The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  Crope was about to leave when Baralis called him back. “Crope, did you remove the torch from the room leading off the tunnel?” His servant looked blank. “Think carefully.”

  “Whenever I take the torches down, my lord, I always replace them with new ones.”

  “Are you sure?” Crope nodded vigorously. “Very well, you may go now.” Baralis’ mouth tightened to a thin smile. So, he thought, the boy is in the castle.

  Nineteen

  Tavalisk read the edict on his desk, then dipped his quill in the inkpot and drew the loaded tip across the paper, signing his name with a flourish.

  “Gamil!” he called. His aide had been waiting outside and came hurrying in.

  “Yes, Your Eminence.”

  “I have signed the edict banning knights from entering the city of Rorn.” Tavalisk indicated the document on his desk. He then turned his attention to the platter of sweetbreads at his side, scrutinizing them carefully and taking in their subtle aroma. They were cooked just the way he liked them, fried in a little oil, no spices or other embellishments to mask their delicate flavor.

  “The edict will surely upset the city of Valdis.”

  “That is my intention, Gamil. I’m quite sick of them interfering with Rorn’s trade. Only last week they seized one of our ships. Kept it at sea for two days while they searched it from top to bottom. The whole cargo of fish was ruined.” Tavalisk busied himself with choosing a sweetbread.

  “On top of that, the knights are making nuisances of themselves in the city, telling people I’m corrupt and that I’ve no dealings with God. Tyren is playing a dangerous game and it’s high time he learnt the power of his opponents.” Tavalisk squeezed a sweetbread between his fingers, letting its pale secretions dribble over his fingers. He shot Gamil an accusing glance when the juices spilled onto his robe.

  “What if they retaliate, Your Eminence?”

  “The Knights of Valdis retaliate! I doubt it, Gamil, they will hold meetings and assemblies and send us letters of condemnation. The Knights of Valdis are incapable of fast action. Why, it took them one hundred years to decide where to build their damn city in the first place.” Tavalisk reached over and selected the largest of the sweetbreads. “No, Gamil, they will do nothing.”

  “Then why has Your Eminence signed the order?”

  “I thought that would be obvious.” The archbishop popped the sweetbread into his mouth. He first rolled it around on his tongue, enjoying its rubbery texture and then pierced it with his sharp teeth, letting the delectable juices run off his tongue and down his throat. “I am hoping to start a trend. Don’t you see, Gamil, the knights are welcome in fewer and fewer places, no one in the south trusts them anymore. One minute they act like dangerous fanatics, the next they’re stealing trade by undercutting prices. Rorn will be the first city with enough nerve to finally dispel those self-righteous hypocrites. Once Rorn has shown the lead, other cities will follow suit: Marls, Camlee, Toolay, they all will do likewise. Before long the Knights of Valdis will find their movements in the east severely restricted.” Tavalisk threw the remaining sweetmeats into the fire.

  “May I venture to ask Your Eminence why he is so opposed to the knighthood?”

  Tavalisk dabbed daintily at the stain on his robe. “Really Gamil, your short-sightedness amazes me. Tyren wants to control the trade routes. The knights are no longer content with controlling land and river trade. They’re after the sea trade as well.”

  “But I thought the knights were there merely to ensure that goods got through safely.”

  “Yes, yes. They used to provide armed escorts for cargoes—still do, only the price for protection has got so high, the goods end up going to market at a premium. That’s where they’re winning; goods they ship themselves are half the price. They’ve got people in the north believing that Rorn charges artificially high prices, whilst Valdis struggles to keep its prices low.”

  Tavalisk took an orange from the bowl of fruit by his side. “Tyren is up to no good. The man is too ambitious. He makes friends with the duke of Bren to gain sway in the north. He mustn’t be allowed to find similar friends in the south.”

  “If the knights are expelled from all the eastern cities, Your Eminence, it could lead to war.”

  “That, Gamil,” said the archbishop with a heavy sigh, “is an occasion we will have to deal with if and when it arises.” Tavalisk tore the skin from the orange.

