by J. V. Jones
“Jack, we’ll get away,” said Melli, as if reading his thoughts. “We’ll go somewhere far from here, where Baralis will never be able to find us again.” Melli paused for a moment, thinking. “We’ll go to Bren. You can start a new life there.”
“And what of you, Melli? You weren’t born to travel rough, to live with no money, to make your own way. What would become of you in Bren?” Jack’s voice was harsher than he intended; he could see that he had upset her.
“I could travel with you as far as Annis. My family has relatives there.” Melli’s voice was scathing. “They will take me in, which is just as well, as I am so useless on my own!”
“Who are your family, Melli?”
“My father is Lord Maybor.” She looked at him coolly. Jack tried to hide his surprise. He had guessed Melli was a nobleman’s daughter, but he’d never thought she would come from such a rich and influential family. Jack had heard it said many times that Lord Maybor was a favorite of the queen. Melli interrupted his thoughts: “Now, Jack, seems we are trading secrets, tell me the real reason why Baralis is after you.” She lowered her voice and spoke with cold precision. “Or did I see the reason back in the woods two days ago?”
Jack could not reply and his silence answered for him. Melli’s expression softened and she came and knelt by him. She took his hand and kissed it. “I’m sorry. Here am I losing my temper when you aren’t well and need rest.” She was so beautiful: her skin as pale as spring butter, her hair as dark as winter nights. Just to look at Melli, to have her hand in his, almost made everything worth it. Or it might have done, if he hadn’t just learned he was a murderer. Falk had been so right when he said his life wouldn’t be easy.
“You’ve been flustering the boy. Shame on you, girl.” The old woman walked in and Jack wondered if she had been listening at the door.
“I am fine, really. Melli has not disturbed me. In fact, I think I might get up and stretch my legs.” He squeezed Melli’s hand and then released it.
“No, you don’t. I’ve just rendered some fresh pig grease and it needs to be rubbed into your shoulder.”
“I’ll do it,” volunteered Melli, an impish smile on her face.
“Oh, no you won’t, girl. I watched you trying to roll dumplings this morning. I have little faith in you being able to soothe the boy’s skin when you can’t even roll a round dumpling.” The old woman noticed Melli’s blush. “If you want to make yourself useful, peel those turnips over there. We’ll need them to thicken the broth.”
The woman drew back Jack’s blanket and bid him lean forward. She then dipped her hands in the pig fat and proceeded to rub it into his shoulder. The fat was still warm, and she worked it into his flesh, massaging the muscle beneath.
“This will keep your shoulder from stiffening. I saw a man once, his arm was slit open in a tavern brawl. The wound wasn’t bad, more blood than flesh. It healed quickly and cleanly, barely a scar, but his arm stiffened. He could never straighten it up ever again. Course he tried all sorts of remedies; it was too late, though. He should never have let it stiffen in the first place.” She finished her work. “There! That should be enough for now.”
“Thank you,” Jack found that he could now move his neck and his shoulder did not ache as much. “Thank you for everything you have done.”
“Nay, lad, do not thank me. I took you in out of fear for myself.” The old woman noticed his baffled look. “So your friend has not told you, eh? I am alone on this farm. I have no husband or son.”
Jack immediately understood. “You are afraid we would tell the authorities?”
“I was at first. Your friend has quite an insisting air about her, but now I feel a little safer. If I am to be honest, I quite enjoy having people to look after—the company of pigs can prove a little tedious at times.” The woman smiled, showing large but even teeth. She moved toward the fire and began to stir the stew. “Their company can be tedious, but their meat never so.” With that she threw a pig’s trotter into the pot.
Melli, having ruined the turnips, turned toward the woman. “Do you know how far Br—”
“Bresketh is.” Jack managed to interrupt her just in time. It was definitely not wise to let the woman know where they were headed. It was not that he did not trust her; it was more that it was an unnecessary burden to put on her. As soon as Baralis discovered they had stayed here—and Jack did not doubt that he would—the woman would be questioned. Better that she not know anything, else Baralis might extract what she knew at great cost.
