The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  “Greetings,” he said. “I hope you are well rested.”

  “How did I come to be here?” demanded Tawl.

  “It is a natural side effect of the seeing. The one who seeks answers is usually drained of all his strength. It is nothing to worry about. Seeing takes its toll on all of us. You became tired and we brought you here so you could sleep.”

  “How long have I slept?” Tawl did not believe a word the younger had said. He remembered feeling fine immediately after the seeing.

  “You have slept for many hours. There is a new dawn.”

  “I must go. My ship is due to leave soon.” Tawl remembered the earlier talk of price. “Tell me what due I must pay.”

  “Oh, that.” The younger’s tone was casual. “I think the price will not be high. I believe you will be asked merely to deliver some letters on our behalf in Rorn. You are sailing there, I take it?” There was something about the man’s voice that made Tawl suspicious. He had been given the impression earlier that his due would be much greater than acting as a messenger.

  “Is that all?” he asked.

  “Why, of course. You should not believe all those fireside stories you hear about Larn. All we ever ask in return for a seeing is some small service. We looked upon you with benevolence and decided you should not pay too dearly. If you follow me, I will give you the letters.” The man turned and walked from the room and Tawl followed.

  He was given two letters, both sealed with wax. He was told where and to whom they should be delivered. He was then led by a hooded man down through the cliffside. As he walked, Tawl found he could not shake off his uneasiness. Something was not right. He could not believe the four were letting him off so easily—letters to deliver in a city he would be in anyway? The most disquieting thing to Tawl, though, was how he had managed to lose the greater part of a day and night.

  Tawl was forced to focus on other matters as he approached the beach. He must row fast if he was to reach The Fishy Few before she set sail. The fresh air seemed to Tawl like a blessing after the stale atmosphere of temple and cavern. With every breath he took, he felt his mood growing lighter. Soon he would be free from this cursed place. He decided that when he eventually returned to Valdis he would talk to Tyren about the terrible plight of the Seers of Larn. He wanted to make sure that no more young men would ever be forced into such a life.

  Tawl launched his rowboat into the surf, reveling in the cold water about his waist. He jumped into the boat and took up the oars, glad that his feet were no longer on the island. He was soon making good time. He put all his energy into pulling the oars. It helped him to put Larn out of his thoughts.

  It was difficult for him to remember the location of The Fishy Few. Mists swirled at a convenient distance from the shores of Larn, hiding its presence from passing ships. Tawl tried to keep a heading southwest, hoping to eventually stumble upon the boat. After a few hours of rowing, he became anxious: surely he would have spotted the ship by now. He stopped rowing and started listening. He thought he heard a faint call. It came again: the sound of a fog horn. The crew of The Fishy Few were trying to help him by making their presence known. Tawl immediately became heartened and started rowing with renewed effort in the direction of the horn call.

  Not much later, Tawl caught sight of the ship’s high masts above the mist. His heart filled with joy at the sight. The Fishy Few had not abandoned him. He drew nearer and the mists parted; he was greeted by the sound of a cry, “Boat, ahoy!”

  Tawl looked on as the crew of the ship gathered to watch his approach. He made out the form of Captain Quain, who raised his hand in greeting. Tawl heard the crew join in a loud cheer and then, as he drew alongside the ship, he heard the captain shout, “Break open a barrel, shipmates, our good friend has returned.”

  “No, Bodger, it ain’t the miller’s wife who’ll tumble for a length of cloth and a spring chicken.”

  “That’s what I heard, Grift.”

  “No, Bodger, there’s no one better off than a miller’s wife. No, it’s the tallow maker’s wife who’ll tumble for goods. Everyone knows there’s no profit to be made in tallow.”

  “The tallow maker’s wife never looks short to me, Grift. She always wears the prettiest dresses.”

  “Exactly, Bodger! How can a woman whose husband barely makes one silver a month afford fine linen? She sets a good table, too, plenty of roasted chicken.”

