by J. V. Jones
Maybor was in the process of being fitted for a new set of robes, when he was interrupted by the entrance of his servant. “What is it, Crandle?”
“A letter has just been delivered to you, my lord. A handler awaits your reply. Most excited he was, says it was flown by an eagle.”
“Who is it from?” asked Maybor distractedly. He was trying on a particularly magnificent tunic and was admiring his reflection in his new mirror.
“I can’t say, sir.”
“Tell me, Crandle, do you think this tunic a little tight? My robemaker assures me it fits perfectly.” Maybor casually slapped the unfortunate man. “Be careful with those pins, you sniveling dolt!”
“I think the tunic looks most becoming, sir.”
“Well, Crandle, I’m inclined to think you are right, I do look rather . . . what’s the word I’m looking for?”
“Regal,” ventured Crandle.
“Yes, that’s the one. Now tell me more about the letter.” He turned to the robemaker. “You can go now. Remember I want more embroidery and jewels on all of them; they are far too plain at the moment.” The man backed out of the room, taking his work with him. “Damn fool, he has no idea how to make fine robes. I’ll have to send to Bren to get some decent attire and that will take nearly two months. If Baralis was here this moment, I would gladly squeeze the life out of his treacherous frame with my bare hands. Now, where were we?”
“The letter.”
“Yes, yes, let me have a look at it, man. It must be something pressing to be sent on the leg of a bird.” Crandle handed it to Maybor, who examined it carefully. “Go now!”
Maybor was beginning to feel a little excited. The letter had obviously come a great distance; the writing on its exterior was crafted in a style unfamiliar to him. He broke the seal and unraveled it. Maybor was not an accomplished reader and that, combined with the unusual handwriting, caused him some difficulty deciphering its contents. Once he was sure he understood what the letter said, he sat down on the side of his bed, rubbing his chin reflectively.
Maybor sat for some time, deep in thought. After a while there was a knock on his door. He was about to tell his servant to go away when in walked his eldest son, Kedrac.
“Father, you look pale, what is the matter?”
“Nothing is the matter, my boy. I am feeling quite well.” Maybor looked down at the letter and then to his son. He made a decision. “I have just received an interesting proposal.”
“From whom?” His son’s tone conveyed studied disinterest.
“I’m not sure . . . I could hazard a guess, but I won’t. Suffice to say I believe it to be from someone with great power and influence.” Maybor watched his son’s face become more attentive.
“And what does this person of power and influence propose, Father?”
“He proposes an alliance of sorts.” Maybor picked his words carefully. “He suggests that we have mutual interests and that we would do well to combine our resources.”
“You speak in riddles, Father.”
“Baralis!” Maybor shouted angrily. “The man who sent this letter seeks to keep that foul upstart in his place.”
“Surely, Father, we have no need of such an alliance. Can we not arrange for Baralis to be done away with ourselves? Say the word and I will slit his slippery throat myself.”
“No,” warned Maybor, his thoughts darting to the fate of the assassin. “I order you to stay clear of him.” His tone invited no argument on the subject. The eyes of father and son met for a brief instant, and the son relinquished.
“So, Father, what will you do about the letter?”
“I will reply that I am interested in an alliance. I will be careful not to appear too eager and will insist that the sender names himself.”
Kedrac nodded his approval. “How will you know where to send your reply?”
“There is a handler waiting upon it. I will pen it this very day.”
“The person in question must be anxious to have used a pigeon.”
“An eagle,” corrected Maybor. Both men were silent for a moment. It was rumored that sorcery was the only thing that could compel an eagle to act as a messenger. Maybor thought it wise to change the subject:
“Tell me, is there any news of your accursed sister?”
“That is what I came to talk to you about. The search is not going well. She’s been gone twenty-four days and her trail is cold. The Royal Guard have swept the forest and the nearby villages. They have found no sign of her.”
“Melliandra cannot have vanished into thin air. She must be somewhere.”
“There have been rumors.”
“What rumors?”