“I’ve never heard of Bresketh. It mustn’t be around here.” The woman’s brow creased in puzzlement.
“It’s somewhere in the south,” Melli said. Jack was pleased at how quickly she caught on. There was no such place as Bresketh.
“So you’ll be heading south, then?”
“Yes, as soon as possible. We have no wish to burden you any longer than necessary.”
“ ’Tis no burden, lad. It’s been a long time since company sat at my table. I had forgotten the joy of it. My husband died many years back and I haven’t much longer to go myself. I have a good life, food, shelter, warmth, yet I realized today there is much I have missed. I have been without child or friend or neighbor—my circumstances have made contact with others all but impossible. No, lad, you are no burden.” The old woman gave her attention back to the stew.
Jack and Melli exchanged glances, both touched by her words. Jack almost wished he could stay. It seemed he had been running for a long time and he could see little peace in his future. The old woman’s kitchen was warm and restful—he would be sorry to leave. “We must go tomorrow.” His voice was soft and low.
“Stay one more day past the morrow, lad. Give your wounds time to heal. If you leave too soon they might open and bleed. Besides, if you are going on a journey you will need clothes and food. They will take a few days to prepare.” The woman smiled weakly and Jack relented.
“Very well, we will leave the day past the morrow.”
Twenty-three
Baralis was a little worried. He had expected that the duke of Bren would have sent him a letter by now, if only to protest at the delay of the betrothal. He was concerned that the duke’s silence might mean some kind of cooling off on his part. He could hardly blame the man; he had waited over six months for the betrothal to take place, and the duke of Bren was not the most patient of men.
He was however, the most ambitious. Baralis smiled thinly. The duke of Bren was just as eager for this match as he. There was no better choice of a husband for his daughter than Prince Kylock, heir to the Four Kingdoms. The unfortunate duke had been blessed with no sons of his own and so hoped to gain one in his daughter’s husband. Because the duke had no male heir, he sought an alliance with the Four Kingdoms to stabilize his position—with a powerful prince as his daughter’s husband, his adversaries would be less likely to challenge him. Once his daughter had provided him with a grandson, his sovereignty would be guaranteed. In the interim he sought to count on the help of the Four Kingdoms to maintain that sovereignty.
Marrying his daughter to a prince would bring the good duke one step closer to royalty, and royalty was something he was obsessed with. He wanted land, but he lusted after a crown. Oh, he could name himself a king today—he would not be the first man to have done so—but he would risk ridicule if his title was not backed up with the support of his lords. Bribery was how he gained their fealty, and land was the currency of kings.
Trade was a useful supplement. The knights now controlled the trade routes in the northeast, and Tyren and the duke reaped the benefits. It was a cozy little partnership; the duke allowed Tyren a near monopoly on certain goods in return for a cut of the profits. More and more these days, however, the duke was taking his payments from Valdis in manpower, not gold. And the knighthood was fast becoming a familiar sight on the battlefields of Bren.
The time was fast approaching when Baralis would be a party to the lucrative dealings in the northeast. The queen would lose her wager a
nd she would be forced to agree to the marriage. He did not think she could object to the match; it would bring glory and honor to the court of Harvell. And, more importantly, it would turn a dangerous rival into a useful ally. Oh, the queen would make a show of protesting the match for no other reason than she hated him so much, and it would irk her to follow his advice.
He did hold one or two trumps in his hand that would serve to sway her to agreement. He quickly searched through the drawer of his desk. He soon found what he was looking for: a portrait . . . a miniature no bigger than a coin. It was a picture of a young girl, a girl of such beauty that even Baralis could not help but admire her: abundant, golden curls, the finest of brows, the smoothest of cheeks and the most perfectly small but full, pink lips. The very picture of innocence. He was looking at a likeness of the duke of Bren’s daughter: Catherine.
