The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  Traff had been the one who unwittingly brought him to his senses. The leader came over, holding out a cup of water. “Boy, see to the girl.” And that was it. The power was gone more quickly than it came, leaving Jack with a sickening headache and a tangible sense of loss.

  Since then, he’d had little chance to consider the importance of what had happened. His time was taken up with thoughts of Melli, not himself, which was probably a good thing, for Grift had warned him many times that “thinking leads to trouble.” Armed men dragging him back to Castle Harvell was trouble enough for the moment.

  They had traveled west three days now, and Jack expected they would reach the castle in a day or so. He was almost anxious to return, for Melli could then be looked after. It was obvious her wounds needed cleaning and tending.

  Melli was in a weak, dazed state. She appeared to have little strength, and Traff had ridden with her leaning heavily at his back. This arrangement had forced the pace to be slowed, as Traff’s horse was greatly burdened. Jack had managed to catch Melli’s eye on one occasion; she seemed to recognize him, but could do no more than return his gaze.

  They had stopped to eat and rest the horses. Traff, seemingly ignorant of Melli’s worsening condition, placed the girl against a tree and left her to join his men. Jack was untied from his horse and was brought a cup of water and some drybread. He watched as Melli was given the same provisions. She was barely able to register their presence and made no move to drink. Jack was extremely worried about her; she was sweating and feverish and needed water. With his wrists and ankles tied he could not approach her, so he shouted to the mercenaries: “Help her! Can’t you see she’s sick with fever? She can’t even drink her water.”

  The mercenaries looked around, astounded at his outburst. The one named Wesk came over to Jack and kicked him hard on his legs. “Hey, boy, don’t tell us how to do our job. The girl will survive till we get to Harvell. After that we don’t care.” This statement was met with grunts of approval from his fellow mercenaries.

  Traff, however, looked toward Melli and shouted, “Cut the boy’s ties, Wesk. Let him tend to her. I for one don’t fancy Lord Baralis holding me responsible for her death.” Jack saw the treacherous look in Wesk’s eye. “Go to it!” shouted Traff, and Wesk reluctantly cut the bonds.

  Jack wasted no time relishing being cut free; he hobbled to where Melli lay. Raising the cup to her lips, he forced her to drink. Once she had enough to satisfy him, he tore off part of the lining from his cloak and soaked it in the remaining water. With great tenderness he cleaned the welts on Melli’s back, washing away dried blood and dirt. With growing alarm, Jack noticed that underneath one of the welts the skin was soft and bloated: it was badly infected and needed to be drained.

  “I need a clean knife,” he shouted toward the mercenaries.

  Traff sauntered over, pausing to spit out a wad of snatch. “What d’you need a knife for, boy?”

  Jack was annoyed at the mercenary’s casual manner and struggled to remain calm. “The wound on her back has become inflamed. It’s full of pus and needs letting. It must be done now.” Jack gave Traff a hard look; he would not be hindered in this.

  Jack saw something close to respect in Traff’s face as he handed over his knife. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” said the mercenary, staying put, ready to watch the operation.

  Tension that Jack had hardly been aware of made its presence felt by its retreat. His head was reeling as if from drink, and the bands of muscle around his stomach were as taut as a strung bow. The power had been upon him, and he’d hardly noticed its swell. He’d come close to losing control.

  Jack had to make a conscious effort to focus on the present. Melli was what counted now. It was a relief to dismiss thoughts of what might have been if Traff had denied his request. With hands that wouldn’t stop shaking, Jack cleaned the blade as best he could.

  Thanks to Frallit’s violent temper, Jack had a certain skill in tending wounds. He leaned over Melli and called her name gently. She did not respond. “I’ll try not to hurt you,” he said, more worried than ever. He felt her back, finding the spot where the inflammation was at its worst. He delicately sliced into the bloated flesh. Greenish-yellow liquid spewed forth from the incision. A fetid smell assailed Jack’s nostrils. He lightly pressed the skin, forcing all the remaining fluid from the wound. When he was sure that it had all been drained, he called for more water and was brought it quickly. He cleansed the wound and then patted it dry. He finished off by stripping the soft inner lining from his cloak. He made a makeshift bandage, tearing the fabric into long strips and bound it around Melli’s back and chest.

