by J. V. Jones
“Ten years now. Of course my father goes back there every year or two to impress our relatives with his newly found wealth.” The girl drew one of several pots from the fire. She took off the lid and a delicious aroma filled the kitchen. “Why are you so interested anyway?”
“I am heading west looking for work. I may head that way.”
“I wouldn’t go as far as the Four Kingdoms if I were you. They have warred with the Halcus for many years now and crops and livestock have suffered. There will be little work for an outsider.”
“It is a war that does not seem to make much sense. Both sides deplete their strength and for little gain.” Tawl tried to keep his tone casual; he didn’t want to betray the full extent of his interest to the girl.
“Father says that there is something fishy about the whole thing. Each side appears to know the other’s moves before it makes them.” The girl ladled a large helping of stew into a bowl. It was thick with carrots, turnips, onions, and lamb.
“Such goings-on are usually a sign that someone in high places has an interest in keeping the war going.”
“That’s exactly what my father says. He says the king’s chancellor—what’s his name now?—Lord Baralis is behind it all.”
“So this Lord Baralis is the power in the Four Kingdoms, then?”
“Ever since the king was shot by an arrow five years back, there have been a few men who would manipulate events in the kingdoms. The queen is supposedly strong, though—a better leader by all accounts than the sick king was in health. The best thing the king could do is die and let his son rule in his place. Maybe he can bring peace to the land.”
The girl came and sat beside him and chewed on a slice of bread. Tawl watched her as she ate. She was a pretty girl with a sprinkling of tawny freckles across her nose and cheeks. He wondered why she had invited him to her house. As if reading his mind she said, “I’m not in the habit of asking men to dine at my table. I saw you at my father’s stall and you looked . . .” She hesitated, a little embarrassed. “You looked in need of some home cooking.” Tawl had the distinct feeling that she had been about to say something else but stopped herself.
“Surely there must be a lot of people who pass through the city?” He was not about to let her off the hook.
“Yes, but most of them are just smelly old fieldhands or pickpockets or worse.” The girl stared into her bowl of stew. “You looked different, like you might be an adventurer or a prince in disguise or something.”
“I am no prince.” Tawl reached out and touched the girl’s chin, tilting it upward so she was forced to meet his eye.
“I don’t even know your name.” The girl became suddenly nervous and started clearing away the bowls.
“I am Tawl.” As always his name sounded short without the title Knight of Valdis behind it.
“I am Kendra, daughter of Filstus the cloth merchant.”
“Well, Kendra, I must take my leave now. I have someone who will be waiting for me.” Tawl had no wish to take advantage of a young and inexperienced girl. He bowed low in the courtly fashion. “Thank you for your hospitality.” As he left the kitchen he saw the wish to call him back upon the girl’s face, but he did not give her chance. He turned quickly and made his way up the stairs and out of the house.
Once back at the market, he attempted to find Nabber. After searching unsuccessfully for some time he decided the best thing he could do was wait in a noticeable place and let the ever resourceful boy find him.
Tavalisk was contemplating his archbishop’s ring. When he had first been made archbishop, he’d been given the official ring bearing the seal of the City of Rorn. The ring was supposedly over a thousand years old, precious beyond telling. He admired its form in the sunlight. It really was quite good for a fake. Not that there was anything to compare it with, the real one being irretrievably lost at the bottom of a lake of sand.
Tavalisk had learned a valuable lesson from the fake ring—people believed what they saw. Of course it helped that he was an archbishop and therefore above repute, but he suspected the premise would also work at less auspicious levels than his.
Once he realized that the ring was accepted, he began to replace other items with fakes. He had started carefully to begin with: a priceless Tyro vase was replaced with an identical but worthless piece, sculpted by a brilliant, if not original, artisan of Rorn. Before long he expanded his enterprises, and now he could say with pride there was little left in the Archbishop’s Palace that was real.