  “Still, Grift, Master Gulch told me that he managed to take a tumble with the miller’s wife by giving her one length of cloth and a spring chicken.”

  “Master Gulch should have saved his money, Bodger. The miller’s wife will take a tumble with just about anybody in breeches, and for no reason other than she’s just plain randy.”

  “Do you think I’d have a chance with the miller’s wife, then, Grift?”

  “I’m not sure that you’d want to, Bodger.”

  “Why’s that, Grift?”

  “Unfortunately, Bodger, it appears that the miller’s wife has been spreading her favors so far and wide that she’s caught the ghones. And unless you fancy the idea of watching your balls slowly putrefying and then dropping off, I’d stay clear of her.”

  “I’m glad you warned me, Grift, you’re a true friend.”

  “I consider it my duty to keep you informed of such matters, Bodger.”

  “What about Master Gulch, Grift? Did he catch the ghones?”

  “Well, Bodger, all I can say is that judging by the way he’s been walking recently, it won’t be long before his plums hit the deck.”

  The two guards sat back against the wall and relaxed for a while, supping their ale.

  “Hey, Grift, while I was up on the battlements this morning, I could have sworn I saw a group of horsemen in the forest.”

  “Whose colors were they wearing, Bodger?”

  “Well, Grift, they were quite a distance away, but they looked like mercenaries to me.”

  “They’ll be the ones in the pay of Lord Baralis, then. I wonder if they’ve found young Jack?”

  “I didn’t spot him, Grift.”

  “I hope he’s got well away by now, Bodger. The boy’s better off gone from the castle. He never fit in. Just like his mother, head in the clouds the pair of them.”

  “I heard say his mother was a witch.”

  “Aye, Bodger, the rumors abounded. Beautiful girl she was. Judging from her accent she came from the south, but whether she was a witch or not, I couldn’t tell you. Though I did hear a few stories.”

  “What sort of stories did you hear, Grift?”

  “It was said that she once turned an over-ardent suitor bald.”

  “Bald?”

  “As a coot.”

  “It wasn’t Master Frallit, was it, Grift? He’s got a head as bald as your own.”

  “My lips are sealed, Bodger.” Grift took a long draught of ale and said no more.

  Maybor was beginning to wonder what had become of his assassin. He had sent Crandle to find the man, but his servant had been unable to locate him. The assassin had obviously not done his job, for Maybor had seen Lord Baralis with his own eyes that morning.

  Maybor had been walking in the gardens, taking the air that the wisewoman had advised, when he had seen Baralis slithering around the castle walls, trailed by his lumbering idiot, Crope. It had suited Maybor that the man had not seen him; he had no wish to confront Baralis, he would rather stay in the background until his enemy was disposed of. Only now it seemed that the man commissioned to do that very job had disappeared.

  Maybor did not even know if Scarl had been staying in the castle or the town; the assassin liked to keep his movements to himself. Perhaps the assassin decided that Baralis was so dangerous that he backed out. Maybor decided against that theory. He had dealt with Scarl before and knew him well. He was not a man to flee from danger.

  Maybor was walking the length of his chamber wearing his servants’ clothes. He had insisted that every robe in his wardrobe be burnt and now found h
imself in the humiliating circumstance of having nothing to wear. His sons were too slim to lend him any of their clothes, and so he had been forced to don the rather disgusting and none too clean clothes of his servant, Crandle. Maybor had commissioned the castle robemaker to fashion him some new robes, but they would not be ready for a week.

  He, the great Lord Maybor, had been forced to walk in the castle gardens dressed like a common servant. Baralis had a lot to answer for!

  Maybor was understandably beginning to develop a deep fear of being poisoned. What might Baralis try to poison next? His bedclothes? His shoes? Maybor had tried to force Crandle into testing his food and wine for him, but the thankless servant had adamantly refused. If Baralis was not out of the way soon, he would be forced to spend good money hiring a food taster and their services did not come cheap. It was, Maybor grudgingly supposed, a risky profession to be in.

