The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  Megan. Tawl wondered what had become of her. He trusted that she had built herself a better life. Maybe she was now a seamstress or a flowergirl—with nineteen gold coins in her purse she could afford not to work for a few years—even in an expensive city like Rorn. He hoped that she no longer walked the streets. The life of a prostitute was hard and often dangerous. It robbed a girl of her youth, her looks, and eventually her spirit. As long as she was anywhere but the streets he would be happy.

  They were free of the foothills now, the land gently sloping before them. Fields and meadows were sprinkled with the first lowland snow of the winter. He was worried about the boy: his cold had not gone away, his cough had worsened, and there was a flush of fever on his brow. To Tawl it was one more reason to get to Bevlin as fast as possible—the wiseman would be able to cure the boy. One sip of the lacus would probably do it.

  For the past few days Tawl had felt a vague tension growing within him, as if he carried a weight upon his shoulders, bearing him down, sapping at his spirit. He’d been short-tempered with Nabber and now the incident with the cloth merchant’s daughter. He was filled with an impatience that he could not altogether understand. An impatience to see Bevlin. Being in the wiseman’s presence seemed to offer the possibility of relief from his burdens. Bevlin would take him in and renew him, ready him to continue his task of finding the boy.

  * * *

  Tavalisk was at his bath. The large marble pool was being filled with warm water and perfumed essences. Servants were busy laying out what would be needed: fragrant oils for washing, pony hair brushes for scrubbing, linen wraps for drying. The archbishop himself sat in a robe of cauled silk, nodding distractedly at Gamil, who was muttering on about church policy whilst a young girl cut Tavalisk’s toe nails. Apparently, He Who Is Most Holy had called upon his archbishops to urge leniency toward the knighthood. Leniency indeed! What did His Holiness know of world events, perched as he was in the very grand yet very distant city of Silbur? There was nothing he could do, he had no real sway: religious offices were only as powerful as the man who held them. And His Holiness had never been a great man.

  “Careful with those scissors, girl,” warned the archbishop, ignoring his aide and continuing to read his copy of Marod.

  “Your Eminence has remarkable feet,” commented Gamil. “Completely free of corn or bunion.”

  “Yes, I have, haven’t I?” Tavalisk put down his book. “It comes from a life of studied repose. One cannot expect to have such perfect feet if one walks upon them all the time.”

  “Your Eminence is most fortunate to be in a position where walking is not often required.” Tavalisk looked up sharply, but could see no sign of irony upon Gamil’s face.

  “The work of great men, Gamil, is done sitting. Lesser men such as yourself make their living while standing upon their feet.” Tavalisk noticed the bath attendants were waiting in readiness. He stood up and one rushed forward to remove his robe. Gamil discreetly looked away as the pale and fleshly body of the archbishop was revealed.

  Tavalisk slipped down the few steps and into the steaming water, his body reddened like a cooked lobster. The water was a little hotter than he normally preferred. Only when he was immersed up to his neck did Gamil see fit to look upon the archbishop again. “I have penned the reply to Lord Maybor, Your Eminence. I will have Hult bring you a copy of it later.”

  “Very good. It should be sent this day.” Tavalisk daintily lifted his foot onto a raised shelf and one of the attendants oiled and rinsed it.

  “I have received word from Valdis, Your Eminence.”

  “How are they taking the expulsion of their knights?” The archbishop raised his other foot to be cleaned.

  “Tyren is most displeased. There is talk of issuing a letter of condemnation.”

  “A letter of condemnation! How very typical.” Tavalisk was scathing. “Why I quake with fear at the very thought of it. Tyren is playing the pious bigot again.”

  “There have been riots in Toolay, Your Eminence.”

  “Riots, indeed. You have done well, Gamil.” The archbishop looked up and noticed a certain smugness on the face of his aide.

  “It was nothing, Your Eminence, merely a few well-placed actors; one pretended he was a knight and burnt Toolay’s flag, the other incited the passions of the crowd.”

