by J. V. Jones
Lord Maybor was seriously ill; he had spent the night gasping desperately for each breath.
By the morning his condition was so bad that the physicians and priests were called. Maybor lay on his bed, barely conscious, struggling for air. He was coughing up much blood. The red rash looked much worse; his skin was now raised and puckered. Sores had formed around his nose and mouth, oozing blood and pus.
The doctors did not know what to make of the great lord’s illness. It was like nothing they had encountered before. They immediately ruled out the pox and water fever. It appeared to them that Maybor’s windpipe and lungs were being burnt away from within. They shook their heads gravely, not holding out much hope. They prescribed filling the room with the smoke from fragrant woods to penetrate Maybor’s lungs and drive out the malignant humors.
Maybor refused to let the physicians fill the room with smoke. Wheezing for breath, he ordered them away. The priests then stepped forward, with their precious oils and waters, sprinkling and chanting, preparing for death.
“Be gone, you damned clerics, I am not dead yet!” Maybor fell back amongst his pillows, coughing feebly, barely able to breathe, but still able to feel pleasure at the sight of the priests scurrying away like rats.
He asked for his sons, but his two youngest had headed off to the front to do battle with the Halcus. Such was the fate of younger sons—they either sought glory in battle or commiseration in the priesthood. Maybor was well pleased that he had raised no priests.
Kedrac entered the room, wrinkling his nose at the putrid smell of sickness. As he saw his father, he attempted, unsuccessfully, to conceal the horror that he felt. “Father, what has become of you?”
Maybor saw revulsion in his son’s face and beckoned Crandle to bring the splinter of mirror. Kedrac took the mirror from the servant and would not let his father have it. Maybor had not the strength to protest.
“Father, I spoke with you only a day ago. What has happened since to cause this affliction?”
“I do not know, son.” Maybor could only manage a rasped whisper.
“Could poison be the cause of this?”
“Any food or ale consumed by his lordship last night at the dance would have been sampled by many others. I have heard of no one else with any sickness,” said Crandle. Both men turned to look as Maybor succumbed to a terrible fit of coughing. When he had finished, the sheets were speckled with blood.
“What do the doctors say?” Kedrac asked of Crandle.
“They do not know what ails his lordship. They advised smoke.”
“Smoke! Are they out of their minds? The man can barely breathe as it is.”
A soft knock was heard at the door, and the queen walked in. Her cold, haughty face changed when she saw the condition of Lord Maybor and she froze in mid-step. “Is it the pox?” she demanded of Kedrac.
“No, Your Highness,” he said bowing. The queen breathed once more and approached the bed.
She saw the look of amazement on Kedrac’s face and said in way of explanation, “Your father was requested to meet with me this morning. When he failed to come, I decided to seek him out for myself. I see he is most unwell. What ails him?” Maybor tried to speak for himself, but was overcome with coughing.
“The doctors do not know what afflicts him, Your Highness.” Kedrac smoothed his hair and adjusted his clothes.
“Doctors! They are fools, they only made the king worse. I will send you my wisewoman—she is skilled in the lore of herbs. If anyone can help him she can.” The queen looked with sympathy at Maybor. “I am well used to sickness, but this I cannot understand. Why, only last night I watched Lord Maybor. He was as healthy as a man can be. Was this caused by the fire?”
“No, Your Highness,” offered Crandle humbly. “Lord Maybor left the hall just before the fire started.”
The queen gently squeezed Maybor’s arm. “I will go now, but I am glad I came. I will send my woman to you the moment I gain my chamber. Good day.” She nodded to Kedrac and left the room. The moment she left, Maybor snatched the sliver of mirror from his son. With shaking hand he drew the mirror to his face. Seeing its hideous reflection, he dissolved into a fit of tortuous coughing.
Crope stood vigil as his master drifted in and out of consciousness. He had stayed awake all through the night, watching Baralis’ limp form.
Later on, as dawn’s first light stole into the room, Baralis had become restless, tossing and turning in his bed. Crope hurried to his side and saw that his master was drenched with sweat and shaking violently. He felt Baralis’ brow and found it was hot to the touch. Quickly, he hurried for water to cool the burning, and with a gentle touch he wetted the brow.