  “Since we speak of the knighthood, Your Eminence, perhaps you would like to know the progress of our particular knight.”

  “Go ahead,” urged the archbishop, teeth glinting as he bit on the orange.

  “Well, the knight left the city nearly a week back. He’s currently heading north on foot.”

  “Is he still being followed by the boy?”

  “Apparently he is, Your Eminence.”

  Tavalisk studied the bowl of fruit, deciding which piece he would eat next. “You may go now, Gamil, but before you do could you perform one small favor.”

  “Certainly, Your Eminence.”

  The archbishop unpinned his robe. “Could you try and remove this grease stain for me? If you can’t, be so good as to deduct the cost from your wages.”

  Tawl entered a small town: a few traders, a stable, a smithy, and a tavern. He had set a brisk pace over the last few days and was pleased with his progress. He was now quite a distance from Rorn and the scenery had changed: the towns were fewer and smaller, the road had deteriorated to a mere dirt track and there were fewer people traveling it. Mountains lay ahead, their pale peaks hazy in the distance.

  He decided he would pay a visit to the local tavern. It was drawing close to midday and he was due for a brief respite. His throat was dry and the thought of ale instead of water cheered him considerably.

  He walked into the small tavern and immediately regretted his whim: it was no warm and jovial wayside inn. The place was deserted except for two men sitting in the corner playing low hand. There was no fire burning in the grate, the straw matting was stained and dirty, and the smell of rank meat hung in the air. Tawl was about to leave when a woman emerged from behind the bar and blocked his exit.

  Tawl felt obliged to have a drink. The woman winked provocatively at him and headed off to fetch his ale. She returned moments later with a foamy brew and placed it on the table, her fingers lingering over the mug. “So tell me where you’re headed, golden boy?” Tawl could not deny the woman was attractive; she had a pleasing plumpness and a pretty snub nose. Her eyes, however, were cold despite her smile.

  “Just heading north.”

  “Toolay is it? I’ve got a cousin in Toolay, says the only good thing about the city is the eatin’. Crabs and lobsters, she says, as big as her head. And let me tell you my cousin’s got a big head.” The woman laughed at her own wit, a shrill laugh, lacking in warmth.

  “I’ve no plans to visit Toolay.” Tawl had no intention of sharing his plans.

  “Fancy a bite to eat, a slice of pie or a bowl of stew?” The girl leaned forward, exposing the deep cleft of her bosom.

  “No.”

  “Coffers running a bit low are they?” The girl moved back, withdrawing her favor.

  “No, I’ve already eaten.”

  “Travelin’ alone are you?”

  “Yes.” Tawl noticed the woman’s speculative look.

  “You don’t seem to have much stuff for a man who’s travelin’ past Toolay.”

  He knew the woman was fishing for information. When he made no answer to her last remark she walked back behind the bar. Tawl supped his ale and watched as a man came from the back and spoke with the tavern maid. Their voices were hushed and the woman looked Tawl’s way a number of times. Tawl decided it was time he left. He drained his ale and made his way to the door. As he walked across the room he made a show of checking his longknife—it was wise to avoid trouble whenever possible.

  He was glad to be outside; the sun shone mildly and the air was fresh. The dirt road led the way out of tow
n and he took it, heading north as always. He started whistling a tune he’d learnt from Carver during his time on The Fishy Few. A jolly song telling of the strength, bravery, handsomeness and sexual prowess of sailors. Tawl was no singer and so contented himself with whistling the melody.

  He had walked from the town only a short distance when he was jumped. He was ready for it, his knife was drawn in an instant. There were three attackers: the men from the tavern. One of them tried to force him to the ground. Tawl swung round and slashed at his belly. He missed and felt the sting of a blade on his arm. Anger made Tawl lash out with his fist. He felt the soft flesh of the man’s side and his foe stumbled backward but did not fall. Tawl turned his attention to the second man, urging him to try his luck with a strike. His attacker plunged his knife forward, leaving his chest exposed. Tawl dodged the knife and stabbed at the man’s chest; he felt his blade slip between ribs and his foe fell back.

