by J. V. Jones
As the night drew on Melli became colder, her body shivering. Eventually she fell into a fitful sleep, her body curled into a tight ball to keep warm.
In the morning she was wakened by someone pouring something foul over her head. Mistress Greal stood above her, carrying her now empty chamber pot. “That won’t be the worst that happens to you this day, missy! You ungrateful little tart.” Mistress Greal then turned on her heel and walked away.
Melli had spent the rest of the morning being cruelly insulted and having the remains of people’s breakfasts thrown at her.
She knew she was due to be flogged this day, and her stomach fluttered with fear at the thought of the rope. She could think of no way out of it. She had attempted to tell the magistrate who she was, but in her current state not even her own father would recognize her. Melli suddenly wished very badly that she was with her father now. It was true he had slapped her and tried to force her into marrying someone she didn’t want to, but he had loved her. She had been his precious daughter. He had bought her anything she wanted and delighted in seeing her dressed up and looking pretty. What a shock he would get today, she thought.
The time passed very slowly. Every minute seemed to drag on interminably. She was terribly thirsty, for she had not drunk anything in over a day. She was not hungry, though; the terrible, putrid smell of rotting vegetables kept her appetite in abeyance.
Melli noted with growing trepidation the angle of the sun in the sky. It was already noon: soon they would come and flog her.
Jack was thinking about Melli. He was worried that the soldiers who had caught him would soon capture her. Earlier, they had ridden through a small village. The horsemen had been met by hostile stares from the villagers. Traff, the leader, had asked one of the women if they had spotted a girl heading east, away from the forest. The woman’s tongue had been successfully loosened by two silver coins.
“Yes, there was a girl, right odd-looking creature. Dark haired, like you said. Wearing a sack she was.” The woman’s eyes narrowed as she assessed the situation. “I felt sorry for the poor girl. I told the sweet thing she’d be better off in Duvitt.”
“How many days back?”
“Oh, I can’t be sure, maybe four or five days ago.”
“How far is Duvitt?”
“Oh, about half a morning’s ride east. Can’t miss it, all roads lead to Duvitt around here.”
They had sped from the village, riding much faster than before since they were now on open road. Jack did not get to see much of the change in territory from forest to farmland because of his position strapped over the horse’s back. He could see that the road was wide and well maintained—a sign of large population and prosperity. The place they were headed for was obviously a wealthy town.
He fervently hoped that Melli had decided not to stay in Duvitt for any length of time. It seemed certain that if she were in town this day, she would be picked up by Baralis’ men. They rode on toward Duvitt.
A rope was being lowered down to Melli. “Grab hold!” came a harsh voice. Melli found the idea of being dragged out of the pit by a rope very distressing. She didn’t know if her shoulder could take the strain. A thought occurred to her: if she didn’t grab hold of the rope, they wouldn’t be able to haul her from the pit, and so they wouldn’t be able to flog her. She refused to take the rope, shaking her head stubbornly.
“If you don’t take hold of the rope, you little tart, I’ll make sure your whoring days will be over for good.” Melli still refused to take the rope. “Look, missy, I’ll give you one last chance: take the rope or I’ll get Master Hulbit to heat up some chicken fat, and I’ll pour it all over your pretty face. Now move it!”
Melli grabbed for the rope. Pain coursed through her shoulder and hot tears prickled in her eyes. She took the rope and wound it around her waist, holding on tightly to the slack. She braced herself, gritting her teeth and then felt the pull. The skin of her arms scraped against the stone as she was pulled from the pit. The pain in her shoulder was unbearable. Once her head was level with the ground, two men grabbed her arms and hauled her out. Melli felt herself about to faint from the pain and she struggled to control herself. She had her father’s pride and was determined not to give the crowd the satisfaction of seeing her swoon like a giddy maiden.