“A girl fitting her description was said to have been whipped in Duvitt.”
“Duvitt! Why, that treasonous town is five days hard ride from here; she would surely have not made it so far on foot.”
“We already know she bought a horse in Harvell the first day she escaped.”
“Still, Kedrac, no one would dare to whip a nobleman’s daughter. It must be nonsense made up by idle minds.” Maybor considered for a moment. “Look into it, anyway. Do not leave it to the Royal Guard, send one of your trusted men to Duvitt to check out the rumor. Time is rushing on, she must be found.”
“Very well, Father, I will see to it right away.”
Maybor watched his son leave the room, and once the door was closed he read the letter once more. A ghost of a smile played at his lips, this was indeed a most interesting development. He sat down at his writing table and started the painstaking task of penning a reply.
Baralis was making his way from the meeting chamber; he’d just had an audience with the queen. He had given her the medicine for the king—much watered down, of course—and he was now feeling quite pleased. The queen had reluctantly admitted that the search for Melliandra was not going well; not only was there no trail leading back to him, there was no trail at all. He should have expected no less. All the Royal Guard was famous for was looking good in uniform!
It had been many days since he and the queen had struck the wager, and now all he had to do was hold the girl for a further few weeks to win the bet. And what a prize! His plans would at long last start to come together—he would force the queen to marry Kylock to Catherine of Bren, the duke of Bren’s only child. It would be the greatest match in the history of the Known Lands. Kylock would rule over the two largest powers in the north. With the great military might of Bren and the Four Kingdoms combined, Kylock would be able to crush the other northern states. The Halcus were already weak—he had seen to that. Annis and Highwall, and as far east as Ness—they would all fall. Kylock would rule over the mightiest empire ever known. He, Baralis, son of a farmer, would be kingmaker, shaper of an empire.
Kylock was his creature. With more subtlety than a courtesan’s smile, he’d drawn him in. A tantalizing conversation here, a glimpse of greatness there, a provocative use of power, and the boy was his. Kylock’s mind, so like his own, craved intimate knowledge of those forces that could neither be seen nor touched. It had been so easy; the boy was set apart from birth—and he knew it—a loner, incapable of making friends, gradually retreating to a world of inner torment. Kylock was on the edge of madness. ’Twould be so easy to guide him along—he was born to it!
Baralis made his way into the castle courtyard. Once he was sure he was not being observed, he slipped into the concealed entrance of the passageway that led to the haven. Thinking about the future was one thing, making it happen was another. He would let no one, no matter how small and inconsequential, stay his path. It was time he questioned the boy.
Jack was sitting on the wooden bench, his legs drawn up to his chest for warmth. He had no cloak, as he had torn it up and used it to bandage Melli’s back. There had been much time to think over the past days. He’d been entirely alone except for the occasional guard who came to taunt him.
So much had happened since that fateful morning with the loaves: it wasn’t wor
th denying the incident; it had happened and he was responsible. What it made him varied according to who he spoke to. Tradition would call him a demon. Falk would call him a man capable of making his own choices for good or evil.
Too many times now for denial he’d felt the buildup of power within. It set him apart, but was there a purpose behind it? Or was it random, like a scattering of autumn leaves? There had always been a part of him that felt different from everyone else. For so long now he’d thought it was due to a lack of background in his life. With a mother full of secrets and a father unnamed, it was a form of escape to believe he was special. In his mind his father had been a spy, a knight, a king. His mother was a gypsy princess in hiding from her family. Such romances were his greatest conciliation as a child.
Yet one of them had given him this. Did his power come with some obligation? Was it meant to be used, or hidden?
Jack had worked as Baralis’ scribe for several years and knew some of the powers the man possessed. Was his fate to be like Baralis? A man who concealed more than he showed, a man who frightened small children and provoked warding signs when his back was turned?
Jack looked up as the door creaked open. Standing on the threshold was Baralis. He was not surprised to see him, and in fact felt relieved that he had finally come. Jack had not enjoyed the waiting. It was time they sorted things out. He started to stand, Baralis raised his arm.