  Jack cooled Melli’s brow with the remaining water. He looked up to find that he was being watched by all the men. Jack handed the knife back to Traff. “I think she should be allowed to rest for a while to give the wound a chance to scab over. If she were to ride now, it would take longer for the bleeding to stop.” The men looked toward Traff for an answer.

  “All right,” he said roughly. “We’ll make camp early, we’ll ride no further this day.”

  Jack was relieved. He gathered the blanket around Melli. It was not enough to keep her warm, so he took off his cloak and laid it over her. He was pleased to see that she had fallen asleep—rest was the best thing for her. He regarded her pale, drawn features; they were glistening with sweat, and he knew the fever would get worse before it got better.

  Brushing a strand of hair from Melli’s face, he settled down beside her. Night was nearly upon them, and Jack closed his eyes, hoping for sleep. It didn’t come. The moon made a slow arc across the sky as he tossed and turned, unable to find peace. Images of what might have been tormented him. Only hours earlier, he’d been on the point of lashing out wildly. There was such potential for destruction within him: he knew it as surely as bread needed salt. It took its strength from anger, and when he thought he wouldn’t get his way with Traff, it nearly consumed him. Who could tell what might have happened? He was unpredictable—a coiled spring. He could have hurt Melli, and although the mercenaries were no friends of his, he didn’t want their deaths on his hands. He was a baker’s boy, not a murderer.

  Jack turned on his back and faced the cold stare of the moon. He might not be evil, but he was dangerous, and it seemed that there wasn’t much difference between the two.

  Fourteen

  Tawl looked into the distance. The mists shifted and he received his first glimpse of Larn. He could see little except rocky, gray cliffs. Seagulls flew overhead, their haunting cries the only noise to disturb the deathly calm.

  The sea, which had raged so the night before, was now still. It was early morning and a pale sun rose over Larn, its rays enfeebled by the low, restless mist. The sea was like liquid metal, heavy and slow, the color of silver. Tawl was filled with great apprehension.

  The crewmen were lowering the small rowboat over the side. He would be on his way soon. Captain Quain approached him, and the two men stood silent, looking into the mists for some time.

  When the captain finally spoke, his warm, gruff voice seemed to break through the spell of beguiling cast from the isle. “When you approach the island, head north around the cliffs. There is a rocky beach that you can land on.”

  “I’ve never seen a sea so calm,” ventured Tawl.

  “Aye, it sends the shivers down my spine. It’s almost as if they know you’re coming.” Quain spoke the very words that Tawl himself was thinking. “I should be glad that the sea’s calm. My ship’s in no danger of running aground.” The captain shook his head, speaking in a low voice as if he did not want to be overheard. “I know it’s not right, though. A terrible storm like last night, and now, water as smooth as a maiden’s belly. Take care. Lad, may Borc lend speed to your journey.” Quain moved off, leaving Tawl alone once more.

  After a while he was called over by Carver. The red-haired man put his arm around Tawl’s shoulder. “Rowboat’s all ready, lad. In it you’ll find food and a bottle of
rum, courtesy of the good captain.” Carver hesitated while he looked toward the faint outline of Larn in the distance. “I understand, lad, I’ve something to thank you for.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Tawl was genuinely puzzled.

  “I was the one who was due to go with you in the boat. Captain says as you insisted on going alone. Not that I was afraid to go, of course. It’s just that my elbow’s been playing up, and a couple of hours of rowing would’ve played havoc with it.”

  “Well, I’m glad not to be the cause of any further discomfort to you, Carver.” Tawl spoke gravely, with no hint of mockery.

  “Well, just thought I’d let you know,” Carver said brusquely, moving away.

  The mists parted for a brief instant and Tawl was given a clear look at the island—it was almost an invitation. He breathed deeply, rubbing his chin with his hand. It was time for him to be on his way.