He had been careful, very careful, even to the point of having his copyists’ throats cut and, when he deemed necessary, their families’, too. As a result of his endeavors he now had a substantial stash of treasures concealed in a private residence not a stone’s throw away from the palace. It was his nest egg. If the ungrateful and notoriously fickle people of Rorn ever decided to get rid of him, he could be assured of living well indefinitely. And Tavalisk was a man who valued living well almost as much as he did mischief-making.
His nest egg was on his mind more often of late. Events in the world were beginning to worry him. The ones that he initiated were in his control and so of no concern, but events in the north, particularly the proposed marriage between Catherine of Bren and Kylock of the Four Kingdoms, bore heavily on his mind: it was Marod’s prophecy coming to life right before his eyes. He didn’t know if anyone else saw it. The only thing he did know was that it was up to him to prevent it from happening. Rorn would not become a lackey to a northern empire. Tyren was after his trade, and the duke of Bren and Baralis were far too ambitious to let an empire rest in the north. It would all end in war.
Not that war was necessarily a bad thing. Tavalisk rubbed his chubby hands together. If he acted wisely, Rorn just might end up making a pretty profit out of the whole affair.
Gamil knocked on the door and let himself in. “The reply from Lord Maybor has finally arrived, Your Eminence.” He handed over the letter to the archbishop, who studied the seal. It was unbroken: the letter M was clearly visible in the crimson wax. To one side of the initial was a miniature representation of a gray swan, to the other side was a double-edged sword.
“How appropriate,” murmured Tavalisk. He broke the seal and opened the letter. He took some time deciphering its contents: the hand it was written in was crude and unfamiliar. Obviously Lord Maybor was no scholar, an observation which pleased the archbishop immensely. He always preferred to deal with men a little less clever than himself.
Gamil waited eagerly for him to finish reading the letter. Tavalisk deliberately took longer than necessary just to taunt him. “Pour me some wine. A little refreshment will aid my comprehension.”
“What does Lord Maybor say, Your Eminence?” Gamil handed him a glass of wine.
“He wishes to know my identity. He says he is very interested in an alliance against—how does he put it?” Tavalisk read the letter. “ ‘. . . against a certain black-hearted traitor known to us both.’ ” Tavalisk smiled. “He does have a certain primitive way with words, don’t you think, Gamil?”
“So he is in agreement?”
“Oh, he is a most eager man. His hate for Baralis near leaps off the page. However he is most insistent that I name myself, though I do believe he has an inkling who I am.”
“What makes you say that, Your Eminence?”
“He says, ‘Be you lord or bishop, I am willing.’ ” The archbishop drank deeply of his wine, his spirits much improved.
“So you will name yourself to him, Your Eminence?”
“Yes, I believe I will. You must draft a reply at once. I would discover what he knows of Baralis’ plan to wed Kylock to Catherine of Bren.” Tavalisk smiled brightly. “Lord Maybor appears to be a man who bears a heavy grudge against Baralis. I feel sure his assistance will prove invaluable.”
“I will pen a reply this day, Your Eminence. It will be a while before we can expect a reply.”
“I am not too concerned about the time, Gamil. Even if the betrotha
l goes through, Kylock will not marry at once. He is a prince and will need a long betrothal. Besides, even without the possibility of an alliance between Bren and the Four Kingdoms I would still be interested in keeping a close eye on our friend Baralis. I have met the man but once, and let me tell you, Gamil, he is a dangerous man. He hungers for power and influence.”
“I never realized Your Eminence had met Lord Baralis.” Gamil was fishing for information.
“There are many things you don’t know, Gamil.” The archbishop was not about to give him any.
“Has Baralis always hailed from the Four Kingdoms?”
“I will answer no more questions, Gamil.”
“If there is nothing further, Your Eminence, I will withdraw and script a reply.”
“Very well, Gamil. I would see a copy before the letter is sent.”
“If you are revealing yourself to him, will you be using your seal?”
