by J. V. Jones
He opened the door of his chamber and walked through the bedroom. The girl was there, waiting. She was actually in his bed, tucked beneath the covers for warmth, with only her head showing.
“I see you could resist me no longer.” Maybor began unlacing his tunic. He was puzzled at first when she did not reply, but then decided she was feigning sleep or shyness. Maybor liked to play games as much as the next man and found his interest growing.
He took off his robe and tunic and then pulled off his leggings. He stood naked and erect. The girl kept her eyes firmly shut. “So you are too modest to look upon me, are you?” He strode toward the bed, his ardor swelling. “Then I must look upon you!” With that he tugged the covers off the bed.
He reeled back in horror, gorge rising in his stomach. The girl was skinned from the neck down. Her body was a mass of red flesh. “Oh my God, oh my God.” Maybor’s knees weakened beneath him. He fell to the floor and vomited, his whole body racked with spasms.
Twenty-four
Jack awoke and was eager to be up and on his way. Melli was still asleep, but the old woman had obviously been up for some time as the fire was well stoked and there was porridge cooking in the pot. She smiled her good morning and put finger to lip, urging him not to speak; she wanted Melli to sleep a little longer.
She ladled some porridge into a bowl and topped it with a spoonful of pig lard. Before she handed the bowl to him, she slipped something into his hand. Jack looked down to see one shiny gold coin. He immediately went to give it her back—a gold coin to the old woman probably represented five years of savings. She shook her head insistently and forced the coin back on him. Because they could not speak, Jack could neither protest nor thank her; he suspected that was the way she wanted it.
Jack enjoyed the pale warmth of the early morning kitchen. The banked fire and the smell of pork in the cauldron reminded him of life in the castle. He felt the need to be busy. He wanted to feel the soft touch of flour beneath his fingers and the familiar tang of yeast in his nostrils. He stood up and began to look around the kitchen for what he needed. His days at Castle Harvell were behind him now; at least by baking bread he could ensure they weren’t forgotten.
“What you doing, boy?” whispered the old woman.
“I thought I’d bake you some loaves. It’s the only thing I can repay you with.”
“There’s no oven for baking, I take my dough to the village.”
“You have flour and yeast and plenty of pig fat?”
“That I do.”
“Then I’ll make pitchy bread.”
The woman brought out the ingredients and Jack measured the flour into a bowl and set it to warm by the fire. He mixed milk and water, not adding the yeast until the liquid was warm to the touch. Master Frallit swore that the secret of good pitchy bread was not to combine the ingredients until they were as “warm as the blood of a lustful virgin.” Once Jack had mixed in eggs and pig fat, he set the batter to rise. It would be two full hours before it was light enough to form the countless tiny holes that gave pitchy bread its unique texture.
Jack was surprised to find he had an audience. Melli was awake and quietly watching him. There was an unfamiliar expression on her pale face. She smiled gently. For one brief moment Jack let his thoughts arch upward. Was there something between them? Melli’s expression was so tender; her eyes so dark and expressive as she looked upon his face. He began to feel self-conscious under her scrutiny: his arms were brushed with flour and there was grease beneath his fingertips. He resisted the urge to brush himself clean, to straighten his hair, to turn his back. He was a baker’s boy and he would not pretend otherwise. Let her see him for what he was.
Melli was the first to look away. She stood up and poured herself a cup of buttermilk. Her hand was shaking as she put down the jug.
Determined not to rush, Jack picked up the cloth and began to wipe the lard from his fingers. He wondered what had happened between them yesterday. She had grown cold and afraid all of a sudden, as if she were looking beyond the present. He didn’t want to think about the future. The past weeks had demonstrated to him that it was anything but set. Why, less than two months back he thought he would be a baker for life, and now he didn’t even know where he’d be spending the next night.
As a baker he would have led a secure and stable life, food on his table, warmth and shelter, but Jack knew he wanted more now. The world of the castle kitchens seemed small and confining. It was true that he had been forced from it, but now he realized it had freed him to do what he wanted, to shape his own future. Never mind that Melli had seen bleakness ahead; nothing was preordained, he could change things for the better.