Baralis knew that as soon as the queen looked upon the portrait her objections would cease. She would succumb to the girl’s beauty. Who could gaze upon such an angelic face and not be moved by it? The queen might well query the authenticity of the likeness—many a portrait painter had overexaggerated the charms of his sitter. He, however, had a letter from the duke himself swearing upon his honor that it was indeed a true likeness of his daughter.
Baralis had, in turn, commissioned a likeness of Kylock. The only liberty the artist had taken with Kylock’s portrait was to paint a smile upon his face. From the subsequent letter he had received from the duke, it appeared that Catherine had found him most attractive.
He decided he would write to the duke that day, assuring him that the betrothal would be finalized within the month. He would send the missive by fast rider; even then it would be three weeks before it was delivered.
He was disturbed from his calculations by the arrival of Crope. “What do you want, you dithering fool?”
“You are feeling better, master?”
“I have no time to exchange pleasantries with you, Crope. I have more important things to do. Now speak up and be gone.”
“I have been to the tavern in town and I talked to some mercenaries there. They said they would see the color of your money before they agreed to anything.”
“Yes, yes, I would expect no less from their kind. I will meet them tomorrow near the entrance of the haven. Arrange it.”
“Yes, my lord. There is one other thing.”
“What?”
“You asked me to find out about . . .” Crope paused, looking for the right word.
“About the latest slut that Maybor is sleeping with.” Baralis supplied it for him. “Go on.”
“Well, I followed him to the garden and I saw him talking to a lady.”
“Hm, if I know Maybor’s taste you are being a little generous in your description.”
Baralis’ humor was lost on Crope. “Well,” he paused to think, “the lady agreed to be waiting in Lord Maybor’s chambers at nightfall.”
“Tonight?” Crope nodded. “Are you sure?” Crope nodded again. “Who is this woman?”
“Her name is Lilly. She is chambermaid to Lady Hel . . .” Crope struggled with the pronunciation.
“Lady Helliarna. I know the chambermaid you mean. The little vixen has given me the eye on more than one occasion.” Baralis stood and thought for a while. Maybor needed to be taught a lesson for daring to draw a blade in his presence. In his experience the best lessons were visual ones. “Now think carefully, Crope, before you answer: did Lord Maybor say he would be waiting for her in his chamber?”
“No, my lord. Maybor told her to be waiting for him.”
“Very well. Now this is what I want you to do. You know how to get to Maybor’s chamber using the passageway, don’t you?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good. I want you to be there when the girl enters. Check carefully that Maybor is not around . . .”
Tavalisk murmured the appropriate words and made the expected gestures—he was blessing the sea of Rorn. Each year a bowl of seawater was drawn from the bay. It was then carried with great ceremony to the archbishop’s palace where the water was blessed. This allowed the sacred spirit to infuse the water, enriching and sanctifying. The blessed water was then returned to the sea, where a chosen man emptied the contents of the bowl back into the dark waters.
The ritual of blessing the sea water had been practiced in Rorn for centuries. It was believed that the blessed water spread throughout the sea, bringing bountiful fish harvests and calm waters. Tavalisk rather doubted the effectiveness of the ceremony, but in his capacity as archbishop he was expected to perform the long list of religious rituals that the people of Rorn required.
He knew he was a lucky man. Since he had become archbishop, Rorn had experienced a great period of prosperity. The various troubles in the world, such as the plague in Marls and the Silbur running bad, had actually benefited the city, increasing trade and commerce. A man who wanted his money safe for the future was advised to invest that money in Rorn: it was the most stable and prosperous city in the south—a financial haven for the wealthy.
Naturally, he as archbishop had gained much of the praise for Rorn’s prosperity. It was he who blessed the waters, he who blessed the merchant fleets, he who blessed everything from the money-lenders to the fish-gutters.
The people loved him; their gratitude knew no bounds. There was one tradition of which Tavalisk was particularly fond. If a trader or shopkeeper or merchant had a good year, besides paying the usual taxes and levies, they were expected to give hefty donations to the church. These donations were called the Archbishop’s Purse and that was exactly where they ended up. The irony was that the people, while constantly complaining about taxes, were always happy to donate to the Archbishop’s Purse. They felt it would bring them good luck and good business the following year.