“Don’t be a fool. If that letter were to drop into the wrong hands and my seal was upon it I could be placed in a most uncomfortable position. No seal. Lord Maybor already knows who I am; he merely requires confirmation of his suspicions. Be subtle in your description of me—name me without naming me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
“Very good. By the way, Gamil, I’ve noticed a cooling off on Toolay’s part regarding the expulsion of knights. See to it the situation becomes more . . . heated.”
“As you wish, Your Eminence. Is there anything else?”
“No, that will be all.” Tavalisk waved his hand in dismissal, enjoying Gamil’s surprise. It was best not to be too predictable; it kept one’s servants on their toes.
Maybor was once more downwind of the middens. There was not much stench on this day, though. The dung must have frozen solid, he thought grimly, pulling his cloak about him.
A chance meeting in the woods two days before had led to this assignation. After his audience with the queen he decided to take his horse for a brief ride into the woods; he had wanted to get away from the castle and all his humiliations. He needed to be able to think clearly and decide upon his next moves. As providence would have it, he met a man while he was riding, a man who could prove most useful to him.
He had just decided to turn back when he spied a group of men in the distance. They were not in uniform, so he knew they were not the Royal Guard. He was about to draw closer to investigate when he saw an unmistakable figure approach the group. Cloaked in black, tall and striking: it was Baralis.
With growing interest, he watched the meeting. He was a distance away and could hear no words spoken, but he got the distinct impression Baralis was engaging their services. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw Baralis throw one of their number a purse. Obviously he was hiring yet more mercenaries.
He was about to withdraw, his curiosity satisfied, when he noticed a movement in the bushes to the left of the group—he was not the only one spying upon the meeting. He waited for the gathering to break up. Baralis headed back to the castle, and the men into the woods. He then urged his horse in the direction of the man concealed in the bush. Upon seeing him approach the man stood his ground. He was no fearful servant or petty poacher.
Maybor drew level with him. “What business have you in these woods?” he demanded.
The man looked at him insolently. “Last I heard they weren’t your woods, Lord Maybor.” The man was broad and well muscled. Maybor wondered where he had seen him before.
“Since you know my name, I would ask yours.” Maybor noticed a thick bandage around the man’s arm.
“I make no secret of who I am. My name is Traff.” He spat out a wad of snatch.
“Perhaps you would care to tell me why you were spying on Lord Baralis?” Maybor watched the man as he considered his reply. He felt sure the man was a mercenary—his arrogant swagger and lack of respect were typical of their kind.
“What a man chooses to do in his spare time is his own business.”
“Even when you choose to spy on the man who pays you?” guessed Maybor.
Traff sucked in his cheeks, contemplating his answer. “What’s it to you?”
“You appear to be a man who is not happy with his current taskmaster.”
“And if I’m not?” Traff spoke with studied disinterest.
“You could always change masters.”
The mercenary’s face remained expressionless. “There is always a risk when changing masters.”
“But the rewards may be great.” Maybor decided it was the right time to end the cat and mouse game—he’d left the cheese in full view. It was up to the rodent to make the next move. He pulled on the reins of his horse. “If you are interested in talking more, meet me downwind of the middens at this hour two days from now.” He urged his horse forward and rode off.
So now he was waiting for Traff. He knew the mercenary would come; he had seen bitterness and loathing in the man’s eyes. Maybor rubbed his hands together to keep them warm. There had been a sound frost overnight and the pinch of it could still be felt in the air. He was becoming decidedly impatient. Maybor was not a man used to being kept waiting.
A few minutes later a figure appeared from the chill mist. “You picked a fine place for a meeting,” said Traff in greeting.
Maybor shrugged. “It has its advantages.” He noticed that the mercenary was still wearing the bandage. “What happened to your arm?” He was just making small talk, gauging the man’s temperament. However at the mention of his arm Traff’s face visibly darkened and he made no answer. Maybor realized he must have touched upon a sensitive area.
“Tell me,” he said, changing the subject, “did you hear anything to your advantage whilst you were in the bushes?”