“Here you go, lad.” The old woman handed him a new tunic and a cloak. “Try them on while the batter’s rising, see if they fit. They were my husband’s and unfortunately he was not as tall and broad as you are.” Jack pulled the tunic on. It was a little tight. “Hmm, if you were only staying one more day I could alter it a bit more.”
“It will do fine. I thank you for everything.” Jack held the woman’s gaze. He knew he would insult her if he mentioned the coin and so did not.
“Your turn, my girl.” She held out a heavy wool dress, plain but beautifully colored. “This should fit you. I have taken the hem down.” Melli looked a little reluctant to take her dress off, so Jack volunteered to step out for a while so she could change.
The day had begun clean and chill, no sign of rain—a good day for traveling. He walked down the dirt track to the road and looked east. Halcus, Annis, Bren—they all lay ahead, places of wonder and possibility. He almost wished he could walk away now, alone, so avid was he to begin his future. He wanted to be free from running and fear, to walk a path without having to look back.
Suddenly, the image of the terrified mercenaries being blasted from their horses flashed before his eyes. It was a warning—this was what he was capable of. He was unpredictable, a danger to those around him. Jack shuddered involuntarily, his mood of optimism gone in an instant. He headed back to the farm, feeling the need for company.
He entered the small door, bowing his head to get through. He was met by a beautiful sight: Melli had put on the deep blue dress; the color matched her eyes and complemented her dark hair. This, thought Jack, was Lord Maybor’s daughter. How could he have thought, even for an instant, that a girl as high born and proud as Melli could be interested in him?
“Just in time for hot cakes,” cried the old woman. She’d turned the batter onto the baking stone, and the pitchy bread was almost done. Catching Jack’s look, she said, “Come now, lad, I’m too old to wait half a morning for a few extra holes.” Her eyes twinkled brightly. “Besides, you’ll be off soon, and I don’t want you to spend your last hour baking when you should be resting.” She piled the bread rounds onto a platter. “Eat up, you’ve a long day journeying ahead, and a full stomach is a traveler’s best friend.”
Jack and Melli sat down across the table and made a feast of piping hot pitchy bread smothered with butter and cheese. As they ate, the woman bustled about the room making bundles. “Jack,” she said, “I noticed you have no blade.” Jack realized he must have lost his sword at some point. “We all know there is trouble on the road, so I want you to take this.” She handed him a long, nasty-looking knife. “I use this to slit the pig’s throats with.”
“How will you slaughter them without it?” asked Jack, swilling down the last of his food with a mug of ale.
“I’ll have to club ’em to death.” The woman smiled brightly and Jack couldn’t tell if she was speaking the truth. “Now, in these packs,” she indicated the two bundles on the table, “you will find hard cheese and as much salted pork as you can carry. I also put a few other things in there you might need.”
Jack picked up the bundles, they were both surprisingly heavy. “You have been so kind to us.”
“Yes,” Melli interjected. “We owe you so much, how can we ever thank you?” The old woman’s face crumpled up a
s she forced herself not to cry.
“It is I who must thank you. You have both brought me joy.” She opened the door.
“There is something I must warn you about—” Jack was about to tell her to beware of people searching for them, but she interrupted him.
“Say nothing, lad. I am a woman who has outwitted the world for many years; I must have a certain skill at deception by now.” She was telling them, in her own way, that she would lie to protect them. Jack came forward and kissed her cheek.
“I will remember your kindness always.” He turned to Melli, who was close to tears, and beckoned her forward. Together they walked away from the farmhouse and down the road.
“Tawl, are you all right?” Tawl flashed the boy a warning look, but it went unheeded. “It’s just that you’ve been acting strange ever since we left that tavern yesterday.” The boy waited for a reply. None was forthcoming, so he continued. “You shouldn’t let the mad rantings of some old drunk get to you. He didn’t know what he was talking about.” Nabber hesitated an instant and then added, “What is Larn anyway?”