She looked around. There was a much larger gathering of people in the town square than the day before. The crowd hissed as Melli looked at them. The cries of “whore!” and “thief!” had little effect on her now and she ignored them. The crowd, seeing what they took to be arrogance, grew nasty. They hissed and shouted vile insults. One man, who called her “a pox-ridden trollop,” she recognized as Edrad. Despite great discomfort, Melli could not help but smile at the irony. This, as far as the mob was concerned, was the worst thing she could have done.
“The brazen hussy!”
“The little bitch is pleased with herself.” Melli was once again pelted with rotten fruit and vegetables. The men who held her shouted at the crowd to stop, for they themselves were being bombarded.
The two men led her into the middle of the town square. A wooden scaffold had been erected. One of the men pushed Melli forward so her back was to the crowd. He took hold of her arms, bringing them up level with her shoulders, and tied her wrists to the scaffold.
Melli was beginning to feel scared. She could no longer see the crowd but she could hear their taunts and jeers. As soon as the man backed away from the scaffold, the pelting started once again. Melli bit her lip in pain as hard objects were hurled at her back and legs. Her arms, spread out as they were, put great strain on her sore shoulder. Despite all of this, the worse thing to Melli was the wait.
No one seemed in any hurry to start the flogging. Melli supposed that being tied to the scaffold at the mercy of the crowd was part of the punishment. The mob called to her, heckling and insulting. She could feel the excitement of the people: they wanted a good show, they wanted blood.
The crowd suddenly became silent. Melli strained her neck to look around. The magistrate had appeared, walking with a man who carried a rope whip. It was no delicate riding whip—it was thick, coarse and stiff, with a knotted end. Melli shuddered and the crowd cheered.
The magistrate began to speak, telling the people once more of Melli’s various crimes. With a dramatic flair the magistrate listed each crime individually, allowing suitable time for the crowd to hiss between each one. The list seemed longer today; it now contained the charge of horse thief and swindler. By the time the magistrate had finished the list, the mob was in a frenzy:
“Whip the bitch!”
“Take the skin off her back.”
“Show no mercy.”
The magistrate then pronounced her sentence: “Thirty lashes with the rope!” The crowd erupted into a fit of cheering.
It had been twenty yesterday! Melli grew stiff with fear. The man with the rope whip was now showing it to the admiring crowds, holding it above his head so small children and those at the back could see. He then silenced the crowd by bringing the rope down to his waist, catching the knotted end in the palm of his hand.
He moved forward to the scaffold, his shadow falling over Melli’s back. The crowd seemed to hold their breath. Melli tensed in preparation for the blow. The man drew the whip back, paused for the tiniest instant and then brought the rope down on Melli’s back. She heard the crack before she felt the blow. Melli convulsed with shock and pain. The crowd aah’d in appreciation. The magistrate started the count:
“One.”
The whip was drawn once more and brought down with terrible force upon Melli’s back. The rope knocked the wind from her body and tore at the fabric of her flimsy dress.
“Two.”
Tears of pain flowed down Melli’s cheek. The man flexed the whip, bringing it high above his shoulders and lashed cruelly at her slender back. This time rope met flesh.
“Three.”
The whip was up again, and down it came once more, welting Melli�
��s tender skin. The first pinpoints of blood were drawn.
“Four.”
The rope dug deep, raising skin and tearing flesh.
“Five.”
Melli felt the sting of the rope and then the warm trickle of blood down her spine.
“Six.”
Just as the whip was drawn again, a disturbance in the crowd distracted the man from his action. Melli was too weak to care.
The sound of hooves ringing on stone could be heard; the horsemen pushed through the crowd. The magistrate was livid about the interruption. “Who comes here?” he demanded. “Be off and do not disturb this flogging any longer.”
“If you don’t untie the girl this instant,” came a cold, deadly voice, “I will order my men to slice these good people to ribbons.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” said the magistrate with little conviction.
“Wesk, Harl,” the voice called and two of the mounted men urged their horses forward. They were both wielding long swords. The crowd was now scared. None moved.
