The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  There was little need for him to be quiet as he left his house. His wife was drunk, and that, combined with a sound beating, had rendered her unconscious. As he passed the inert form of his spouse lying on the dirt floor, he aimed a passing kick at her chest. She groaned faintly in acknowledgment.

  It was a fine night, thought Bringe as he walked down the hill balancing the weight of the massive ax on his shoulder. A crescent moon glowed weakly in the cold sky, providing just the right amount of light he needed. A full moon would have been too bright; sharp eyes could see on a full moon. His step was light and he hummed a tune to himself. A fine tune, with words that spoke of the delights of a certain young maiden. Bringe always thought of Gerty when he heard it. It was true that she had neither the golden hair nor perfect skin of the girl in the song, but she was warm and willing and he required no more in a woman. It would not be long before she would be his. With his wife out of the way and money in his pocket, he would take Gerty for his own.

  After a short while he reached his destination: a secluded area of apple orchards. The portion of land lay in a gentle valley with the ground rising around it. Bringe knew the nearest farmhouse was way over the rise. He would be observed by no one. He was not a counting man, but he figured there were at least five score of trees in the valley. It would be hard work.

  He rolled up his sleeves, the curve of his muscles catching the moonlight. He approached the tree nearest to him, a sturdy, low specimen with a thick trunk. Probably more than forty years growth, he reckoned. Bringe swung the huge ax above his head and brought it down with all the force in his body. The blade hacked viciously into the tree trunk, its cruel edge biting deep within the tree. Bringe swung again, bending his back low and setting the ax at a different angle. Two more blows and a large wedge of trunk fell from the tree, leaving it mutilated. The tender inner wood was now badly exposed. There would be rain and then frost in the coming days. The rain would permeate the trunk and the frost would cause the moisture to freeze and swell, damaging the integrity of the tree. Even if the tree did not wither and rot, it would be some years before it could once again bear a decent quantity of apples.

  Bringe moved on to the next tree. He reckoned it would take him the greater part of the night to hack all the trees in the valley, and he had no time to waste.

  Seventeen

  Tawl awoke with a start. He was aware of someone moving around the room, and as a reflex he went for his knife; it wasn’t there.

  “This what you’re looking for?” The boy held it out for Tawl to take.

  “By Borc! How did you get in here?” Tawl was annoyed at being caught off guard—and by a mere boy no less.

  “Easy as can be,” said Nabber. “After that excellent meal last night, when I took my leave of you, I got to thinking that I had no shelter for the evening, and I thought that you wouldn’t be opposed to the idea of sharing your room. So I made my way up here. You were flat out, so I just made myself comfy and went out like a light.”

  “The door was locked.”

  “You’re a bit green, ain’t you?”

  Tawl was at a loss for words. The boy was right; he had been foolish to trust a locked door. He had, however, always thought of himself as a light sleeper, yet the boy had not only broken into his room but also managed to steal his knife. “What time is it?” he asked testily.

  “Dawn’s just about to rise. Time for breakfast, I’d say.”

  “Buying you breakfast was not part of the bargain.”

  “Well, I’ll buy you some, then.” The boy pulled a gold coin from his tunic and grinned. Tawl checked in his belt only to have his suspicions confirmed.

  “That’s mine, boy.”

  “Has it got your name on?” The boy scrutinized the coin. “I don’t believe it has.” Tawl whipped across the room and over to the boy, caught his arm and twisted it.

  “Give it to me this instant, you little robber.” The boy dropped the coin and it rolled onto the wooden floor. Tawl released the boy and picked up the coin. When he looked up, the boy was making a great show of rubbing his arm. “You can stop pretending I hurt you; all I did was squeeze you a little bit. You wouldn’t want me to think you were a crybaby.”

  “Didn’t hurt one bit,” said Nabber with exaggerated dignity. “I was just rubbing it to improve the circulation.”

  Tawl ignored the boy and made his way around the room. Gathering together his things, he checked in his bag to make sure the boy had not stolen anything else. Once satisfied that everything was in his possession, he made his way toward the door.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” said the boy, chasing after him.