  “Burning Toolay’s flag, indeed! I can see I’d better watch out, Gamil, lest you get too clever for your own good.” Tavalisk lifted a plump arm to be washed.

  “I was inspired by Your Eminence’s own cunning.” Gamil was now trying to flatter his way out of a sensitive situation.

  “You would do well, Gamil, never to forget just how cunning I can be.” He smiled benignly at his aide. “So, can we expect Toolay to pass a law banning the knights in the near future?”

  “I would think so, Your Eminence.”

  “And what of our own knight?” The bath attendant was now rubbing oils into the archbishop’s chubby shoulders.

  “He left Ness several days back. I suppose he will be arriving at the wiseman’s hut in the next day or so.”

  “Good. What about the girl we are keeping; are we treating her well, Gamil?”

  “About as well as a prostitute deserves to be treated, Your Eminence.”

  “Now, now, Gamil, we all know damaged goods bring a poor price at market.”

  “I will try and ensure she is kept undamaged, Your Eminence. However, the dungeon she is kept in is small and damp and the air seeps up from the middens.”

  “Well, do your best.” Tavalisk turned to the attendant. “More perfumed essences, girl.”

  “If Your Eminence will permit, I will be on my way. I have much to arrange.”

  “Before you go, Gamil, may I make a suggestion?”

  “Certainly, Your Eminence.”

  “It would not be such a bad idea if you yourself took a bath once in a while. It is not fitting that an aide of mine goes around smelling like a week-old cuttlefish.” Tavalisk watched with pleasure as Gamil blushed a particularly virulent shade of red and then beat a hasty retreat. As soon as his aide left, the archbishop picked up his copy of Marod. The page was well worn by now. He read it once more:

  When men of honor trade in gold not grace

  When two mighty powers join as one

  The temples will fall

  The dark empire will rise

  And the world will come to ruin and waste

  One will come with neither father nor lover

  But promised to another

  Who will rid the land of its curse.

  Tavalisk smiled softly, the germ of an idea forming within his mind.

  Maybor was waiting in the castle stables. Traff had called him to a meeting. The stables were large and spacious, but few horses graced the lines of stalls. Many young lords and squires were off warring with the Halcus, taking their men and horses with them. Maybor was thinking it was about time Kedrac joined the war—his other two sons had left ten days ago to join the fighting to the east of the River Nestor. It would do his eldest some good to get away from the court.

  The past few days Kedrac had made a point of ignoring his father. When they had last met by chance in the dining hall, his son had made a point of cutting him dead, not even acknowledging his presence. It was a spectacle that had been seen by many at the court and had been a topic of much snide conversation ever since.

  Yes, thought Maybor, it would do them both good if Kedrac left the court for a few months. It would give the boy a chance to cool down, and Maybor himself would be relieved from the strain of conflict that he felt whenever he saw his son. Kedrac was far too rash and strong-willed for his own good. Maybor remembered Kedrac’s mother, his first wife. The woman had not only been deformed but had also been quite mad. Maybe that explained his son’s temperament. Maybor preferred the company of his two younger sons and secretly wished that one of them would succeed him as lord. Unless Kedrac got killed at the front, that would probably never happen.

>   He was disturbed from his thoughts by the arrival of Traff. At his appearance Maybor felt a wave of loathing. He hated mercenaries—one minute they fought for the kingdoms, the next for the Halcus. Anyone willing to pay could be their master. He had fought in enough battles to know that mercenaries were first off the field at the sign of a rout and the first to rob the dead in victory. Any man who had fought honorably as a soldier hated mercenaries.

  Traff made a point of checking the surrounding stalls. “Can’t be too careful where Lord Baralis is concerned,” he said by way of an explanation. “That man has means to get anywhere in the castle.”

  “Oh, has he?” Maybor deliberately kept a bored tone to his voice, though in reality he was most interested in finding out anything about his adversary.

