The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  Even if they made it through Halcus, there was no guarantee they would get as far as Bren. Jack had little idea of what lay beyond the River Nestor; he only knew Bren was an impossibly long distance away, especially for two people on foot in winter. Then there were the mountains, the Great Divide—they ran the length of the Known Lands. He had heard that they were not as steep around Bren and there were many passes, but everyone knew passes were treacherous in winter.

  Melli came bounding out from the trees, her waterskin full. Jack suddenly remembered she was not going as far as Bren—her journey ended at Annis. He would be crossing the mountains alone. She came and linked his arm, and they walked eastward together.

  Nabber woke up feeling much better. He could tell by the light stealing in from under the shutters that the morning was well gone. He sat up and found his head felt clearer than it had in days—the wiseman’s medicine had worked its cure. Nabber liked Bevlin. He liked his house and all the interesting things in his kitchen—he hadn’t liked the greased duck much, but he supposed that a man with as few teeth as Bevlin needed food that would slide down without much chewing.

  Nabber considered it was the best thing he’d ever done, linking up with Tawl. He was getting to see the world, go adventuring, meet strange people, and make a handsome profit on the side. He felt a little guilty about keeping some of his stash back from Tawl, but what was a boy to do? Who could tell when he might have need?

  A good friend of his named Swift, the same one who had introduced him to the lucrative world of pocketing, had taught him a word once: contingency. “It means,” he had explained, “keeping a little back just for yourself.” Swift himself held a healthy contingency back from his gaffer, not to mention his wife and family. Nabber had immediately embraced the idea of contingency and always made a point of having one. Since being with Tawl his contingency had grown considerably and had now become rather difficult to conceal.

  Nabber got out of bed and dressed. He was worried about Tawl. His friend had been acting strangely ever since the drunk in the tavern had accosted him. He was short-tempered and moody. Nabber hoped that the wiseman might be able to help him; Tawl had certainly been eager to see him.

  He looked at the cold water in the wash bowl and decided against it. Being clean was not a priority with him. He did, however, make an effort to comb his hair. Swift had told him that being a guest carried certain responsibilities, one of which was to look reasonably neat for your host, “else you won’t get invited back.” Nabber wanted to make sure Bevlin invited him back.

  As soon as he was ready he burst in on the kitchen, eager for some hot food and company. He knew something was wrong the second he entered: the fire was out and the room was bone cold. He heard a noise—the sound of floorboards creaking—and he moved around the huge table. Tawl was there, covered in blood, crouched down holding Bevlin in his arms, rocking him back and forth like a baby. The wiseman was dead.

  Nabber had lived in the worst part of Rorn amidst cutthroats and murderers. He had seen prostitutes with their wrists cut, swindlers with knives in their belly—he was no stranger to blood.

  He knew the first thing he had to do was get Tawl away from the body and get something hot inside him. Nabber went and knelt beside Tawl. He put his arm around his shoulders. “Come on, Tawl,” he said gently. “Time to get up.” Tawl looked up at him and Nabber saw no recognition in his face. The boy tried to pull Bevlin’s body away from Tawl. The knight fought it at first, trying to keep hold of the dead man, but Nabber’s words seemed to soothe him. “Come on, Tawl, time to let go, time to let Bevlin go.” Tawl released his hold on the wiseman and Nabber laid the old man on the floor.

  He gripped Tawl’s arm and urged him to stand up, all the time gently coaxing. He looked around for somewhere to sit Tawl. The bench wouldn’t do—it was covered in blood. He led him to a chair by the fire and made him sit. His body was blue with cold and Nabber wondered how long he had been crouching there in the kitchen. He ran into the bedroom and pulled out a heavy woolen blanket and covered Tawl with it. The knight looked tired and dazed and seemed willing to stay put.

  Nabber built a hasty fire and put several pots to boil. Tawl needed something hot to drink. He decided he would deal with Bevlin’s body later—the dead benefited little from haste. He tried not to wonder what had happened. He had learned early on in life not to ask too many questions, but he could not help noticing the thickness of blood around Bevlin’s chest—the man had been stabbed in the heart.