“I heard some interesting things.” Traff was guarded.
“Have you given any thought to what I said about changing masters?”
“How do I know you would make it worth my while?”
“I am the richest man in the Four Kingdoms,” said Maybor simply. “Name your price.” He could see that his offer had little effect on the man. He changed his tack, “Land, appointments, pensions, they could all be arranged.”
“There is more than money at stake.” Traff spat out his snatch and proceeded to grind the pulp into the frozen earth with the heel of his boot. Maybor was beginning to comprehend that Traff was not driven by greed but by another more basic emotion . . . fear.
Maybor spoke with calm deliberation: “Baralis is a very powerful man, but he is not invincible.” He saw that his remark had sparked Traff’s interest. “If his throat is slit, he will die like any other man. I myself have drawn a blade upon him and yet stand here to tell the tale.” He conveniently pushed the memory of Scarl’s failed assassination attempt to the back of his mind.
“If you want Baralis out of the way, I am not your man.” Traff’s voice was harsh and unyielding. “I value my life too highly.”
“But I’m right in thinking you would like him out of the way?” Maybor saw from the look on Traff’s face that was exactly what the man wanted. “You and I have similar goals, my friend. We should join forces to achieve them.” There! His proposal was out in the open. He would give Traff a chance to chew over the matter. Such negotiations were best not rushed. “I must go now, I have other business to attend to. If you are willing to come to some arrangement contact me in the next few days.” Maybor gave the most imperceptible of bows. “I trust you will be discreet.” He then headed off into the castle grounds.
The meeting had gone well. Traff was a man with little liking for his master; resentful retainers always prove fertile ground for treachery. Of course the mercenary was still wary of him. He would need a little more coaxing to come around, but he would come around. Maybor was not by nature a patient man and disliked the slow process of intrigue. Still, procuring a spy in Baralis’ camp would be well worth the wait.
When Traff came to him next, he would begin to find out information from the man, discover
exactly what Baralis had been up to. He suddenly stopped dead in his tracks—Traff was probably one of the mercenaries who had been sent to look for Melliandra. Maybor remembered Kedrac’s words, “I think they tried to rape her.” His blood turned cold. He stood and gazed into the depths of the swirling mist—what kind of man would he be to deal with one who had violated his daughter? His eyes narrowed and he saw the mist no more—it was all Baralis’ doing. The king’s chancellor had brought him to this, brought him so low that he now conspired with his daughter’s rapist. Baralis must be dealt with at all cost. Honor and family pride would have to come later.
The day was darkening to dusk when the boy finally reappeared. Tawl was not happy; he had been waiting for many hours in the marketplace and his presence had aroused the suspicion of more than one of the local bailiffs. “Where have you been all day?” he demanded.
“I’ve been around, prospecting and the like.” The boy shook his pack and coins jingled within. “Not a bad day’s work.” He smiled broadly, encouraging Tawl to forgive him.
“Come on, then. It’s time we took a room for the night.” Tawl had no wish to walk a great distance looking for the best inn and decided they would stay at the first one they came across.
As it happened, the first tavern they came to looked most comfortable—and expensive. The innkeeper boasted to Tawl it was a place where the wealthiest of traders stayed while they were in town. Tawl shot a quick glance at the boy and Nabber nodded vigorously. He had obviously collected more than enough money to pay the bill.
“We will take one of your smallest rooms for the night.”
“No, I think we’ll take two,” interjected the boy. Tawl gave him a questioning look. “It’s about time I had a good night’s rest and the only way I can get one is to sleep on my own. You snore like a donkey!” Nabber and the innkeeper laughed companionably.
“We’ll take one room,” insisted Tawl.
“Sir, I can give you an extra room for your boy at only half the cost.” The innkeeper was obviously eager to make any extra money he could. Tawl could not understand exactly what was going on, but he was sure Nabber was up to something. Both he and the innkeeper fixed him with pleading stares.