Crope looked upon the burns that covered Baralis’ face and hands—some of the skin was beginning to scar. Blisters and lesions could be seen, red and inflamed.
Baralis began to murmur words that Crope could not understand. He seemed filled with agitation and flailed restlessly in his bed. Crope felt great fear at seeing his powerful master so overcome. He worried that Baralis would wear himself out with his frenzied motions. So Crope tried to quiet his sleeping master, softly pressing Baralis’ arms and legs flat against the bed and covering his body with sheets and heavy blankets.
He felt that his master needed to be able to sleep peacefully to better regain his strength. He could see that Baralis was getting no such peace—he was troubled by an inner turmoil that was allowing his body no rest. Crope decided he would administer a light sleeping draught to his master to help him fall into a more restful sleep. He walked to the library and searched among the various bottles—he’d watched many times as Baralis had taken the draught on late nights, when sleep refused to come. He found what he knew to be the right bottle, for it was marked with an owl on the stopper. Crope loved owls.
He returned to the bedroom and, with large and awkward hands, poured a small quantity of the liquid between Baralis’ swollen lips. Crope then returned to his chair by the side of the bed and reached inside his tunic for his box. Just to look at it made him happy. It was beautiful, with tiny paintings of sea birds on the lid. He settled down, turning the little box in his hand, and prepared to watch over his master for as long as necessary.
Twelve
Tawl was standing on the deck of The Fishy Few, staring out at the dark, sparkling ocean. Larn lay two days ahead, and he didn’t know whether to be relieved or full of dread.
The harsh voice of Carver startled him from his thoughts. “Hey, you! What d’you think you were doing feeding us raw turnips yesterday. Had me pukin’ my guts up all night.”
“The turnips didn’t make you sick, Carver,” shouted Fyler, drawing near. “It’s the sea that’s finally gotten to you. Nobody born in the mountains makes a good sailor. It was only a matter of time before your true nature showed.”
“I was not born in the mountains—it was the foothills.” Carver’s voice was suitably indignant. “And I was sailing before I was walking. Seasickness! Never had it once in my entire life. It’s that boy’s awful cookin’ that set me off. Turned my guts to jelly.” Carver turned his attention to Tawl. “You better watch it, boy. One more trick like turnip and parsnip salad and you’ll be overboard before you know it.”
“Well, I’m sorry the dinner wasn’t to your liking, Carver. Perhaps if someone could show me how to get the stove lit and find me some wood to burn, I might be able to cook the turnips tonight.”
“I don’t want to see another turnip as long as I’m on this boat. In fact, if I never saw a turnip for the rest of my life, I’d die a happy man. I want some decent food.”
“Why don’t you catch some fish, then, Carver?” said Tawl ingenuously.
“Can’t stand fish.” Tawl and Fyler laughed merrily at Carver’s pronouncement. “What’s a man doing at sea, on a boat name of The Fishy Few, who doesn’t like fish?” Fyler was enjoying himself. “They must have been pretty high foothills, Carver. You’re the only sailor I know who won’t eat fish.”
Carver was about to issue a scathing reply when another man turned up. He addressed Tawl: “Hey, you. Captain wants a word. Move sharpish—he’s waiting in his quarters.”
“Probably wants to give you a mouthful over those turnips,” mumbled Carver as Tawl walked away.
Belowdeck in The Fishy Few was small and cramped. The rooms were so low that Tawl could not stand up straight, and he was forced to walk with his shoulders and neck bent. He knocked on the cabin door and was bidden to enter. He walked into a tiny, dim room lined with books and lit by one small oil lamp.
The captain looked at Tawl disapprovingly and told him to sit. When Tawl had done so, Captain Quain poured out two cups of rum. “Best rum in the known lands, this, boy,” he said, handing it to Tawl. “Better be careful not to down it in one go. I don’t want to have to answer to the Old Man if you fall overboard.” Quain gave Tawl a scornful look.
“I believe you were well paid to carry out this charter, Captain Quain,” said Tawl. “No man forced your hand. It was your choice to sail to Larn.”