  He searched the wiseman’s larder for suitable fare; he found eggs, milk, butter, and ducks. A waterskin caught his eye—the lacus. It had cured him; it probably wouldn’t do Tawl any harm. He poured a measure of the pale, milky substance into a pot and warmed it a little before giving it to Tawl. The knight took the offered bowl and held it close to his face, breathing in the pungent vapors. After a while he brought the bowl to his lips and drank. Nabber heaved a sigh of relief and put more logs on the fire.

  He was feeling rather hungry himself, but he didn’t think it was very respectful to eat with a dead man in the room, and he was sure Swift wouldn’t approve. So Nabber bided his time, cleaning the blood from bench and floor and keeping an eye on Tawl. He scrubbed away, trying not to look at Bevlin, but the face of the old man seemed to draw his eye. It was not an upsetting sight. The wiseman looked as if he was in a deep sleep, a little pale perhaps, but at peace.

  Blood, Nabber considered, was not an easy thing to clean off. He tried his best, but it just seemed to make everything worse, causing ugly red smears over the floor. He looked at his hands and they were covered in bloody water; he felt a tension in his throat and found he had to stop. He stood up and glanced over to Tawl. The knight was sitting motionless with his eyes closed.

  Nabber knew he was getting upset, but fought it, Swift would be ashamed of him—stoicism was highly valued amongst ’pockets. He clamped his lips together tightly and moved away from the body, talking himself round. “Come on now, Nabber,” he murmured. “You’re no baby, seen worse than this in your time.”

  He had to get the blood from his hands. It was the sight of them, he decided, that was upsetting him. He needed some fresh water to wash them in. He’d just slip back into his bedroom for a minute, where there was clean water and a cloth. He looked over to Tawl, checking that the knight would be all right for a few minutes. He seemed to be asleep. Satisfied that he wouldn’t be missed, Nabber went into the bedroom, shutting the door after him.

  Once there Nabber gave in to the tension. He sat on the bed and his body shook; he told himself the room was cold, that was all. Tears welled in his eyes and he quickly brushed them away: Swift would laugh at him. Willing himself to remain calm, he went over to the wash bowl and splashed cold water on his face. What had been so undesirable only an hour before, he now welcomed readily. The sting of cold revived his spirits. He scrubbed mercilessly at his hands, removing the last traces of blood.

  By the time Nabber had dried himself off he was feeling much better. Composed and ready to return to the kitchen, he straightened his clothes and went into the next room.

  Tawl had gone. The chair was empty. The door was open. Nabber cursed himself; he should never have left him. He went over to the window. Tawl’s horse, which had been tethered to the gate, was gone. Nabber dashed out of the house and into the garden. In the distance, heading to the west, he spied Tawl. The knight was riding fast and furious and was soon out of sight.

  Nabber stood for a while, watching the horizon over which Tawl disappeared. Clouds passed over the sun and it grew dark and chill. Reluctantly, he returned to the cottage.

  He checked in Tawl’s room and was relieved to see his pack had gone; the knight would at least have food and blankets.

  Nabber made himself something to eat: a little porridge and some duck. He took it into the bedroom so he could eat without looking at Bevlin’s body. He thought about what to do next. He could return to Rorn—Swift would take him back as a ’pocket, no q
uestions asked; the prospecting in Ness had been fruitful—he could set up on his own there; he could even sit out the winter here in the wiseman’s cottage—there was plenty of food.

  Nothing seemed as appealing as it should. He was in a good position, his contingency had never been bigger, he could go where he pleased and do what he wanted. Nabber knew what he wanted to do and knew it was foolish to consider it. He wanted to go after Tawl, to find his friend and travel with him once more. It’s madness, he told himself. He didn’t know the country, it was the middle of winter, and he didn’t know where Tawl was headed and couldn’t even be sure the knight would welcome him if he found him.