  “Yes, the whole castle is crisscrossed with tunnels. Baralis is the only one who knows how to use them.”

  “I know of the tunnels.” Maybor knew that Harvell the Fierce was supposed to have built a few tunnels for purposes of seduction and escape, but he had no idea they were as extensive as Traff said. If Baralis had access to many rooms in the castle, he might even have entree to his own chamber; that would certainly explain the two attempts on his life. “Have you been in these tunnels?” he asked casually.

  “Maybe.” Traff was still playing his hand close to his chest.

  “I think it’s time for some straight talking, my friend. I want to see Baralis put permanently out of the way and to do this I need some help. You can help me and help yourself at the same time.”

  “Seems as you’re being direct, then so will I,” said Traff. “I’ll be willing to help you, but only if you agree to my conditions.”

  “Go ahead, speak them.” This was what Maybor had been waiting for.

  “First, I want two hundred gold pieces, up front in cash.” Traff looked to Maybor, who nodded.

  “I will agree to that.”

  “Secondly, I will not act as your assassin. I am willing to aid you in other ways: give you details of his plans, his secret hideouts, his special skills, and so on; but I am not fool enough to make an attempt on his life.”

  “Agreed.” Maybor had expected such a condition. “Anything else?” Traff paused a minute, a calculating expression on his face. “Say it, man,” urged Maybor, who was growing tired of the wait.

  “I have a fancy for a wife.” Traff paused again, and Maybor wondered where this was leading to.

  “I will dower any girl you choose.” Maybor assumed Traff was after more money in the guise of a dowry.

  “You are bound to dower the girl I have in mind,” said Traff.

  Maybor grew very still. He could hardly believe what the man was saying—the only girl he was bound to dower was his daughter. Surely this mercenary was not suggesting that he marry Melliandra. His daughter! Why, the girl would have been queen had she not run away. How dare this man propose such an outrageous union. Melliandra was his and he would never give her up to such a contemptible swine. “Do you know what you are saying?” he demanded, dangerously close to losing his temper.

  “I need a wife and your daughter fits the bill. She is a comely girl, but I doubt she will find many lords willing to wed her now.” Traff smirked a little. Maybor could not restrain himself; he slapped him hard across the face.

  “How dare you speak of my daughter that way?”

  “Come, come now, Lord Maybor.” Traff was cool, even a little amused. “You must be aware that a girl who runs away from home and ends up being flogged in Duvitt as a whore is hardly a great prize. You should be glad to get her off your hands. She can never come back to court again, if she did she would only bring you shame.”

  Furious as he was, Maybor recognized there was a certain truth to the man’s words. The whole court now knew Melliandra had run away from the castle. Traff was right, no lord interested in his prestige and position would marry her. There would be some who were willing, lesser lords and gentry, those who were interested in his money—the very men Maybor most despised. Melliandra had ruined her life by running away. She could have been the most elevated woman in the Kingdom, but now she had come so low that a common mercenary asked for her hand.

  Maybor glanced at Traff, he was waiting upon an answer. One thing was certain, he would never let that man marry his daughter. Melliandra may have shamed and disobeyed him, but he still loved her, and the thought of Traff laying a hand upon her shocked him to his very soul. He would gladly murder him rather than let that happen. He felt like murdering him now, just for suggesting it. But where would that get him? If he were to find Melliandra, he would need Traff’s help. He had no choice but to agree to his proposal. He took a deep breath, and as he did so he vowed solemnly that the man would never live to see his wedding day.

  “So my daughter is still alive. When did you see her last?” Maybor found he couldn’t bring himself to actually say: you can marry my daughter; the words burnt in his throat.

  “You agree to my proposal?” Traff was suspicious. Maybor realized he would have to make a convincing effort.