The captain appeared to ignore Tawl’s words and took a slug of his rum, taking time to appreciate its flavor. “The test of a good rum is not how strong, but how mellow it is. Only the best rum has a taste so rich and smooth that it conceals its true potency. Go ahead, try it.”
Quain beckoned Tawl to drink. He took a mouthful of the rum, wondering if the captain had heard what he’d said. Tawl’s thoughts were diverted, however, when the heady liquid met his palate. He wondered how Quain could call this drink mellow; to Tawl it was fiery and strong.
The captain smiled, noting his companion’s reaction. “The first taste is always a surprise. Take another sip, and no rushing this time—let the rum dance upon your tongue.” Tawl took a second mouthful, pausing to appreciate the flavor before swallowing. He began to comprehend that the rum was in fact mellow; it was as smooth as late-summer honey. It warmed his mouth and his innards, and loosened the tension in his brow.
“Now you’re getting the hang of it. Go easy, though, it’s powerful potent.” Tawl decided to heed the captain’s advice and reluctantly put the cup down. “No self-respecting captain would dare set sail with less than four barrels of rum aboard. It’s well known that a sailor can go months without a sight of land, weeks without fresh food, and days without fresh water, but stop that sailor’s ration of rum for a day and you’ll have a mutiny on your hands.” Quain’s eyes twinkled in the dim light. Tawl found it hard to tell if he was speaking the truth or joking.
The captain took another slug of rum and eyed Tawl speculatively. “You said before, I had a choice about sailing to Larn. I can tell from your words that you don’t know Rorn very well.” Quain poured himself more rum and then continued, “There are two people who count in Rorn. Forget the old duke and his nobles; even Gavelna, the first minister, is merely a figurehead. The people who really count are the archbishop and the Old Man. It doesn’t do to cross either of them if you value your life.
“Now, when a crony of the Old Man’s comes to me and asks me real nice, if I’d be so kind as to sail my boat to Larn, I’m not about to refuse. Sure, it’s all amiable. They even see I’m well paid, say I’ll be recommended to the right people. But what they and I both know is that I can’t refuse. I can’t afford to upset the plans of the Old Man. My business relies on word of mouth and, if I might say so, my own good reputation. If I was to refuse a favor to the Old Man, I might as well sail off into the sunset and never return.” Quain drained his cup and looked Tawl straight in the eye.
Tawl was beginning to realize he had misjudged the man. “Captain Quain, I had no idea of the position you were in.”
“Don’t get me wrong, boy. I don’t mind heading to Larn. I’ve sailed this ship through waters more treacherous and shallow than any Larn has to offer. But Larn’s more than just dangerous water. My crew has heard tales of Larn—tales to set your hair on end. Now I can’t say if these tales are true, but what is real is the effect on my crew. They’re all feeling a little edgy, though they won’t admit it, and a nervous sailor is a bad sailor. That’s what I’m worried about, boy, not the island itself.” Quain downed more rum.
Tawl was beginning to feel a little guilty for feeding the crew raw turnips.
As if reading his thoughts, the captain said, “Here, boy, get someone to light the stove. I’ll eat no more raw turnips. Ask Fyler to bring up some decent stuff from the hold and tell him Captain Quain says no hoarding. I’m sure he was one sailor who ate better than turnips yesterday.” Quain motioned to Tawl to finish his cup of rum. “Don’t rush it, boy. Rum’s for savoring not for gulping.”
Melli wished with all her heart that she was back at the castle. Surely marrying Prince Kylock could be no worse than this.
Following yesterday’s trial, the magistrate had first led Melli into a small room, where he’d then insisted on searching her. Melli grew hot with anger as his hands lingered excessively over her legs and buttocks. It was obvious she was hiding nothing there! The magistrate had taken this particular duty very seriously, though, mumbling words to the effect that Melli might have a weapon concealed anywhere on her person.
When the magistate was satisfied that Melli had no hidden weapons on her, he led her back out onto the street. To Melli’s surprise a small crowd had formed. As she walked down the street, people started shouting names at her. They called her a whore and a thief. One of them threw an egg at her, and then someone else threw a rotten cabbage.
