to stop him from fleeing. They’d ridden hard all morning, heading east in search of Melli, and were now resting their horses. Jack needed water. He had neither food nor fluid all day. And now more than ever, with the metallic tang of sorcery in his mouth, he was desperate for a drink. He called to the guards. One came sauntering over.

  “What d’you want?”

  “Water, please.” Jack’s throat was dry and sore. The mercenary kicked him hard on the shins.

  “Bit uppity for a prisoner, ain’t you.” Just as he walked away, the leader, Traff, spoke up:

  “Give him some water, Harl. After all, the boy did think to bring us a few gifts. Right polite of him, if you ask me.” The rest of the men laughed heartily. Traff was referring to Falk’s sack of supplies, which the mercenaries had wasted no time claiming as their own. It upset Jack to watch as they greedily tore at the precious food, gnawing on joints of meat and then flinging them away half-eaten. The dried fruits and nuts were scattered over the cold ground—the men had no interest in those.

  “And find him half a loaf,” said Traff. “If I remember rightly, it was Winter’s Eve last night, and we don’t want to be discourteous to our guest.” More laughter followed this remark. Jack was brought a cup of watered ale and a hunk of bread.

  Winter’s Eve. Had he been gone from the castle that long? Frallit would not be pleased at being a man short for the second biggest festival of the year. There would have been scores of fancy breads to be baked: honey cakes, gingerbreads, malted fruit loaves. Normally at this time, Jack’s hands would be stained yellow with saffron. Rare spices were sprinkled as liberally as salt on feast days. It was Jack’s job to cook the frumenty, which was cracked wheat mixed with milk, eggs, and saffron. No festival was complete without a plentiful supply of that much-loved golden porridge.

  Jack felt so alone. Feast days were the best time to be in the kitchens: plenty of food and ale, everyone busy and merry. There’d be joking and dancing and a few stolen kisses. He missed it all so much. For the first time since leaving the castle, he realized what he’d lost: his friends, his life, his mother’s memory; they were all back at Harvell. He had belonged there. It was his home.

  Jack picked up the cup, turning it slowly in his hand. Ale was dripping from its side. It took him a moment to spot the hairline crack.

  He might have belonged, but he never fitted in. Even before the loaves he was an outsider. Everyone had something that set them apart: Master Frallit was as bald as a berry, Willock the cellar steward had a club foot, even Findra the table maid had to bear the shame of being caught in the hayloft with the blacksmith. To them, being taunted was part of being accepted; it was done in good humor and served to include rather than exclude the person in question.

  For him it was different—the jokes were behind his back, not to his face. Jack took up the cup with his free arm. He noticed his hand was still trembling from what had happened earlier. Was this his fate, then? Always to be excluded, to be set apart, to be an outcast? He flung the cup from him. Let the flavor of sorcery stay in his mouth. It tasted of loneliness, and that was something he’d have to get used to.

  “No, Bodger, just because you tumble a wench when it’s raining doesn’t mean that she won’t get knocked up.”

  “But Master Trout swears by it. He says that it’s a sure method to stop a girl from getting with child.”

  “The only reason Master Trout has never got a wench with child is that no sane woman would ever let him near her.”

  “He is a bit past it, Grift.”

  “Aye, Bodger, there’s only one method to ensure a wench doesn’t get knocked up and it ain’t rollickin’ her in the rain.”

  “What is it then, Grift?”

  “The way to stop a girl getting knocked up is by making sure you never rollick her in the nude.”

  “What, the woman?”

  “No, you fool, the man. Be sure to always keep your shirt on, Bodger, and you’ll never
be an unwilling father.” Grift nodded sagely to Bodger, and Bodger nodded sagely back.

  “It’s terrible what happened last night in the banquet hall, Grift.”

  “Aye, Bodger. By all accounts the fire caused quite a panic. Lords and ladies scurrying like rats, they were.”

  “I took a look at the damage this morning, Grift. The whole back wall went up in flames.”

  “Aye, Bodger, I can’t help wondering how it started.”

  “The queen’s pronounced it an accident, Grift. Says it was fallen candles that did it.”

  “It’s more than that, Bodger. I had a word with one of the lads who was serving the drinks. He said the whole room moved under everyone’s feet, said something knocked people down where they stood, and all the metal cups were hot to the touch. If you ask me, something very nasty happened last night.”

  “Still, it was lucky that only one man was killed.”

  “You got a look at the body, didn’t you, Bodger? Could they tell who it was?”

  “Not a chance, Grift, the poor soul was burnt to a crisp . . . terrible death.”

  “So no one knows who died, Bodger?”

  “No, no one’s been reported missing, Grift. There was a drunken squire at the back of the hall when it happened, says he saw a man in black, but no one’s paying his story much heed. The only clue is the dead man’s dagger. It was found right next to him on the floor. Course the blade was ruined by the heat, but it was the only thing that was left—all his clothes had been burnt off his back. It was horrifying, Grift. I’ve never seen a worse sight in all my life than that charred and blackened body.”

  “What sort of knife was it, Bodger?”

  “Well, that’s the strange thing, Grift. It wasn’t a man’s eating knife. One of the lords said it was a curious kind of knife to take to a dance.”

  “There’s a lot more going on here than meets the eye. The queen might have pronounced it an accident, Bodger, but I for one can’t see anything accidental about the way that man died.”