by J. V. Jones
The archbishop paused to take a mouthful of wine. “This Marls white is quite delicious; here take a sip.” Gamil lifted his arm to take the glass; Tavalisk ignored the gesture and handed the cup to the boy. “I’d be glad to hear your opinion of it.” The archbishop averted his eyes so not to see the look of malice that momentarily passed over Gamil’s features.
“Your Eminence has a wide knowledge of many subjects.”
“I have a practical knowledge of sorcery, Gamil. As you know, I dabble from time to time; the odd ensorcelment here, the briefest of drawings there, but it is far too physical a pursuit to keep my interest long. Even simple things like the laying of a compulsion upon a dumb creature can make one weak for the day. Sorcery uses a man’s strength as much as his mind, and can leave one’s muscles as well as wits sorely strained.”
Tavalisk beckoned the boy to bring him a glass from another barrel. “People make the mistake of thinking magic comes from the land and the stars, but it comes from within, and when it is drawn out, it makes its loss felt—a man could hardly be expected to lose a quart of blood and then carry on as normal, could he? The same for sorcery.” The archbishop took the fresh cup from the boy. “Sorcery is too debilitating for everyday use. I will use it when necessary, but on the whole I prefer to conserve my strength for the good of Rorn. Sorcery is a poor substitute for cunning.”
Tavalisk grimaced, finding the wine harsh and sour. “Here, Gamil, try this,” he said proffering his aide the cup. “Any news of our friend the knight?”
“He is back in Rorn, Your Eminence. The first thing he did on leaving his ship was to make his way to the whoring quarter.” Gamil sipped cautiously at the wine.
“Probably looking for his own little whore. Come now, Gamil, drink it all up. It’s a fine vintage.” Tavalisk watched as his aide was forced to drink all of the bitter wine.
“Well, he won’t find her, Your Eminence.”
“Not much chance of that, considering where she is.” Tavalisk took the cup from Gamil. “Of course, I do not want the girl harmed in any way.”
“Of course, Your Eminence.”
“I’m merely holding her on the off chance that she might prove a useful gambit to use on our knight at some point. I understand he was quite attached to her?”
“By all accounts he was indeed, Your Eminence.”
“The whore will prove the least of our knight’s worries before long.”
“What does Your Eminence mean?”
“I mean, Gamil, that it’s high time I took some action against his brethren. I’m considering expelling them from the city. The Knights of Valdis have irked me too long and I feel the need to chasten their movements. I’m sick of them manning our harbors and interfering with our trade. Ever since Tyren took over, they’ve stepped up their patrolling—looking for illegal slaves, indeed! Only last week they seized a cargo of spices, worth over a hundred golds it was. Said it was pirated stock!
“The situation is intolerable. They hide behind noble motives when all they’re after is trade. They undercut our prices merely to gain a foothold in the market. They have a near monopoly on the salt trade, and I need not tell you how dangerous that is to our deep sea fishermen—they depend upon salt to preserve the catch. I’m all for a man making a few golds, but let him not be a hypocrite when he does so.” The archbishop thought his last words had a gratifying ring to them and ordered Gamil to write them down for the benefit of the masses.
“You may go now,” said Tavalisk when Gamil had finished writing. He beckoned the servant. “Fill a flagon of the last wine for my aide, boy. I can tell that he enjoyed it enormously.”
“There is no need to bother, Your Eminence.”
“Nonsense, Gamil, it is my pleasure. Think of it as a reward for your scribing.” The boy returned with a large pot of the sour wine and handed it to Gamil. “Be sure to drink it soon; it may lose its distinct flavor if left too long.” Gamil withdrew, struggling to carry the large pot.
“Now, boy,” said the archbishop, addressing the young servant, “let’s move on to the next barrel.”
After a few moments there was a soft patter of feet and a tall, thin man approached. “Ah, Master Cellarer, it is always a delight to see you. I was just telling your boy how much I value your opinion on wine.”