  He climbed down the knotted rope ladder and into the rowboat. Once he was steady, he looked up to the deck of The Fishy Few, where all the crewmen including Captain Quain were lined up. They were silent with grave faces as Tawl took up the oars.

  He started to row, enjoying the feel of the smooth wood in his hands. He soon made his way from the ship and into the mist. Just before he lost sight of The Fishy Few, he heard the voice of the captain ringing out: “One day, lad. Back in one day.”

  Tawl was surprised at how much of his strength had returned in the few weeks since he had been released from Rorn’s dungeons. His arms pulled the oars with powerful grace. He soon fell into a rhythm; it felt good to be doing something physical. Muscle and sinew stood out against the flesh of his arms. It was the first time since setting sail that he’d rolled up the sleeves of his shirt—he had taken the Old Man’s advice about hiding his identity.

  The sea was yielding and Tawl made good time; even the current was in his favor. He watched the cliffs of Larn loom near. After a while he altered his course north, as the captain had suggested. The banks of mist were lifting and sunlight was allowed to nuzzle the water once more. Tawl looked over his shoulder. Although the mists were clearing ahead, behind they were still thick—swirling and reeling, hiding The Fishy Few in their lair.

  He rowed for some time and saw that the cliffs were lessening, gradually declining. He made his way around a rocky precipice and finally caught sight of the beach Quain had mentioned. Tawl rowed on, his arms growing tired, grateful that the tide was on its way in, bearing the boat forward in its push to the shore. As he approached the rocky beach, he could make out a solitary figure, black against the gray of rock and sky. Tawl knew the man waited for him.

  Minutes later, his small rowboat landed on the shores of Larn. The figure in the dark cloak did not move forward to meet him. Tawl dragged the boat from the surf and tied its mooring to a sturdy outcropping. He made his way up the pebbled beach to the cloaked man.

  “Greetings, friend,” said Tawl. The man’s face was hooded, casting his features in shadow. He said no word to Tawl. He beckoned him to follow by the briefest raising of his hand. Tawl trailed the stranger up the beach and onto a well-concealed path that led between huge slabs of granite. Part of the path had been hewn from the rock, enabling Tawl to see the many intricate layers within the stone.

  The path began to steepen and bend as it headed upward into the cliffs. The path was cut entirely from the rock now, becoming a tunnel. Tawl was plunged into darkness. His guide did not seem concerned with the dark and led him further ahead. Light peeked through at irregular intervals and Tawl managed to follow. The path ended suddenly and he found himself in bright sunlight again.

  He brought his hand up to shade his eyes and looked around. They were on top of the cliffs and the view out to sea was breathtaking. Tawl felt certain the shadowy object on the horizon was The Fishy Few. He turned his gaze inland. Ahead lay a large stone temple, stark and primitive, old beyond reckoning. Low and oppressive, it was built from huge slabs of granite, their edges rounded by the weathering of centuries, white with the droppings of countless generations of sea birds.

  The cloaked man beckoned Tawl forth, and he followed him into the shadows of the temple.

  What struck him first was the extreme cold. Outside the day was mild and pleasant, yet on entering the temple the air temperature dropped sharply. The interior was not at all gaudy and ostentatious like the temples he’d visited in Rorn and Marls; the walls were left bare and unadorned. Tawl had to admit there was an austere beauty to be found in the naked stone. They passed through several dark, low-ceilinged rooms. Low ceilings on The Fishy Few had not concerned Tawl, but these ceilings, formed by immense slabs of granite, caused him to feel a measure of foreboding.

  He was led into a small room which contained nothing but a stone bench. His guide wordlessly motioned him to sit. He then withdrew, leaving Tawl to wait alone.

  Tavalisk was toasting shrimp. He had by his side a large bowl of sea water, in it many live shrimp. With his little silver tongs he plucked a large and active shrimp from the water. He then impaled the shrimp upon a silver skewer. The specially sharpened point pierced the shrimp’s shell with no effort. Tavalisk was pleased to see that the impaling had not killed the shrimp: the creature was still wriggling. The archbishop then lowered the unfortunate animal over a hot flame. The shell crackled nicely in the heat, blackening quickly, and the shrimp soon wriggled no more. Tavalisk then waited for the shrimp to cool a little before removing its shell and eating the tender crustacean within.