  He was not pleased with his assassin; he had waited too long to make his move. He decided that when Scarl finally did his job, he would have absolutely no qualms about having the man’s throat slit. There was no way he was about to give up thirty acres of his orchards to a man who was so slow about his work.

  Crandle entered the chamber with a brief knock.

  “What do you want? Have you managed to locate the man named Scarl?”

  “No, sir, it appears that no one knows where to find him.”

  “Where has that damned man disappeared to?” Maybor stamped his foot.

  “Well, your lordship, a thought has occurred to me. Of course, I might be wrong.”

  “Get to it, man, do not dither.” Maybor picked up his sliver of mirror and examined the sores on his face.

  “You know, sir, that a fire occurred in the banquet hall after you left.”

  “Yes, yes.” Maybor was becoming impatient.

  “Well, there was one man killed in the fire. He was burned to death.”

  “What on earth has that to do with you not finding Scarl?” With great satisfaction Maybor squeezed a pus-filled boil.

  “Not one person could identify the body, your lordship, and nobody came forward to report anyone missing.”

  Maybor grew still. He knew what Crandle was saying. He thought for a moment and then asked, “What state was the body in?”

  “I heard the poor soul was burnt to a cinder, nothing of his face left.”

  “Was he found with anything on him?”

  “I’m not sure. I heard his knife was the only thing that held up to the flames.”

  “His knife?”

  “That’s what I heard, sir. Right funny knife, too, by all accounts. Not your usual hand knife.”

  “Be gone!” Maybor spoke calmly, and watched as his servant left the room.

  He had never seen Scarl’s knife, but Maybor knew it would be something special: it was the only tool of an assassin’s trade. He sat on his bed and pondered the implications of what Crandle had said. Maybor had last seen the assassin the day before Winter’s Eve, he had not heard from him since, and Scarl had not carried out his commission.

  Maybor shivered involuntarily. What if Scarl had attempted to murder Baralis and had failed? Baralis might in turn have killed the assassin and started the fire to cover up any evidence. Maybor had heard the strange rumors about the fire. Crandle had even said that a squire saw a man in black walk away from the flames. Baralis was known to be a man who liked to wear black. Maybor rang for Crandle. He could no longer call, his throat would not take the strain.

  “Yes, sir,” said Crandle, reappearing.

  “I would speak with the squire you mentioned. The one who saw the fire start.”

  “Oh, you mean Squire Tollen. He met with a terrible accident just the other day.”

  “What happened to him?” Maybor grew chill.

  “Well, it appears that he fell on a wheat scythe and ripped his guts open. He died instantly.”

  “Does it not seem strange to you, Crandle, that a man would fall on a scythe?”

  “Now you mention it, it does seem rather odd. Squire Tollen was no farmer.”

  “Leave me now, Crandle. You have given me much to think on.”

  After his servant had left, Maybor paced his room. No one, farmer or otherwise, falls on a scythe. This was Baralis’ doing, thought Maybor. He’d had the squire killed to avoid any possible link between himself and the fire. Baralis had somehow managed to kill his assassin. And Scarl was not just any fool with a knife; he had been the best in his profession. The assassin had been right to be wary of his mark. Baralis was becoming too ingenious. Maybor paced for a long time, thinking about how best to eliminate his problem.

  Bringe surveyed the huge expanse of orchards. From his position on the hilltop he could see hundreds of acres of the low and leafless apple trees laid out in neat lines as far as the eye could see. Lord Maybor’s orchards. Bringe smiled knowingly to himself and felt in his pocket for the letter. His rough hands curled around the smooth sheet and a tremor of anticipation ran through him.

  Bringe knew the great wealth that the orchards represented: they were home to the finest apple trees in the Four Kingdoms. The best cider in the Known Lands was produced from these succulent and sharp-tasting apples. Cider that was exported to countless cities and towns where discerning drinkers were willing to pay the highest prices for a mug of the honey-colored brew.