Tawl picked his way around the filth on the streets. The stench of excrement and putrification was overpowering. The people of Rorn relied on the rains to wash the sewage from the streets, but the skies had not unburdened themselves for many weeks, leaving the city displaying its waste for all to see and smell.
He had taken his leave of The Fishy Few earlier that morning. He’d been sorry to bid farewell to the crew, for they had become his friends. Carver had told him he’d turned out to be a better cook than the one they’d left behind. Captain Quain had grasped his hand warmly and offered him help if he ever needed it. “Come down to the harbor any time,” he’d said. “I’m usually here. ’Less I’m at sea o’ course. You’ll always find a measure of rum and a helping hand.” Tawl did not doubt the offer for an instant, the captain was not one to promise his help lightly.
Tawl first made his way to the whoring quarter, hoping to see Megan one last time and perhaps stay with her overnight before leaving the city. He needed to talk to her. Ever since leaving Larn, her words had played upon his mind: “It’s love, not achievement, that will rid you of your demons.” How had she known so much? Achievement was all that mattered. It was all that he lived for, his personal curse. It was this longing for achievement—this need for fame and glory—that had marked him all his life. Searching for its elusive source had proven his downfall.
From the earliest he could remember he’d wanted to be a knight. Every day while fishing, his mind would soar eastward to Valdis. Knights were noble: they saved princesses from towers and fought long battles with demons.
To become a knight required money for training, and Tawl had started selling any surplus he caught. Four extra fish a day meant a copper penny a week. One morning he calculated it would take him fifteen years to make up the required sum. It made him more determined than ever.
He hid his stash at the bottom of the salt barrel. On many an occasion, when they were short of bread or tallow, he’d been tempted to hand it over. By the time his mother died, he had a cup full of coppers. Things were so bad for so long after her death, that he was eventually forced to spend it. Anna caught wet-fever, and the baby, by this time well over a year old, needed to be baptized. There was no choice but to use his savings. Oh, he’d been furious, taking his anger out on his sisters, storming and sulking and making everyone’s life a misery. They didn’t realize how important it was to him, and how, by giving up his stash, he was saying good-bye to more than money alone.
His sisters won him over with tenderness. Sara did the fishing for a week and Anna painted him bright pictures from her sick bed. Perhaps they had understood after all—he just didn’t see it at the time.
It was so hard to see things clearly then. There was the family and nothing else. The responsibility was so great. He took whatever labor he could find: as a farmhand, a tavern boy, a peat cutter—there was always work for someone willing to take his pay in goods, not coinage. The hours were long and grueling. He’d go weeks without seeing the cottage by daylight.
The only time he had to himself was the early morning. His stash might have gone, but the dream still remained. He was strong; he’d known that for as long as he could remember. His fishing hole was precious and he’d defended it many times against newcomers. No one dared bother him anymore. The village cleric had told him that strength alone wasn’t enough to be a knight. So each morning there’d be a book in his pocket as well as a knife. He could never manage to make much sense of old Marod, but if it was important that he could read, then read he would. Even after his coppers were gone, he still took his book along on his fishing trips. He’d tell himself it was force of habit, that the book was useful for securing his line, that o
ld Marod would make a good weapon if he were attacked. The truth was something deeper: as long as he had the book, there was hope. If ever the chance to be a knight came along, and in his dreams it always did, he would be ready for it.
His memory of that time was marked with the sound of taunting. The village boys would never tackle him one-on-one but formed gangs, and when they spotted him going to market—sisters at his side, baby in a basket—they’d laugh and call him the “good housewife,” and tell him to go home and suckle the baby. Sara and Anna would pull on his arm, begging him to come away. The fear in their voices was the one thing that stopped him from taking them on.
Only one day he came alone. He could still recall it now: the sky was blue and full of flies, the ground underfoot was firm. A leg of mutton was his downfall.