  Tawl was his friend, though. They had adventured together. He had saved the knight’s life once; it might need saving again. He would do it. He would follow Tawl west. When Bevlin had given him the lacus, Nabber had asked what cities lay nearest to his cottage. The wiseman had said Lairston was to the north, Ness to the east, and Bren to the west. Bren, that would be where Tawl was headed.

  He would head west, then, following Tawl’s trail. Nabber had heard tell that Bren was a rich city, there was bound to be good prospecting there. First though, he had to sort out things here. He would have to bury Bevlin—Swift would have thought it fitting to do so. He would also tidy and secure the cottage. He would head for Bren in the morning—there was much to do this day.

  Tavalisk was eating gruel. His stomach complaint was getting no better and the only food he could keep down was thin porridge. The physicians had come that morning. How he hated them with their proddings and whisperings and damn-fool remedies. They had told him he had malevolent humors in his stomach and suggested that they put a poultice of hot mustard seed on his belly to draw them out. When he had refused the poultice, they suggested bloodletting followed by a medicinal enema. Were they trying to kill him?

  He had thrown them out and would heal himself. His latest cook from the far south had ways with herbs and had sprinkled some atop his gruel. It would not be long before he was feeling better. The archbishop had of course suspected poison, a man in his position could expect such things, but Tavalisk made a point of making his various aides eat whatever he was having and they were all fine. Maybe it was all the spicy food he had been eating lately—he would have to change his diet.

  Tavalisk heard a loud knock. Ever since he had reprimanded his aide, Gamil had taken to knocking with ostentatious vigor. “Come.”

  “Your Eminence is feeling a little better, I trust?”

  “Just a little, Gamil, no thanks to the physicians.” Tavalisk finished his gruel. “I would have you spread a little rumor, Gamil.”

  “What rumor, Your Eminence?”

  “The truth, really. I would have the people of Rorn know I am ill.”

  “But Your Eminence is recovering?”

  “Yes, but I would have them worry over my condition for a little longer. People value things more when they think they are about to lose them.” The archbishop noticed Gamil’s expression. “There is nothing like a serious illness to increase one’s popularity.”

  “But Your Eminence is already well loved by the people.”

  “Exactly, and I intend to keep it that way. Be sure to let the people know I refused the help of physicians—the common people can’t afford their services and therefore resent them. Personally I think that’s why the common people live longer than the wealthy; they are allowed to die in their own time and not prematurely physicianed into the grave.”

  “I will do as Your Eminence wishes.”

  “See that you do. Now, have you any news for me? What about our knight?”

  “It will be some time before our spies are able to report back, Your Eminence. I did hear that while he was in Ness he spent some time with a cloth merchant’s daughter.”

  “Really, Gamil, I thought you were above such tittle tattle. Who the knight beds is of little interest to me.”

  “The girl and her father were originally from the Four Kingdoms, Your Eminence. I believe he questioned the girl about her former country.”

  “It seems as if a lot of people are interested in the Four Kingdoms at the moment.” Tavalisk poured himself a little sheep’s milk and honey. “By the way, Gamil, did you arrange a meeting with the lord from Bren . . . what is his name?”

  “Lord Cravin.” Gamil seemed reluctant to continue.

  “Go on, man,” urged the archbishop.

  “Well, Your Eminence, I myself approached the illustrious lord on your behalf. I told him who I represented and informed him that Your Eminence requested the pleasure of a meeting with him.”

  “And?”

  Gamil fingered the material of his robe. “Well, Lord Cravin saw fit to decline the offer. He said he was far too busy to waste time meeting with churchfolk and told me not to bother him again.”

  “Churchfolk!” exclaimed Tavalisk. “Churchfolk! Does the man know who he is dealing with?”

  “He was a most arrogant man, Your Eminence.”

  “He is also a foolish one to decline a meeting with me. I have never been so insulted. Churchfolk!” The archbishop rubbed his chubby hands together in agitation. “I can see that the people of Bren are lacking in both intelligence and good manners.”

  “It is a well-known fact that all the people in the north are barbarians, Your Eminence,” said Gamil soothingly. “And that the people of Bren are the most barbaric of all.”