Having finished blessing the water, he bowed to the attending priests and took his leave. He was anxious to return to his private chambers. He intended to spend some time studying the exact wording of Marod’s prophecy.
On his way, Tavalisk walked through high-ceilinged corridors, lined with marble carvings of cherubs. He was admiring their beauty when he heard the sound of humble footsteps behind him.
“Gamil, is there nowhere I can hide from your disagreeable gaze.”
“I am sorry to interrupt Your Eminence.” Gamil had to hurry to keep up with the pace set by the archbishop.
“So, what news have you to bring me today?”
“Marls has banned the knights.”
“Are they actively expelling them yet?” Rorn was currently expelling Knights of Valdis from the city. A reward of five silver pieces was given to anyone who informed the authorities of a knight’s whereabouts. Mayhem had resulted as half of the city tried to inform on the other half. There was one particular practice that had made Tavalisk smile—unfortunate foreigners were hit over the head and knocked out, they were then branded with the mark of Valdis and taken to the authorities. Five pieces of silver was quite an incentive to the ingenious citizens of Rorn. Tavalisk cared little about these practices; the more knights expelled, genuine or otherwise, the more angry Valdis would be.
“No, Your Eminence, they have stopped them from entering the city, but expulsion has not begun yet.”
“What of Toolay?”
“Toolay teeters on the brink.”
“Toolay was ever a gutless city. Is there news of Camlee?”
“Camlee will be slow to act, Your Eminence. They may not take action at all; they live in the shadow of Valdis.”
“I do not think Valdis casts as long a shadow as it once did, Gamil.”
“You are right, Your Eminence. Valdis is not as powerful as it once was, but we would be unwise to underestimate it.”
“Gamil, I make it my business never to underestimate anyone. I need no lessons in strategy from you.” Tavalisk’s thoughts kept returning to Marod’s prophecy. What role the knights had to play in its fulfillment was unclear, but now more than ever it seemed that t
o expel them was the right thing to do.
Three dangerous men had their eyes on the territory and wealth of others: the duke of Bren was desperate for extra land; his population had grown twofold over the last decade, and his people needed farmland and pastures. He thought that by making Bren larger, he could name it a kingdom. Annis and Highwall, not to mention Ness and the Four Kingdoms, watched the duke’s expansion with growing unease.
Not that the Four Kingdoms would have to worry much longer. They would soon be firmly allied with Bren. Baralis had seen to that. He was the second man, the son of a farmer from Leiss. Desire for power had made him king’s chancellor, ambition made him want more. Sorcery and intrigue were his weapons—Tavalisk was only just beginning to guess at his strategies.
And lastly there was Tyren, head of the Knights of Valdis. Greed was his main vice. He was a shrewd profiteer, tying up trade routes in the north while managing to win the friendship of powerful people. Cities in the colder climes were easily fooled by a fleeting show of piety. Tyren’s tactics had proven less successful in the south. He’d tried to gain a foothold in valuable commodities like silk and spices only to find himself rebuffed. The merchants of Rorn and Marls were wary of the knights. They’d heard all the rumors of corruption and intrigue, which the archbishop had so conscientiously propagated.
The Known Lands were becoming dangerously unstable. There was trouble ahead, and trade and ambition were at its core. Or money and power, if one were to name the motives plainly. Tavalisk smiled sweetly. “Ah, Gamil, there is nothing more exciting than the thrill of intrigue.”
“Your Eminence’s tactical skills are greatly admired.”
“Indeed they are, Gamil. Who knows, the coming months may spread their fame even further.” The archbishop was beginning to feel rather cheerful. He was looking forward to pitting his wits against the men of the north. He would prove more than a match for them!
“Any news about our knight?”
“He left Toolay some days back, Your Eminence. He and the boy have mounts now. They are still heading north.”