“Do as he says, untie the girl,” murmured the magistrate.
The man tucked the whip in his belt and came forward, cutting the ties on Melli’s wrist with a knife.
Released from the scaffolding, she could barely stand. She swooned and stumbled. She was weak with pain and her back was on fire. Dazed, she looked up and saw the leader of the armed men come forward. Melli recognized him as the man who had ripped her bodice in the woods. She was confused. He smiled grimly, grabbed her firmly in his strong arms, and scooped her up on his horse. Melli could hold out no longer; her world became black as she passed out.
Thirteen
Baralis lay in his bed. The past few days had been the worst of his life. He had come close to death. He was only now recovering a little of his strength. He had tossed and turned in his bed, sweating and weak. Unable to think clearly, he had been tormented by images and demons, and his body could find no rest.
He had been badly burned, but that was not the worst of his injuries. He had made a dreadful mistake. The moment he knew the assassin was upon him, he lashed out with all the power in his body—a reflex action of survival. There had been no calculation, no moderation; he had drawn his power with no thought except to obliterate the threat to his life. So furiously did the power flow through him, he could gain no control over its frenzy.
In the instant that he realized he had drawn too much from himself he tried to draw back, but it had been impossible. It was too much, too furious. It had a will of its own. Baralis could only watch the effects. He’d done something no master ever should: he lost control. Everything in him had been drawn forth. There had been nothing left, all his strength had been used in the drawing. He was left expended. If it had not been for the care of his servant, Crope, he might have died.
He’d made a mistake a novice would have been ashamed of. All the years of training in his youth was underlined by one basic principle: never outreach yourself. He could remember even now his teacher’s hand upon his shoulder: “Baralis, you have a gift and a curse,” he said. “Your gift is your ability, your curse is your ambition. You draw too wildly. There is no temperance, and one day you will pay a high price for your boldness.”
They always tried to hold him back, they were envious of his talents. Who were they but a few old fools who defied convention by setting up a school to teach sorcery? They wanted to bring people around to the idea that magic wasn’t all bad and that Borc had been wrong to condemn it. The only reason they were allowed to go on for so long was that Leiss was a city that prided itself on its liberalism. Of course, all that had changed now.
So close to the Drylands, it took a farmer of genius to coax crops from its soil. Genius, and a little sorcery in his father’s case. He’d come from a long line of successful farmers, their skills defying the thin soil that Leiss rested upon. Like savages, they married close: a half-sister, a distant cousin, a stepdaughter, it all served to thicken the mix. Sorcery was instilled in their blood, and the poor simpletons hadn’t even known it—they thought it was skill alone that nourished the grain.
His mother had known differently, though. Too clever by far for a farmer’s wife, she had seen the truth behind the record crops. She had seen the potential in him, too, and had sent him to the one place in the Known Lands where he could be trained.
Yes, he’d been lucky to be born in that once liberal city. If it wasn’t for his training, he wouldn’t be here today, King’s Chancellor. His teacher was wrong: ability and ambition were his gifts.
He’d traveled far and wide to learn all the skills that were now in his possession. In the Far South they’d taught him how to command animals and make them his own, from the herdsmen of the Great Plains he’d learnt his skills with potions, and beyond the Northern Ranges he’d discovered the art of leaving his body and joining with the heavens. Many cities had he visited, many people had he talked to, many manuscripts had he read: no one in the Known Lands could match him.
But Winter’s Eve had proved he wasn’t infallible. It would have been easy to eliminate the assassin with much less power, leaving himself with nothing more than a moderate fatigue. Instead he’d been unconscious for two long days before his mind returned to him. Sorcery took its power from the essence of a man: from his blood, his liver, his heart. To perform even the simplest of drawings made one weak for several hours. To perform a drawing of the scale he’d done on Winter’s Eve could drive a lesser man to madness or oblivion.