“No, Jack, do not rise.” His voice was smooth and commanding. “You know why I am here?”
“You are here to question me.” Jack stood up in defiance. He would not look up to his captor.
A flicker of annoyance registered on Baralis’ face, but he remained unprovoked by Jack’s action. “I am here to find out the truth.” Baralis stepped forward, his shadow falling upon Jack. “What are you, Jack? Who do you work for?” His voice was almost a whisper. “What happened that morning in the kitchens?”
Jack shook his head. He was frightened, but nothing in the world would make him show that to Baralis.
“You refuse to tell me, boy?”
“I can’t tell you what I do not know myself.”
“Don’t play games with me, boy. You will regret it if you do.” Baralis continued, his voice menacingly low. “The loaves, Jack. You and I both know those loaves had been . . . altered. Tell me what happened. Were you practicing your skills of drawing and lost control?”
“I don’t know.” Jack struggled to keep his voice level. “If I made anything happen, it was not by intention.” He’d spoken the truth, but it held no charm of protection. He was more afraid than ever.
Baralis thought for a moment, his gray eyes the color of blades. “Tell me, boy, has this happened to you before?”
“No.”
“Come, come now.” Baralis’ voice was a silk sheath with a dagger at its center. “A trick to please the maidens? A prank to annoy Frallit? What have you done before?”
“Nothing. The loaves were an accident.”
“An accident! Power is never drawn by accident.”
Jack felt the stirring of something, the same pressure as before, only minutely different. It took a moment to realize it came from Baralis, not himself. Fear consumed Jack’s consciousness, leaving barely enough space for thoughts of survival.
Baralis’ voice became louder. Jack had never seen the man so riled. “Look at me, boy.” The weight of Baralis’ will pressed against him, and he looked into his eyes. “Tell me the truth. Where did your power come from?” Jack’s head began to feel heavy, burdened with a force he could not name. He felt in danger of losing himself, of his mind being crushed by the strength of Baralis’ will.
“I don’t know.”
The burden lifted a little. Jack felt his stomach heave with nausea. Baralis held him in his thrall. “Oh yes, you do, Jack. All the answers are there within you. If you choose not to tell me, I will be forced to pry them out.”
Strangely, amidst the turmoil, Baralis’ words stood out like glowing embers in the dark: was the man right, were the answers within him?
A sharp stab of pain followed by unbearable pressure stopped all thought of answers. It felt like a hundred tiny incisions were being made in his brain. Baralis was the surgeon.
“Who are you working for? Tell me.”
“I work for no one.” Pain made Jack strong. “Leave me alone!” There was something growing, something of his own. Bile came to his throat. Such sickness it made him dizzy.
For an instant, Baralis backed away. A second later Jack was in agony. Pain coursed through his spine. His eyes were drawn into their sockets; he felt as if Baralis were wringing the power from him.
“I will have the answers from you,” he said.
The man was in his mind, searching, burrowing deep within his being. The pain was all consuming; it blazed away, kindling his very soul. His thoughts collapsed downward to a place where they’d never been. Through suffering came peace. Everything was clear. He knew what he was and what he must do. His mother was there, her secrets revealed; she’d been so much cleverer—and braver—than he had ever known. The figure in the shade was his father. Jack strained to make him out. A spasm wracked his body, and he fought against it—he would not lose himself to the force of Baralis’ mind.
The pain was so terrible it pushed the breath from his lungs. The visions fled with the light at their side, and left him to darkness. Alone, he struggled till he knew no more.
“Didn’t I tell you Mulberry Street was grand?” Nabber looked to Tawl for confirmation.
“You did indeed.” They were in a part of Rorn that Tawl had never seen before. Fine buildings lined the street, elegantly pillared, sided in marble and gleaming white stone. The road was tastefully thread with trees and bushes, not a piece of rotting vegetation in sight; even the air smelled fragrant. Tawl had just delivered the first of the letters from Larn. He was anxious to deliver the second one.