  “Leave me be, boy. I have much to do this morning and I have no need for company.” Tawl descended the stairs of the small inn and walked into the dining area. A middle-aged woman approached him.

  “What can I be bringing you, sir?” The woman smiled invitingly, adjusting the ruffle around her bosom. He had no time for a dalliance this morning. He was anxious to be on his way. Now that he’d paid for the seeing at Larn, it was time to act upon it. He needed to head for the Four Kingdoms and find the boy.

  “I’ll take some mulled holk and a plate of bacon and mushrooms.” Tawl knew the cost would be high, but he would leave the city this day and this could be his last chance for a proper meal for some time.

  “And for your son?” Tawl looked around to see Nabber standing behind him. The woman waited expectantly.

  He relinquished. “The same for the boy. Half portion.” The woman scuttled off. Tawl spoke to Nabber, “Sit down, boy, and enjoy your breakfast. It will be your last meal that I pay for.”

  Nabber sat down and began to tear at the warm bread the woman had brought. “While you were asleep, my friend,” he said, “I took the liberty of casting my eyes upon your circles. Nothing personal, mind, just testing your credentials. Anyway, I couldn’t make out what the scar in the middle was—sort of runs right through ’em.”

  Tawl took a deep draught of ale. “It’s none of your business, boy.” Nabber opened his mouth to speak and then thought better of it. They ate the rest of their meal in silence.

  By the time that Nabber was mopping up the last traces of bacon fat, Tawl was beginning to feel he’d spoken too harshly. To make up for his bluntness, he offered the boy a chance to show off his knowledge of Rorn. “Tell me, Nabber, how much would an old nag set me back in this city?”

  “Two gold pieces,” said the boy in between mouthfuls of bread. Rorn was an expensive place.

  “What could I get for . . . ” Tawl made a quick calculation, “ . . . ten silvers?”

  “A sick mule.”

  Tawl could not help but smile. A mule was no use to him; he could move quicker on foot. He was beginning to wish he’d kept back more than one gold coin from Megan. The Four Kingdoms was a great distance away; it could take him over two months to get there on foot. Not to mention the mountains: the Great Divide, as they were called, ran the length of the Known Lands. Tawl realized for the first time that he would be forced to cross them in deep winter. He would need warmer clothes and supplies. He decided he would wait until he’d left Rorn to purchase them, not only because they would be cheaper elsewhere, but also because the climate in Rorn was warm and he would be forced to carry any clothing he did not wear. If he was to walk, then he must keep his belongings to a minimum.

  Tawl briefly pondered the idea of asking the Old Man for more money; he was sure it would be freely given. He was proud, though, and liked little the idea of asking any man for help. He would have to rely on his own resources. He was not too worried; there were always ways for a man with a strong arm to earn some money. Still, he would have to be careful with what money was left once he had paid for his food and bed.

  Tawl finished his meal and paid his bill. The woman bit on the coin to test its worth, then handed him twelve silvers in return—less than he had expected. “Where can I buy some dried goods and a water flask?” he asked Nabber. “And I need to find my w
ay to the north gate.”

  “I’ll show you, if you like.”

  “No, Nabber.” Tawl was anxious to be free of the boy. “I’d rather you just tell me where to go.” The boy nodded and described a place nearby.

  Tawl clasped Nabber’s arm in the knightly fashion and bid him farewell. The boy gave him an unreadable look and wished him “profit on the journey,” an unusual saying, and one Tawl suspected was unique to money-hungry Rorn. He watched as the boy slipped down an alleyway. Tawl thought he detected a certain reluctance to his step, but paid it little heed. Nabber would soon be off finding more lucrative possibilities.

  Quickly finding the place the boy had described, he made his purchases, and was pleased to see that they were not too expensive. He checked the position of the sun in the sky. It was time to be on his way.

  It was a bright, gusty morning and the odors of salt and filth mixed on the breeze—it was a smell that summed up the city in one sharp whiff. Tawl approached the towering north gate of Rorn. He would not be sorry to leave. Too much had happened here: imprisonment, torture, the loss of a friend in Megan, and the comprehension of just how low the knights’ reputation had fallen.