  He took a deep breath. “You are right, my friend, when you say no one will marry her. She is no good to me now, a millstone around my neck. You can have her if you find her. She is still my daughter, so you may rest assured that she will be adequately dowered.” Maybor added one final flourish: “If when you are married I find you do not treat her well, I will make sure you wish you had never set eyes upon her. The girl may have shamed me, but she is ever my daughter and I will let no man abuse her.” That appeared to do the job; the skepticism drained from Traff’s face.

  “It is agreed, then, when she is found I will wed her. How much dowry can I expect? I will of course require sufficient funds to keep your daughter in the manner to which she is accustomed.” Maybor could hardly believe his ears. Was there no end to this man’s audacity? He gritted his teeth.

  “No daughter of mine shall be found wanting.” Maybor struggled to retain his composure. “So, when did you see her last?”

  “Lord Maybor, I said earlier I needed the cash up front before I entered into this agreement. I will be willing to tell you all I know, but I need the cash first . . . as security, you understand.” Maybor could only nod. He was dumbstruck by the man’s insolence. That a mercenary would not take his word on matters of cash was absurd.

  “Bring the money here tomorrow at the same time. Take care to be discreet. Baralis has eyes everywhere.” Traff walked off with an infuriating swagger to his step.

  Maybor was sorely tempted to go to Baralis and tell him that one of his men had turned traitor. He was sure that Baralis would devise a suitably horrific punishment for the mercenary. And by Borc, the man deserved one!

  As Maybor made his way back to the castle, he realized he was experiencing an unfamiliar emotion. There was something nestled beneath his anger and it took him a moment to realize what it was: he was ashamed. What sort of father was he? Not only had he conspired with his daughter’s rapist, but he had promised her to him!

  They were looking for a place to spend the night. It was still daylight, but experience had taught them that night came quickly to the forest in winter. Melli was in charge of finding suitable ground to sleep on and Jack was appointed as water finder.

  For most of the time since leaving the old woman’s farm, they had followed the eastern road, always careful to stay under cover of the trees. Sometimes it had proven difficult as either streams or ditches had blocked their path, and much time had been wasted as they circumvented these obstacles so they could remain with the road.

  The weather had actually turned milder since their journey began, but Jack had been proven right when he’d predicted snow. The snow had started to fall early that morning and had persisted all day. It was in fact an advantage not to be traveling on the road, for with no roots to hold the earth in place, the road had quickly turned to mud. The few people they saw passing had great difficulty wheeling their carts and steering their animals in the quagmire.


  The earth of the forest was kept firmly in place by the deep roots of trees, and although the earth was slippery underfoot, it was not nearly as treacherous as the road. The snow was not sticking; it was too light and the earth too warm. Water ran in rivulets down ditches and into the countless streams and brooks which laced through the forest.

  Melli had actually found the past week peaceful. She liked being in the woods once more, enjoyed walking in the crisp air and watching the stark scenery that winter offered. After the experience of being locked up in a tiny storeroom for days, she found she truly appreciated the freedom of the forest, of setting her own pace and choosing her own road. As long as she was traveling she had only simple decisions to make: how much to eat, where to sleep, when to rest. It was only when her journey was over that she would have to worry about the real world once more.

  Both she and Jack knew they were being followed, probably tracked by hounds and men. Only the day before they had heard the familiar rumble of hooves that marked the approach of a troop of riders. Jack had acted swiftly and pulled her down into a ditch, covering them both with a layer of wet leaves. The guard had passed by. Although neither of them had admitted it, they were both relieved that there had been no confrontation. Melli shuddered to think what might have happened if there had been.

  Jack had not spoken about the incident at the hunter’s lodge and Melli respected his silence and didn’t mention it herself. She was certain he thought about it, though, for sometimes his face would grow pale and a blank expression enter his eye. One or two times he had cried out in his sleep, words of torment that Melli could not understand. She wanted to go to Jack to comfort him, to tell him everything would be all right, but he was changing, growing more distant by the day, and if she admitted the truth to herself, she was not sure anything would be all right ever again.