“The archbishop’s palace is not a stone’s throw away,” said Nabber. Tawl had found the young street urchin to be a wealth of information regarding Rorn. Their journey to Mulberry Street had been marked by Nabber waving hellos at every dodgy-looking character they’d passed. “Now, if you think that place you delivered the letter was fancy, you should set your eyes on the palace. I could take you there next, if you like.”
“Another time. Lead me on to Tassock Lane, Nabber.” Tawl didn’t know what it was that made him so eager to be free of his debt from Larn. It was as if as long as he held their letters, they had some claim upon him. “How far away is it?”
“Not far, but it’s not as nice as this place.” Tawl was glad to hear it; he had not liked the feel of Mulberry Street one little bit. It seemed to him that beneath all the splendor lay something rank and furtive.
Before long the district changed. People walked on the streets, vendors sold their wares, tempting passersby to purchase hot chestnuts or toasted onion cakes or rolls stuffed with fragrant lamb. Tawl could see that Nabber was hungry, and he admired the way that the boy ostentatiously ignored the food on display; he was determined to show Tawl that he would complete his part of the bargain before expecting the payment.
The two walked a little further, and then Nabber slipped down a little side street. “Tassock Lane,” pronounced the boy. It was a dark street, the buildings blocking out what little light was left of the day. It was home to many traders: boot repair, sign painting, saddlers, none of whom appeared to be doing much business.
Tawl bid the boy wait and walked down the lane alone. The priest had told him to deliver the letter to a man who lived above a small bake shop. He was beginning to think the priest was mistaken. He had walked nearly the full distance of the street and had found no such place. He could see a dead end looming ahead, but as he drew nearer he saw that the last building was indeed a bakery. Tawl walked into the small shop; what few items it had on offer looked neither fresh nor appetizing.
The tired-looking woman behind the counter was openly hostile. “What d’yo
u want?” she demanded. Tawl thought that it was rather an odd way for a shopkeeper to greet her customers.
“I have a letter for the man who lives upstairs.”
“Oh, have you indeed? And who might this letter be off?”
“I’m afraid, madam, I cannot say.” The woman snorted loudly and Tawl decided not to leave the letter with her. “If you please, I would be grateful if you could direct me upstairs.” The woman snorted again, but stood up.
“Follow me.” She led him through a doorway and up a narrow flight of stairs. There was a brief passageway with three doors leading from it. “You’ll be wanting the second door,” said the woman.
“How can you be sure who I want? I have not told you his name.”
“You’ll be wanting the second door,” she repeated. “All people coming here delivering letters want the second door.” She watched as Tawl knocked on the door.
A slight, wiry man answered. Tawl saw confusion and something more in the man’s eyes. He spoke the name he had been given by the priest and the man nodded, shaking slightly.
“I have a letter for you.” Tawl pulled it from his belt. Understanding dawned in the man’s eyes. He grabbed at the letter and shut the door in Tawl’s face. Tawl looked around for the woman, but she had withdrawn. He made his way down the stairs and out of the shop, his mind trying to grasp what expression he had seen flit across the man’s features when he first set eyes upon him.
“I thought you’d skipped out on me,” said Nabber as Tawl walked up to him. “You’ve been a fine time. A man could starve to death with waiting.” Tawl smiled, knowing this was the boy’s way of reminding him about his part of the bargain.
“Fish pie and eel ends it is, then.” They both laughed heartily. Tawl was relieved to be free of his obligation to Larn.
Bringe drew his blade once more over the whetstone. The action produced a scraping noise which he found pleasing. He ran his thumb across the huge ax blade. Swords and knives were for weaklings. The ax was the weapon of a real man. No simpering lord had the balls to yield an ax. Bringe rolled his phlegm and spat in disgust. He dipped his rag into the pot of congealing pig fat and proceeded to work it into the blade; it would need to be well greased tonight. He scooped out a handful of the soft, yellow lard and wrapped it in the rag in case he had want of it later.