  Even now, though, he had things to be thankful for: a chance meeting with a fortune-teller had led him to Larn. And Larn, in turn, pointed his way west.

  Was that always the way things happened, he wondered, by chance? Fate he wasn’t sure of, but chance seemed a familiar tune. Its arbitrary strains had accompanied him more than once in his life. It was playing brazenly the day he met Tyren: what were the chances of a man, whose sole objective at the time was to find new blood for the knights, being present the afternoon he’d been taunted into a fight by the village bullies?

  Dragonflies courted in the shade. The breeze was warm on his skin, too warm to dry the sweat. His legs felt weak—not from the fight, but from the shock of learning that the man who stood before him came from Valdis.

  Tyren looked at the leg of mutton. “Come back to the village with me and I’ll buy you another—that one’s too dirty for roasting.”

  Tawl was still out of breath. Pride prevented him from accepting the man’s offer. He shook his head. “No, this will do. Sara can wipe it down.”

  “Who is Sara?” asked Tyren.

  “My sister.”

  “I’m sure she won’t mind waiting on the joint a little while longer. Come join me for a drink, and let me tell you about Valdis.”

  Tawl took a deep breath; he was still shaken from the fight. “Sir, I don’t want to waste your time. I can’t go to Valdis with you.” There! he’d done it: put an end to the matter. What alternative did he have? He couldn’t run off and leave his sisters.

  Tyren seemed amused. “You mean to tell me, boy, that you’d turn your back on the chance of free training at Valdis?”

  Free. Tawl could hardly believe it. The cleric had told him training cost a small fortune. It made his refusal even more difficult. “Sir, I have other obligations.”

  “What obligations? Are you an apprenticed baker, or a tied fieldhand?” Tyren’s voice mocked him. “What possible obligations could you have to prevent you returning with me to Valdis?”

  Blood dripped down Tawl’s chin—one of the boys had landed a decent blow. It would be so easy to go with Tyren and never return home. But he couldn’t do it: his sense of what was right prevented him. “I have two sisters and a baby to care for. My mother died three years back and they depend on me to live.”

  “Ah.” Tyren rubbed his short, slick beard. “What about your father? Is he dead, too?”

  “No. We don’t see him very often. He spends his days drinking in Lanholt.”

  “So you do the honorable thing. It’s a shame you’re not free. We could do with more of your kind in the knights.” Tyren smiled, showing his teeth. “Not to mention the fact that you fight like a demon.” He shrugged. “So be it. Perhaps when your sisters are older . . .”

  “Sara is twelve, the baby is three.”

  “Hmm. Well, give thought to my offer, and if you change your mind I’ll be staying at the Bulrush in Greyving for a week.” He bowed with grace, his dark cloak brushing the dust, and then began to walk back to the village.

  Tawl raised his arm to halt him, but never said the words. The sight of the figure retreating into the distance was more than Tawl could bear. He turned away and began the journey home—down along the riverbank, across the drying mire. He grew bitter with every step. He hated his sisters. He hated his mother. He hated his father. The leg of mutton became a symbol of his duty, and raising it over his head, he threw it from him with all his strength. The ribbons he crushed beneath his feet.

  His sisters were at the window, watching for his return. Disappointment at seeing he was empty-handed was quickly replaced with concern over his injuries. “You’ve been beaten,” said Sara, dampening a cloth for the blood.

  “No, not beaten,” he said. “I put on a fair show.”

  “You won?” asked Anna, her voice sharp with excitement.

  “It doesn’t matter who won. Go and get me some ointment from the shelf.” Sara turned to Tawl. “They called you names, didn’t they?”

  Her sympathy annoyed him. “So what if they did? I’m a grown man. I can fight if I choose.”

  “What happened to the meat? Did it get lost in the fight?”

  “Yes,” he lied.

  “It doesn’t matter, Tawl.” Sara kissed him on the cheek. “As long as you’re all right, fish will be fine for Summer Festival.”