“Ssh, boy.”
They were riding to the flank of tall, silvery peaks. The foothills provided a treacherous path: loose rocks and loose soil were a constant danger. The rocky slopes were ideal for Nabber’s pony but a challenge to the mare. Tawl had to pick his trail carefully, less the horse misstep and lose her footing. The pony found its own path and seemed more content now that the weather was colder.
Tawl knew he was being unfair to the boy by ignoring him, but he couldn’t get the man’s words from his mind: “Larn! You have the mark of Larn in your eyes.” Those were more than the rantings of a madman. The drunk had known he had been to Larn. What was it about that cursed place; why was he in some way marked?
He was three times marked now, he thought, glimpsing the circles upon his forearm and the scar running through them. Once for Valdis, once for his family, and now Larn. He could never remove the first and second marks; one told of what he was, the other told of what he had done. The two were bound as closely as the seers to their stones. They could never be separated: they were his fate and his past.
Now it seemed he had another mark. What did it mean, had Larn altered him in some way? “Beware the price,” the Old Man had said. Maybe Larn had extracted a price he was not aware of. He felt the same, in excellent health if not spirits. Perhaps he bore the anguish of the seers in his eyes. Their torment had certainly left a mark on his soul. The more he thought about it, the more anxious he was to see Bevlin. The wiseman could help him; he would know the answers.
Impatient to make his way to Ness, he urged his horse faster. Ness was surely only a day or two away and from there, Bevlin was but a few days further.
“Tawl!” His thoughts were interrupted by the boy. “You’re going too fast. Your horse is not used to the high ground.”
“Don’t presume to tell me how to ride, boy.” He had not intended to sound as sharp as he did.
“What’s the matter with you?” The boy sounded afraid and Tawl felt sorry for being short-tempered.
“Take no notice of me, Nabber. I mean nothing by my anger. My mind has had much to dwell on of late.” He slowed his horse down. “Why don’t we stop and take our midday meal? There is a snatch of grass ahead, enough to give the horses something to chew on.” Tawl watched as relief flooded over the face of the boy. He was glad to be the source of it.
“I still have some roast goat and a pat of cheese left from yesterday,” said Nabber, eager to please.
“Sounds good to me,” cried Tawl, making an effort to be light-hearted. “I’ll take the cheese—you can have the roast.”
“Too late,” said the boy stuffing the last of the goat cheese in his mouth.
“So, Nabber, you never told me about your life in Rorn.” Tawl contented himself with chewing on a slice of roast goat. The flavor was little enhanced by being carried around in the boy’s sack all day.
“What d’you want to know?” Nabber belched loudly.
“Well, how come you ended up in a life on the streets?”
“That’s easy, Tawl. The streets are the only way for an enterprising boy with no trade or education to make a living. I started out as a grout.”
“What’s a grout?” Tawl stretched himself out on the grass, pulling his cloak around him; the weather was beginning to get cooler.
“Don’t they teach you anything in the marshlands besides how to cut peat! A grout’s a boy who works for a runner.” The boy saw Tawl’s perplexed look and explained further: “A runner is someone who collects dues for the Old Man. I take it you’ve heard of the Old Man?”
“What did you do for this runner?”
“You know . . . fetching payments, running errands, delivering notes, scattering sawdust on the blood . . . that sort of thing. Course I was young and didn’t get paid much so I moved on, or rather I moved up.”
“So what did you do next?” Tawl was wondering if the comment about the blood had been a joke. The boy had spoken it in such a matter-of-fact way that he doubted if any humor had been intended.
“Well, next I became a lookout. Not just any old lookout, mind. Lookout to the greatest thief Rorn has ever known.” The boy waited expectantly.
“Who was this man?” Tawl asked the required question.