Baralis could not help but wonder at the power he had drawn. True, it had been dangerous to himself, but the feeling of strength coursing through his body—fast and terrible—had filled him with elation. He had not known he had such potential in him. Once he was fully recovered, he would put his newfound abilities to good use. He would be careful, though, never to put himself at risk again.
He had much to do, much he needed to find out. He could not afford to let fatigue hinder his plans. He called for Crope.
“Yes, master.” His servant entered the bedchamber.
“Crope, you have looked after me well and I thank you for your care.”
Crope smiled, the many scars on his huge face pulling tight. “I did my best, master,” he said, pleased that his efforts had been appreciated.
“Now, on to more important matters. How is the court taking the news of Lord Maybor’s death?”
Crope looked puzzled at the question. “Lord Maybor isn’t dead, master.”
“Isn’t dead! What devilry is this! Are you certain of what you say, you dim-witted fool?”
“Yes, master.” Crope seemed pleased to be insulted. “Lord Maybor isn’t dead. But he is powerful sick. People are saying that his face is covered in sores and he can’t breathe very well. The priests were even called.”
Baralis could not understand it. The poison had been lethal. He had tried it out on an old horse and it had killed the pathetic creature in a matter of hours. “When did Lord Maybor leave the dance?”
“Everybody’s talking about that.” Crope paused for a minute, struggling to remember the story. “He was said to have had punch poured all over him by a young girl. He was made a laughingstock and left before the fire started.”
It seemed to Baralis that Maybor had the luck of Borc himself. He knew that the poison would have been rendered less potent by having liquid poured over it, and Maybor may have taken the robe off early because it was wet. Damn him! Baralis thought for a moment. “Is Lord Maybor’s condition improving?”
“I can’t say, master. The queen was said to have sent her wisewoman to look after him.”
“The queen has visited him?” Surely the queen would want nothing to do with Maybor now that his lies had been uncovered.
“Yes, master. The queen’s messenger came here the other day, said the queen wanted to see you as soon as possible.”
“How did you reply?”
“I told the messenger that you had caught a slight fever while out riding.”
“Good, Crope. You have done well.” Baralis paused and then asked: “What are people saying about the fire on Winter’s Eve?”
“They’re saying it was caused by fallen candles, master.”
“Good. Were there any witnesses?”
“One drunken squire said a man in black caused it, master.”
“What is his name?”
“I don’t know, master.”
“Well, find out, then! And once you have found out, arrange for him to have an accident.” Baralis’ eyes met those of his servant. “Do you understand what I mean, Crope?” The servant nodded. “Good. Now go. I need to be alone to think.”
Baralis watched as Crope lurched away. Once he had gone, Baralis rose from his bed. He was surprised at his own weakness; his legs were shaky and unused to his weight. He made his way slowly to his study. Once inside, he hunted among the many bottles and vials until he found what he was looking for. He lifted the stopper and drank the entire contents of the small bottle—he needed all the relief he could get from his pain.
He looked down at his hands, burnt by the aftermath of power. They were scarred, the skin shiny and taut. The curative oils had undoubtedly helped, and most of the scarring would heal. But it was the healing itself he was afraid of. The skin might permanently tighten, making it impossible to straighten his fingers. If that happened, he would be forced to slit the skin at his joints.
A drawing to quicken their healing was out of the question—he was too weak. There would be no sorcery for several days, which meant he would be unable to make contact with the second dove he’d sent to track Melliandra.
Maybor had a lot to answer for. Baralis was almost certain that he had been the one to arrange for the assassination attempt. He had many enemies at court, but none would like to see him dead as much as Maybor. The lord of the Eastlands was no fool; he would have wanted no blood on his hands and would have hired someone to do his dirty work for him.
Baralis had much to occupy his mind. He had to concentrate on bringing his plans to fruition. He must step carefully, for it seemed as if the queen was still sympathetic to Maybor despite his fabrications. He needed Maybor out of the way. He could not risk the queen becoming close with him.