Summer Festival was approaching and he’d promised his sisters a treat. To girls who lived on fish and goose, a joint of meat seemed an unbelievable luxury, and no matter how much they annoyed him, Tawl loved to see them excited. He’d left Sara banking the fire in preparation for the joint. She was twelve now, and Anna was eight, the baby just turned three.
There was joy in his step that day. Not only would he buy a leg of mutton, there were extra coppers for ribbons and preserves. Sara and Anna had only rope to tie their hair. He’d seen the way they looked at the village girls with bright posies in their tresses; they longed to have them, yet never dared ask. Sara and Anna both knew there was no money to spare, and would not add to his burden by asking for things they couldn’t afford. They were good girls, really. What they didn’t know was that ever since the baby had been weaned and the wet nurse’s services no longer needed, he had extra fishes to sell. It wasn’t much, just enough for a little surprise on Summer’s Eve.
Tawl bought the mutton; it was stringy and a little tough. He was a novice at haggling and paid the asking price.
He had a hard time with the flies on the way back. They buzzed and bothered, trying to land on the meat. Just as he left the town he heard a voice: “Hey, mother’s boy, best hurry home and brown the joint!” Laughter accompanied the remark. Tawl didn’t turn to look and carried on walking.
“Trouble with flies? They’re attracted to the smell of girls!” A second voice. More laughter.
“You’ll be sprouting breasts soon.”
Tawl spun around. “Say another word and I’ll kill you!” He had the satisfaction of seeing them flinch. Five of them. He knew them well. The leader smirked.
“What you gonna do, housewife, poison us with your cooking?”
Something snapped. Tawl lunged for the leader’s throat. It was in his hands before he knew it. The boy’s face turned red then purple. Someone at his back kicked him. Spinning round, he punched the attacker squarely in the face. Bone crushed beneath his fingers. A third jumped on his back. Tawl threw him off with such frenzy, the boy landed a horse’s length away. A fourth boy hovered, clearly frightened; Tawl chased him and pulled him down. He kicked and kicked until the fury left him.
There was blood on the ground and on his clothes, the leg of mutton lay in the dirt and there were four men down, one wisely fled.
Tawl was close to tears, not because of the fighting, but for the ribbons and the meat. All ruined. He hated the thought of disappointing his sisters. Picking up the joint, he tried his best to brush it free of dust. The ribbons were bloodied, but might wash clean.
He started to walk home, basket in hand, limping slightly from a blow to his leg. Seconds later Tawl heard footsteps behind. He readied himself to fight again.
“You’re strong when angry, young man,” came a voice. Tawl looked round. A man stood in his shadow, a foreigner from his coloring and accent. “That was a very impressive show you put on. You’re vicious but badly in need of training.”
“I asked for no opinion, stranger.” Tawl studied the man. He was dark of hair and eyes. A sword was at his waist and a dagger at his breast, a deep blue cloak gave bearing, and well-oiled leathers suggested wealth.
“I am a man who likes to get what he wants. And I’ll not dance around the maypole: I want you.” The stranger spread his lips in something akin to a smile. He bowed. “I am Tyren, Knight of Valdis.”
Tawl approached the whoring district. He was desperate to see Megan. More and more the past was catching up to him, and he needed her tenderness to help him forget.
He was bitterly disappointed when there was no answer at her door. Forcing his way into her room, he tore off a section of his deep green cloak as a message that he’d been there—Megan would be unable to read a written note.
He took a moment to look around. It was obvious that Megan had not been there for several days; rats scuttled across the floor, flies swarmed around a slice of rotting pie, and dust lay thick on table and chair. Megan was a girl who liked to keep things tidy. Puzzled, he searched around some more, noting that her few dresses and belongings were still there. He looked under the heavy hearth stone where Megan had kept her money; there was no sign of the gold coins. He sighed sadly. She’d taken the money and left. He could hardly blame her—he had urged her to go—it was just that he had not expected her to go so soon.