  Tawl felt a powerful blow to the back of his knees and stumbled forward, struggling to stay upright. Turning around he saw the third man was wielding a huge club. The first man was moving in with his knife, and Tawl was forced to deal with him as he parried the man with the club. The third man brought his club down on Tawl’s shoulder blade with great force and he fell to the ground. The two attackers closed in.

  Suddenly, someone jumped on the first man’s back—it was all Tawl needed. The one with the club was distracted for a mere second, but it was enough for Tawl to jump to his feet and land his knife in the man’s gut. Tawl finished him off and quickly turned to the remaining assailant, who was attempting to strike the person who had jumped him. Tawl whipped his blade down the man’s flank and then dispatched him with a clean strike to the heart.

  The boy cheered, jumping with excitement.

  Tawl had to struggle for breath before he could speak. “What in Borc’s name are you doing here?” Tawl rubbed his shoulder blade. It was sore to the touch, but it didn’t feel broken.

  “That’s easy. Saving your life, of course.” Nabber grinned triumphantly. Tawl walked a short distance from the fight scene, still gasping for air.

  “The first one got away, you know. I saw him crawling into the bushes.” The boy looked to Tawl to reply. When no response was forthcoming, he continued, “Ain’t you gonna finish him off ?”

  Tawl shook his head. He was badly out of breath and hunkered down on the roadside. “You’re supposed to be back in Rorn.”

  “It’s just as well for you I’m not.” Tawl could not deny that Nabber’s intervention may have saved his life.

  “What did you think you were doing jumping on an armed man’s back? You could have been killed.” Tawl began to clean his knife, wiping the blood away with a handful of grass.

  “Didn’t give it a thought. I saw you were in trouble and made my move. I’m no coward. I’ve been in worse scraps in Rorn.”

  Tawl checked the length of the road. There was no one about and it was time to be off; he didn’t want to risk being discovered with two dead bodies. He glanced toward the boy, deciding what he should do about him. He made his decision and headed off down the road.

  “Come on, boy,” he called. “We’d better be going.”

  “You go ahead,” shouted Nabber. “I’ll catch you up in a few minutes.”

  Some time later, the boy drew alongside Tawl. He was short of breath and had obviously been running.

  “What kept you?”

  “A little job to do, that’s all.”

  “What little job?”

  “A bit of prospecting.” The boy shrugged.

  “What exactly do you mean by prospecting?” Tawl spoke sharply, losing his patience.

  “I did a quick search of the bodies, see if they had anything worth having on them.” Seeing Tawl’s disapproving look, the boy explained further. “Well, I know you’re a knight and all; you’re probably too honorable to do any frisking. Thought I’d take the initiative myself.”

  “Hand it over.”

  “I found it,” protested Nabber.

  “Hand it over!”

  The boy brought a coin purse from his vest and gave it to Tawl. “Six silvers and one gold,” he said proudly.

  “Anything else?”

  The boy’s reply was guarded. “Nothing to speak of.”

  “No robbing dead men in future, boy, especially ones you didn’t kill yourself.”

  “What are you going to do with the money?”

  “I’m going to be keeping hold of it. I’ll have need of more money with you tagging along.” Tawl watched as the boy momentarily beamed with pleasure and then resumed his nonchalant manner.

  “I told you before, Tawl, coinage is no problem while I’m around.”

  “Look, Nabber,” Tawl became grave, “this is no grand adventure. There’s hard journeying ahead, bad roads and bad weather, and then no roads at all. You saw today what can happen to innocent travelers. I can’t guarantee my own safety, let alone that of a headstrong boy. It’s true that I owe you a debt, and in part that’s why I’m letting you come along, but I think you may live to regret my particular form of repayment.”

  The day was growing late. The sun grew red in the western sky and the first chill of evening could be felt on the breeze. Tawl decided they would travel late into the night. Not only did he have time to make up for, he also wanted to test the mettle of the boy.