Nabber tapped his finger against the side of his nose. “Can’t tell you his name, friend—that’s why he’s the greatest—he’s the only one who’s never been caught. He made me swear a vow of secrecy, told me I’d be smitten down with the ghones if I ever spoke his name. Taught me everything I know, he did. He was the one who gave me my name. He told me I was a boy of considerable talent and that I needed a name to match. Nabber, that’s what he called me, and I’ve been known by it ever since.” The boy spoke with great pride. “He was a honorable man and a fine thief.”
“So how did you turn to pocketin’?”
“Well there’s not much money to be made as a lookout. Oh, there’s prestige all right, but no money. A good friend of mine suggested that I try my hand at pocketin’ and I’ve never looked back.” Nabber spread out on the grass, indicating the end of his tale by closing his eyes and settling down for a nap.
Tawl wondered how much the boy had left out—he did not doubt Nabber’s words, but he felt that the boy was holding some things back. Tawl was a man who understood the need for privacy, so he asked no more questions and let the boy sleep.
Maybor spent the night in his daughter’s bedroom. He was a man used to the gore of the battlefield; he had seen men’s limbs pulled from their bodies, soldiers hacked into pieces, but the sight of the girl in his bed had been too much for him to bear. He had called for his servant, Crandle, who had dressed him and guided him away from his chambers while the body was dealt with.
Maybor found he could not stomach the thought of sleeping in the same bed in which the girl had lain, skinned. He had retired to Melliandra’s chamber to await the questioning of the Royal Guard. The captain had arrived in due course and was thoughtful enough to bring a jug of fortified wine with him. Maybor was, of course, under no suspicion. He was a lord and the girl but a servant.
Maybor knew who had done the deed and why it had been done, but he mentioned neither to the guard: conflicts between lords were kept between lords. It was an unspoken code and Maybor had no desire to break it. This was between him and Baralis.
The king’s chancellor was a proud man, and proud men do not like to show weakness. When he had drawn the sword upon Baralis, the man had flinched. The chambermaid Lilly had paid for that flinch with her life. Maybor cursed himself. He should have carved him up while he had the chance.
Maybor was tired. He had been unable to sleep, but it was more than that. He was tired of being beaten by Baralis, tired of looking for his daughter. He ran his fingers through his graying hair, contemplating how he should counter this latest move by the king’s chancellor. It was appalling what the man had done. Of course he would not
have performed the deed himself; Baralis was far too discerning to get blood on his hands. He would have sent his idiot Crope to do the job.
It seemed to Maybor that of late Baralis was always in the background scheming and contriving, sabotaging his plans with one hand and trying to poison him with the other. Maybor sat on the bed thinking deeply. He needed to become more calculating. He would have to match Baralis’ cunning and wit if he were ever to get the better of the man. The king’s chancellor favored intrigue and duplicity and it was time that he, Maybor, tried his hand at such methods. He smiled—a grim, bloodless smile. He would beat the master at his own game.
“My lord.”
Maybor was surprised by the presence of his servant. “Yes, Crandle, what is it?” He sighed heavily.
“The queen commands you to her audience chamber.”
“She wishes to see me now?” The servant nodded. “Go quickly to my chambers and bring my new red-and-gold robe. Hurry!” Maybor watched his servant dash away and then went over to the mirror and busied himself smoothing his hair and cleaning his teeth with a dry rag.
The servant returned minutes later with the robe and proceeded to dress his master. He brought fragrant oils to groom his hair and a sprig of rosemary to sweeten his breath. Once he was satisfied with his appearance, Maybor left his daughter’s bedroom and made his way through the castle.
He walked the length of the ladies’ chambers, and then down into the courtyard which divided the men’s quarters from the women’s. In the distance he spotted a familiar figure: it was his son Kedrac. Maybor was sure he had come to offer his help to revenge what had happened the night before. However, as Kedrac approached he saw the boy had a dark expression on his face. Maybor decided he had no time to deal with his son and hurried off in the direction of the queen’s chamber.
“Father!” The cry was harsh and stopped Maybor in his tracks. Kedrac came level with him. “What is this, Father, running from your son?” His voice was cold, taunting.