Tawl ran his fingers through his hair. It was better this way. He could only have stayed one night and they would have parted once more, bringing each other new pain. Tawl closed the splintered door behind him.
He walked for a while down the dirt-ridden streets, marveling at the warmth of the sun—at this time of year the marshlands would be bitingly cold. He took the two letters from his belt and shuddered to see that the wax seals they bore were embossed with an elaborately fashioned letter “L.” He would rest a lot easier once they were out of his possession. Never having heard of the streets where they were to be delivered, he called to a young boy who was running past, “Hey, young fellow.”
The boy looked surprised at being beckoned. “You mean me?” he said, stopping in his tracks.
“Yes, you. I wonder if you can help me. I need someone to direct me to a couple of streets.”
“What’s in it for me?” The boy looked squarely at him. Tawl could not help but smile at the boy’s audacity.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Two coppers,” replied the boy, quick as a flash. Tawl regarded the boy: he was no more than eleven summers old, poorly dressed in a torn cotton tunic. He looked as if he had not eaten in several days.
“I will give you no money, young man, but I promise you a hot meal.” Tawl could clearly see the boy sizing up his offer.
“How do I know you won’t let me swing, once I’ve shown you to where you want to go?”
“You have my word.”
“People round here say the word of a foreigner is as good as no word at all.”
“So you think me a foreigner?”
“It’s as obvious as my own left foot.”
Tawl stifled a smile. “What would you say if I told you that I’m a knight, pledged to honor my word?” He bowed slightly and watched as the boy decided what to do.
“Very well, I’ll take you where you need to go. Not that I’m impressed by you being a knight, not that I believe you either, mind. I’m only going with you because I’ve got nothing better to do at the moment and I quite feel like stretching my legs a bit. O’ course I’ll hold you to that hot meal.”
“I’m grateful for your help. Now the places I need to find are called Mulberry Street and Tassock Lane.”
The boy whistled. “You’re getting quite a bargain.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because those streets are both on the other side of town. We’ve a long walk ahead, I can tell you. You must know someone in high places.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning Mulberry Street ain’t for the likes of you and me. High and mighty that place is.” The boy was obviously impressed.
“Let’s get going then,” urged Tawl. He was not interested in the people whom the letters were for, he just wished to finish his dut
y as messenger as soon as possible and be off.
“What’s your name?” he asked as the boy led him down the street.
“You tell me yours first.”
“Tawl.”
“Is that all?” The boy was clearly disappointed. “I thought knights had long, fancy names like Culvin the Daring or Rodderick the Brave.”
“We’re only given the fancy bit once we’ve died a hero’s death.” Tawl’s eyes twinkled merrily. The boy seemed pleased with his answer and was silent for a while as he led Tawl through a series of alleyways.
“A word of advice, Tawl, if I may be so bold.” The boy spoke in the hushed tones of a conspirator. “If I were you, I wouldn’t go around telling complete strangers I was a knight. Knights aren’t the most popular people in Rorn these days, if you get my drift.”
Had it come to this? Had the knights’ reputation fallen so low that even street urchins warned him to hide his identity? But then what did he expect—Rorn and Valdis had long been at each others throats. Tawl wanted to believe it was rivalry, nothing more, that spurred the hate for his order. But it was getting harder for him to ignore the rumors. He knew Valdis would not answer its critics—that was not the knighthood’s way—and although Tawl respected the silence, he also saw the harm it did. Indeed, he had been a victim of the silence: the archbishop had felt free to imprison and torture him for a year, because he knew full well that Valdis would do nothing to retaliate.
The boy spoke up, distracting him from his thoughts, “I’m known as Nabber, by the way.”
“Well, Nabber, seems as you know so much about Rorn, what sort of food would you suggest I buy you for supper?”
“The best dish in all of Rorn is eel pie. I’ll have a slice of that, some fried fish ends, and some leek soup—no carrots o’ course.”
“Of course,” echoed Tawl absently, his thoughts far to the west in Valdis.