  Mistress Greal was preparing to go down to dinner. She coated her face heavily with powdered lead and then squashed cranberries between her fingers, rubbing the juices onto her cheeks. She might not be as young as she once was, she thought, but she was still a fine figure of a woman. She looked through her wardrobe, deciding which of her dresses to wear. She picked the plainest—the blue, thinking to herself that the night promised little opportunity. Her sister, who now lived in Bren, had scolded her many times for wasting good dresses on unprofitable evenings.

  “Mistress Greal, Mistress Greal!” Her maid came rushing into the room.

  “What is it, you wretched girl?”

  “Oh, Mistress Greal, such news!” Keddi was flushed with excitement.

  “If you do not tell me this minute, girl, I will have you flogged. Now calm down and speak.”

  “Lord Maybor is in town. He has his son and a small company of men with him.”

  “This is indeed good news, Keddi. You have done well to tell me.” Mistress Greal’s eyes narrowed with greed. Lord Maybor was well known to be the wealthiest man in the Four Kingdoms. He was also well known for his considerable appetites for women and drink. Mistress Greal considered it her responsibility to see the great man was liberally and expensively provided with both while he was in town.

  Although his lands were not far east of Duvitt, Mistress Greal could not remember him ever having visited the town before. “Keddi, where is he staying?” Mistress Greal had an arrangement with the innkeepers in most of Duvitt’s hostelries.

  “He’s staying here.”

  “Good, good. Come and help me out of this dress, Keddi. I will wear the green tonight, I find green is the color that suits me best.”

  Once she was dressed, she made Keddi brush out her best wig. “Be careful, girl!” she snapped. “You’re not grooming a horse.”

  As soon as the wig was in place she ordered the servant to see to her two girls. “Run along, Keddi, and make sure you pull their laces tight. I want to see high bosoms and small waists. Keep Willa’s hair down—it serves to hide that unsightly blemish on her neck. Oh, and one more thing, tell them to stay upstairs until bidden. I would first tempt Lord Maybor with descriptions of their charms. Anticipation has helped beget many a deal.”

  Once Keddi had left, Mistress Greal made her way down to the inn. It was a little early, but she was eager to secure the best table, the one a decent distance from the nearest lamp. Unfortunately her recent girls had need of a little shadow. Once in place she ordered the cheapest wine and prepared to wait.

  She did not have to wait for long. There was a bustle of
voices and the inn door opened and a group of men came in. They were cold and wet and called loudly for service. She could tell straightaway from their fine dress who they were. One man stuck out above the rest; he had the bearing that only came with great wealth and nobility. His robes were crimson and gold, and his cloak was lined with ermine. His voice boomed out loudly as he called for food and drink, but Mistress Greal’s sharp ears caught the sound of his low wheezes.

  Mistress Greal noted with approval that the party had ordered the best that the inn had to offer: roasted venison, smoked salmon, grilled pheasant, to say nothing of the barrel of lobanfern red that the innkeeper dragged from the cellar. Mistress Greal knew to the last copper the cost of the various libations the inn had for sale, and lobanfern red was by far the most expensive.

  She watched as the group became more rowdy, the drink animating their conversations and flushing their faces. Mistress Greal decided it was time to make her move. She stood up, smoothing her skirts, and sauntered over to their table.

  “I bid you gentlemen joy on this fine night.” All the men turned and looked at her. “I hope you are enjoying your repast. I would let you gentlemen know there are more tasty morsels available than those on the menu.” The party caught her drift and banged their cups on the table.

  “What morsels have you to offer, woman?” shouted the one she knew to be Lord Maybor. “I trust they have not been sitting as long in the pot as you have.” The men broke into hearty laughter. Mistress Greal was more than a little insulted but covered it well.

  “Let me assure you, fine sir, my morsels are young and tender, plump and well spiced.” The party cheered rowdily at her reply.

  “You know well how to tempt a hungry man,” said the lord.

  “In my experience, sir, a hungry man needs little tempting.” The men erupted into laughter once more and Mistress Greal knew she was close to reeling them in.

  “Tell me, woman, where do you keep these tender morsels?”

  “Morsels as tender as mine must be kept under lock and key, lest they be eaten before their time.”