  “That I can well believe.” Tavalisk sipped his milk and honey and regained his composure, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “If they are so barbaric, it will be interesting to see how successfully Baralis can pull off his plans with them. By attempting to wed Kylock to Catherine of Bren he just might have bitten off more than he can chew.” Tavalisk was now smiling broadly, showing his little, sharp teeth. The course of Marod’s prophecy might not run that smoothly after all. And, if he were right about its meaning, it could be his responsibility to prevent it from coming to pass. “All this talk of chewing has made me hungry, Gamil. Go and fetch me some real food, something with a bite to it. I am sick of gruel.”

  Kylock was washing his hands. Using a boar’s bristle brush, he cleaned beneath his fingernails. After a while, he held his hands up to the light. They were still not clean enough. He poured more boiling water into the basin and scrubbed them once more.

  It was the smell that he could never remove. No matter what he did he could never quite rid himself of the stench of the womb. It was on him even now, nearly eighteen years later. Many skins had he shed, every particle renewed a hundred times, but it still remained. The smell of his mother clung to him like a vine to an oak, and it would destroy him if it could.

  It worked his mother’s purpose, reeking of her adultery, seeking to corrupt. He would not succumb. Catherine would help him. He would bathe in her purity and emerge forever cleansed of the taint of his mother’s corruption.

  Kylock dried his hands on a soft cloth. The portrait was where his mother had left it. He took it up. Hundreds of leagues it had traveled and it was still fragrant with the smell of innocence. Opening his fist to the light from the candle, he looked upon the likeness of Catherine of Bren. She took his breath away. Perfection. An angel, pure and virginal, untouched by the hand of man or time. Catherine was his, and she alone would save him.

  Baralis poured himself a glass of deep red wine. He held it against the firelight better to admire its color and clarity. He was normally a fastidious person not given to excesses of food or drink, and in fact despised people who were, but today he had cause for celebration and would finish off a glass or two. Yesterday the queen had announced to the whole court her plans to betroth her son to the duke of Bren’s daughter. There was no going back for her now. She was fully committed to the marriage and his plans were therefore secure. The world turned in his favor and his dreams were one step nearer realization.

  He liked not the thought of the long trip to Bren, but it was something that would have to be endured, a mere inconvenience.
He wondered with idle curiosity which fool the queen would pick out for Crown’s Envoy. Probably some lily-livered nobody who was well under Her Highness’ finely manicured thumb. It was of little consequence. Bren was his affair and he would brook no interference from any vacuous nobleman.

  There were a few loose ends he would prefer tied up before he departed from Bren, but it did not appear he would be able to do so in the time left. His latest mercenaries had proved useless. They had returned today saying they had seen no sign of the girl and boy. It was true that Melliandra was no longer in the running as Kylock’s bride, but it would cause an uncomfortable scandal if she returned to court telling the story of how she had been held captive by the king’s chancellor. He could not afford to risk such accusations and the girl must be permanently prevented from making them.

  As for the boy, he too must be found and killed. The incident at the hunting lodge had proven just how dangerous he could be. He wanted him out of the way. Jack represented uncertainty . . . he was a dark horse, a spoiler. Whenever Baralis thought of him he was filled with apprehension. The baker’s boy was trouble.

  He sipped on his wine, considering what he would need to take with him to Bren. He heard heavy footsteps and then Crope loomed above him. As always the fool was carrying his painted box. “I told you I was not to be disturbed.”

  “Lord Maybor is asking to see you.”

  “Maybor, what does he want?” Baralis had no desire to see him. He had too vivid a recollection of what happened last time; the maniac had drawn a sword.

  “He says he wants to talk to you, says he’s unarmed.”

  “What is his demeanor?” What could Maybor want? Baralis wondered. Had he come to vent his rage over losing out on the betrothal?

  “He seems happy, smiling he is.”

  “Let him come in.” The man was probably drunk. If he tried to draw a sword this time, he would find things turned out a little differently than when they’d last met. Crope went off and a minute later Maybor stepped into the room.