  The archbishop heard the usual knocking that always seemed to occur when he was about to enjoy a light snack. “Enter, Gamil,” Tavalisk breathed, his voice metered with boredom. His aide walked in. The archbishop did not miss the fact that Gamil was dressed in an old and decidedly green robe. “Gamil, you must forgive me.”

  “I do not understand what Your Eminence means. Forgive you for what?”

  “For giving you bad advice.” Tavalisk paused, enjoying the puzzled expression on his aide’s face. “Do you not remember, Gamil? Last time we met I said you would look better in a green robe. Only now I find I was wrong. It appears that green becomes you even less than red. It makes you look decidedly bilious.” Tavalisk turned back to his bowl of shrimp, so as not to betray his delight. “Maybe in future, Gamil, you should steer clear of the brighter colors altogether. Try brown; you may look no better, but at least you will draw little attention.”

  Tavalisk busied himself with picking out his next victim. “So, what have you to tell me today, Gamil?” He decided upon a small but lively shrimp: it was much more interesting to skewer an active one. Many of this batch seemed decidedly lethargic.

  “I have received word from our spy of who Lord Baralis’ enemies are.”

  “Go on.” Tavalisk skewered his victim.

  “Well, it appears that Your Eminence was correct in assuming that Lord Baralis has many enemies. The most powerful and influential one is named Maybor. He holds vast lands and has much sway at court.”

  “Hmm, Lord Maybor. I do not know of him. Gamil, I would like you to make contact with him. Be subtle, see if he would be interested in . . . keeping our friend Lord Baralis in his place.” Tavalisk thrust the shrimp into the flames.

  “I shall send the letter by fast courier, Your Eminence.”

  “No. Leave that to me, Gamil. I will use one of my creatures to hasten its delivery.” This was an instance where it was worth using the debilitating art of sorcery. He had to find out what was going on in the Four Kingdoms. Tavalisk was becoming more and more uneasy about Baralis’ doings of late. The man was intriguing on too large a scale. The duke of Bren was a dangerous person to be conspiring with; his greed for land, combined with his current association with the knights, made many people nervous. Baralis’ plotting would further sour an already bitter mix.

  The archbishop removed the skewer from the flame. “Use discretion when you write the letter, Gamil. Do not name me. These things have a habit of falling into the wrong hands and I would s
ee if Lord Maybor takes the bait before risking my reputation.” Tavalisk popped the hot shrimp onto the floor, where the little dog scooped it up. Burning its mouth, the dog howled and dropped the shrimp. The archbishop smiled—the sight of suffering never failed to delight him.

  “If there’s nothing further, Your Eminence, I will make haste to write the letter.”

  “One more thing before you go. I wonder if you’d be so kind as to take Comi and rub some oil into her mouth. The poor creature gave herself quite a burn.” The archbishop watched as his aide struggled to pick up the dog. “I’d be careful of your fingers if I were you, Gamil. Comi has teeth like daggers.” Tavalisk smiled sweetly, waving man and dog on.

  Tawl was beginning to feel a little impatient. He had been kept waiting for some time now, and no one had come. He felt as if he was being made to wait on purpose, to make him feel uneasy. He noticed that his sleeves were still rolled up and his circles were showing. Tawl quickly concealed them under his sleeve; he wanted the people here to know as little about him as possible.

  More time passed before someone finally came. An elderly man approached, his shadow preceding him. He, like the guide, was hooded, his face dark. The man led Tawl through a stone corridor and into a large, dimly lit room.

  The room was dominated by a huge, low table formed from a single slab of granite. Four men sat, one on each side, around the rectangular stone. Tawl was relieved to see that these men had their hoods drawn back from their faces. Three of the men were old and graying. The fourth was much younger, with sharp but handsome features. The one who had led Tawl to the room silently departed.