Melli could bear no more, and so she spoke to the magistrate: “Unhandle me. I will no longer be treated as a common criminal. I am Lady Melliandra, daughter of Lord Maybor.” She held her head high.
“Be quiet, you stupid girl. Do not make things worse for yourself with foolish lies. You are a common trollop, that much is obvious to me.” The magistrate then twisted Melli’s arm nastily and proceeded on.
Their destination was the town square. The crowd gathered round as the magistrate pronounced Melli’s evildoings to the crowd: “This girl here, known as Melli of Deepwood, is guilty of the crimes of robbery, assault, prostitution, and deceit. She is sentenced to twenty lashes with the rope. The sentence will be duly carried out at two hours past noon on the morrow.” The small crowd jeered at Melli. The magistrate then marched her a short distance, and with no warning pushed Melli into a deep pit.
Melli fell badly, landing hard on her shoulder and side. Pain burst through her shoulder and pelvis. She looked upward and was greeted by the sight of the crowd gathering round the top of the pit peering in. They seemed well pleased that she had taken a bad fall.
“Serves the dirty little thief right,” called one woman.
“That’ll teach her to go around stealing horses.”
“A good whipping is just what her kind needs.”
“It will show her we don’t take kindly to filthy whores in our town.”
Melli was almost positive the last voice belonged to Mistress Greal. Before she could confirm her suspicions, she was met with a barrage of rotting vegetables and meat. Most of the objects were smelly but soft, until someone started pelting her with turnips. Whoever it was had a good aim, and Melli was forced to shield her face from the barrage.
This action delighted the vicious crowd and only served to increase their enthusiasm. Someone dumped a large quantity of sour milk on her head, and then she was bombarded with crab apples. There was nothing Melli could do: she was trapped. She hung her head low and prayed that no one would start throwing rocks. After a while the crowd began to either lose interest or run out of things to throw. They slowly withdrew, with shouts of “whore!” and “thief!” on their tongues. Someone threw one last thing: a large melon. It landed right on her tender shoulder. Melli winced with pain.
She looked up to find the crowd had left. Tears welled in her eyes. Her body was battered and bruised, and she was terrified at the thought of being beaten. Everyone had believed what Mistress Greal had said. They even seemed to believe more—she had no
t stolen a horse, or been a prostitute.
Melli tried to remove what she could of the rotten vegetables, brushing slimy cabbage leaves and moldy fruit from her dress. There was nothing she could do about the smell.
She looked around her grim surroundings. The pit was about two times the height of a tall man and barely wide enough for Melli to lie down. The walls were smoothed stone and the bottom was cold earth. Judging from the amount of vegetation in various stages of decay, the pit must have been used often. Melli tried to move her shoulder a little and pain shot through it. She managed to curl herself up in a ball and sobbed herself to sleep.
She was wakened several hours later by the shouts of men. Night had fallen while she slept.
“Hey there, missy! How’s about flashing us your udders.”
“Give us a look at your melons, or we’ll throw our ale all over you.” Melli could only stare wildly at the men.
“Little bitch! I expect she’s only willing to do it for money.”
“Dirty whore!” With that the men dumped the contents of their jug of ale over Melli’s head. “Waste of good ale, if you ask me.” Melli shivered as the ale soaked through her clothes.
The men obviously found the sight of Melli soaked hilarious and they laughed merrily. One of the men was carrying a lit candle, and as he held it over the pit, hot wax dripped on Melli’s bare arms. The men were oblivious to this, and Melli felt it best not to speak out in case they decided it would be a good way to torture her further. The men, having run out of ale, soon moved away. Melli breathed a deep sigh of relief.
She was freezing, the night was cold, and she wore, thanks to Mistress Greal, the flimsiest of dresses. Now, to make matters worse, she was soaking wet. Every inch of her body ached: the turnips and crab apples had been thrown with cruel precision, and Melli’s body was now a mass of bruises. Her most serious problem was her left shoulder. Tentatively she ran her fingers over the soreness. There was some swelling, but she could detect no broken bone.