  Slowly, through their gentle, good humor, they brought him round. He didn’t mention his meeting with Tyren, preferring to be alone with his loss. Three nights he lay awake, tossing and turning in his bed, his imagination tormenting him with visions of what could have been. He knew it was unfair to blame his sisters, and he made an effort not to be short tempered with them. It was easy. Sara and Anna were so pleased he was unharmed by the fight—and he suspected a little proud of his performance—that they spent the next few days spoiling him: kissing and hugging and making his favorite foods.

  On the fourth day they had a visitor. Chance played its final part. Tawl returned from fishing about mid-morning. The door was ajar and a voice could be heard saying, “See, I know what my beauties like!” It was his father. Anger boiled in Tawl’s breast. He marched into the room.

  “Get lost, you old drunkard. We’ve nothing left for you to steal!”

  There was complete silence for an instant. Tawl took in the scene. Sara and Anna were sitting at their father’s feet. The man had two large sacks with him and was dressed like a king.

  “Papa’s not come to steal,” said Anna. “He’s brought us gifts.” She held out a hand filled with brightly colored ribbons.

  “Yes, Tawl,” said Sara. “Father’s had a spot of luck at the table.” She looked a little guilty, like a crewman with thoughts of mutiny.

  “You mean gambling.” Tawl’s voice was hard.

  “Gambling, carding, call it what you will. Luck kissed me then made me her lover.” His father’s voice was surprisingly level. Though his breath still stunk of ale. “I won a small fortune. And I’ll be putting it to good use.”

  “How?” Tawl didn’t like the sound of this. He was jealous of the way his sisters were so excited—he’d saved for months to buy them ribbons, and now his father turned up and was treated like a hero.

  “I’ve come home to stay. There’s no need for you to do everything anymore, Tawl. I’ll be head of the family from now on.”

  Anna and Sara looked at him, silently pleading. They were so innocent; they had no idea what their father was really like. A proper family was the dream they were asking him to accept.

  “You think you can just come here, after years of neglecting us, and just take over?” said Tawl. “Well, we don’t want you here.”

  Anna spoke up. “Tawl, give Papa a chance. He promised us meat everyday and new dresses each month.”

  “Ssh, Anna,” said Sara, looking di
rectly at Tawl. “It’s not meat or dresses that we want. It’s Father home again.” She gave him a sad look.

  “See?” said his father. “My daughters want me home. It’s my duty to be here. And here I’ll stay.”

  That night Tawl made his way to the Bulrush at Greyving. Tyren came downstairs to meet him. “I’m free to come with you to Valdis,” he said. “My obligation has been taken away.”

  Jack was aware of feeling sick. He lay for some time with his eyes closed, in the hazy state between sleep and waking. Eventually he opened his eyes. He was staring at the stone ceiling. Drops of water seeped in through the cracks and threatened to drip down. His eyesight seemed somehow clearer than he remembered. He could see the rainbow of colors in the tiny droplets, and the minutest detail of the stone. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. The effect had gone away; he must have imagined it.

  He rose up from the bench—a little too quickly. As a wave of nausea hit him, he leaned forward and brought up the contents of his stomach. He wiped his mouth clean and began to feel a little better. His head felt strangely heavy, and when he turned it seemed to take a minute for his mind to settle back into place.

  He strained to recall the events of the previous day: Baralis had come to him, questioning. He could remember neither the questions asked nor his own answers, if indeed he had given any answers at all. He did not believe he had any to give. A glimpse of a memory tantalized his mind. Something about his mother. He tried to grasp at it, almost made it out, and then it was gone. Was there some connection between the questioning and his mother? Or was it just that he was badly shaken by Baralis’ probing and wasn’t thinking straight?

  He dismissed all thoughts of the day before and tried to stand up. Testing the strength in his legs, he found them a little shaky. He had a great thirst and he looked around the room. There was no water. Jack hammered on the solid wooden door, calling for water. As he waited for it to be brought to him, he made a decision: he had to try and escape—he had been weakly submitting for too long. What right had Baralis to capture him? He had done nothing wrong. One thing was clear: Baralis suspected him of being more than what he was. If he remained here, he would surely be subjected to more of whatever Baralis had done to him, or worse.