  The apple orchards were the most important industry in the east. If a man did not tend the apple trees, he brewed the cider, or crafted the barrels, or grew hops for the fermentation. Everyone from the youngest babe to the oldest woman in the town of Nestor helped pick the apples when they grew ripe on the tree. The elders held that the secret to fine-tasting cider was picking the apples when the color was just right: light yellow with just the beginning of a reddish blush. Too little red showing on the skin would yield a bitter brew, too much red would turn the brew too sweet.

  Bringe drew forth the letter from his pocket and unfolded the document with elaborate care. He peered at the contents, unable to read a word that was written therein. When the dark rider arrived late the previous evening, delivering the letter, Bringe had been forced to take the humiliating step of having his wife read it for him. Of course, he had beaten the slovenly wretch senseless afterward, just in case she got any ideas about blabbing the contents to anyone in the village. As he brought his leather strap down upon her back, he felt he detected a glimpse of arrogance in her watery eye. Bringe hated the idea that his wife might think herself better than him just because she could read. Fueled by righteous indignation—for it was only proper that a man show his wife who was master in the home—Bringe looked around for something more brutal with which to hit her. His eyes alighted on a heavy iron pot, and with vicious enjoyment he beat his wife until she was bloody and senseless.

  When he had finished with his wife he realized he was feeling aroused. His thoughts turned to his spouse’s sibling, his young sister-in-law, Gerty. On Winter’s Eve she had sat in his lap, her bottom heavy and warm, swaying suggestively against him. When his wife left the room to tend the stew, Bringe asked Gerty for a kiss. The girl willingly complied. It was no sister’s kiss. Gerty had slipped her sharp tongue between his teeth, sending a thrill of excitement through his body.

  Bringe’s thoughts lingered over the abundant charms of his sister-in-law. It was, he thought, high time he took a new wife, and the young and full-thighed Gerty would do him nicely. There was, of course, the problem of his current wife to deal with. Indignation rose in Bringe’s breast. That ungrateful sow had held him back too long. She did nothing but nag and harangue him, and now, because of the letter, she felt she had something on him. He’d show her.

  Bringe raised the letter to the pale morning sky. He would be going up in the world soon. There would be gold aplenty, a move to a new town, and a new wife to bed. Bringe carefully placed the letter in his good pocket and strolled down the hill toward the village, a spring in his step and a glint in his eye.

  * * *

&nb
sp; The moment the door closed behind the guard, Jack rushed across the dark chamber to Melli. She was asleep, stretched out on her side on a low wooden bench. Jack tried not to wake her as he felt the texture of the skin on her back through the thin fabric of her dress. He could feel each individual welt, the skin still raised and puckered. He shuddered to think what would have become of her if the flogging had been allowed to continue. Melli had good reason to be thankful to the mercenaries.

  Jack gently pressed the skin around the welts, testing for swelling and fluid beneath. Melli’s skin felt much firmer and he drew in a sigh of relief. The infection which he’d drained some days back appeared to have abated: the skin was healing normally. Jack felt a wave of concern ripple over him. Melli would undoubtedly bear the scars of the rope for life. They would fade somewhat, but they would remain, unmistakable, indelible marks of shame. With great tenderness Jack brushed a lock of dark hair from Melli’s face. Her beauty had been made only more poignant by her sickness. He dreaded to think what horrors she’d been through in Duvitt. Jack leant forward and placed a light kiss on her forehead.

  Melli awoke. Her eyes first registered panic, followed by recognition and then annoyance. “What on earth are you doing hovering over me?” she said sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

  Jack immediately felt like a fool—to be caught stealing a kiss! He hastily brushed his hair from his face in an attempt to smarten his appearance. “The guard has just left for a moment, so I thought I’d come and check on your . . . ” Jack searched for a delicate word. “Condition.” Melli looked at him with barely concealed hostility.

  “I’m certain my condition is just fine, thank you, and I know it’s no concern of yours.” She drew her blanket around her shoulders.

  “It’s just that after your . . . er, after the incident in Duvitt, you took a fever.” Jack met his companion’s gaze and Melli was the first to look away.