The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  A length of time passed; Maybor had no way of gauging its measure. The air was cold once more. A chill breeze held the smell of well-done meat in its keep. The only noise was the sound of someone tapping a barrel—a man with enough good sense to realize that now was exactly the right time for a stiff drink.

  Then, just as the ale began to flow, Maybor spotted Baralis approaching the campsite. He was walking, leading his horse by its reins. Lying over the mare’s back was the body of a man. Size and width alone confirmed that it was Crope. The king’s chancellor drew near. He was leaning heavily against the mare. The body on the horse shifted slightly; Crope was still alive.

  The captain looked to Baralis.

  He nodded, his face grim. “Go now,” he said. “Rescue those who are left. Most are dead. I have done what I can.”

  Maybor could read the questions on the captain’s face, but something stronger than curiosity forced the man to hold his tongue: fear.

  Baralis led his horse to a sheltered section of the path. He ordered a guard to help lay Crope’s body on the ground. Maybor could clearly see the strain on the face of the king’s chancellor. He was exhausted, his shoulders drooping, his hands shaking. Reaching inside his cloak, he pulled out a small glass vial. He swallowed the contents like a man dying of thirst. His weight was against the horse, and without its support Maybor suspected Baralis would collapse.

  The captain began to organize a group of men to accompany him to the avalanche site. Maybor insisted on going along to inspect the damage. A few minutes later, they rode up to the place where the snow lay across the path. The smell of meat tantalized the palate. Maybor hurried forward.

  A portion of the snow had entirely melted away. Water pooled and then dripped from the path. Barrels and bodies were uncovered. The snow-melt formed a rough circle. At the center was the body of a horse and its rider. They were joined as one; their bodies scorched and blackened. Cooked to a crisp. Maybor heard the sound of more than one man vomiting.

  Never had it been more difficult to deny the existence of sorcery. The very air was thick with it. Maybor rolled his phlegm and spat out the taste of meat and magecraft. “Come on now, men,” he cried, purposefully sounding harsh. “There are still some alive. Now is not the time for shows of womanly weakness.”

  The soldiers began to clear away what remained of the snow and free the few men who were still moving. Past the melt-site, Maybor noticed a mound of snow that looked to have several barrels embedded in it. If he wasn’t mistaken, his mark was upon them. “Before you deal with the dead,” he called, “free my cider. Five gold pieces to the man who brings me the most barrels.”

  • • •

  It was time for his midmorning snack. He had a fancy for some meat. Hot, sizzling fat surrounding delicate pink flesh: charred on the outside, tender within. Tavalisk had to stop himself from pulling the bell chord and summoning forth a huge joint of lamb.

  He was watching his diet. His physician—Borc rot his soul—had lectured him on the dangers of overeating. None of the dreary recitation had any effect on the archbishop until the foul charlatan had mentioned the fact that overeating could lead to early death. Early death was one thing that Tavalisk most definitely wanted to avoid. What was the point of amassing great stashes of gold and land if one wasn’t going to live to enjoy them?

  Consequently he was trying his best to cut down on his eating. Instead of his usual three-course breakfast—eggs and bacon, followed by kippers and rolls, followed by cold pea soup—he now had only two courses. Needless to say, it was the pea soup that was bidden a fond farewell. Still, it was a sacrifice, and such uncharacteristic self-denial was hard for Tavalisk to bear. In fact, it made him rather angry.

  The physician had prescribed music as a distraction. Now, the archbishop was as fond of music as the next man, and music might indeed tame savage beasts and so forth, but when it came to his stomach, a jaunty tune—no matter how well played—just couldn’t stop his overactive bile from burning away at his gut.

  A knock was heard at the door. The wood rang of Gamil. “Enter,” called Tavalisk, taking up his lyre. He strummed with studied indolence, his mind firmly on food.

  “I wish Your Eminence joy of the day.”

  “There is little joy in this day, Gamil.” The archbishop suddenly hated his aide; the man probably had three courses for his breakfast. “Quickly tell me what petty intelligences you have and then be off. I am already tiring of your presence.”

  “Well, Your Eminence, do you remember the man who spied on the knight for us?”

  “Of course I do, Gamil. I am too young for my dotage just yet. You mean my spy, the one who waited outside Bevlin’s hut and saw the dead body the next morning?” The smell of cooking wafted gently through the open window. Tavalisk strummed faster on his lyre.

  “The man has been seen keeping low company, Your Eminence.”

  “Just how low, Gamil?”

  “He’s been talking with friends of the Old Man.”

  “Hmm. That low, eh?”

  “Yes, Your Eminence. He was spotted in the whoring quarter emerging from one of the Old Man’s lairs, accompanied by two cronies.”

  Tavalisk looked over to the bowl of fruit, the only food in the room. Peaches and plums mocked him with their pink plumpness. How he hated the cruelty of fruit! He fingered his lyre with increased vigor. “And did this man leave with a heavy purse?”

  “I can’t exactly say, Your Eminence. But straight after leaving the Old Man’s lair, he made his way to the market district and bought himself two new robes.”

  “Wool or silk?”

  “Silk, Your Eminence.”

  “Ah, then we have our answer. Our man has sold his information to the Old Man.”

  “Your Eminence is as wise as he is musical.”

  “So you’ve noticed my playing, then, Gamil?” Tavalisk broke into a new and very loud tune on his lyre.

  “Your Eminence’s playing leaves me at a loss for words.”

  “That is always the way with the great masters, Gamil. They move one to emotion, not to speeches.” The archbishop finished off his tune with a suitably theatrical flourish. Even to his biased ears he could tell he hadn’t quite hit all the right notes. Still, genius was measured by more than purely technical skills alone.

  “So, Gamil,” he said, laying down his lyre, “how well did the Old Man know Bevlin?”

  “We know they corresponded at irregular intervals, Your Eminence. The last time we were aware of an exchange of letters was just after the knight returned from Larn.”

  “It seems to me, Gamil, that the Old Man won’t be pleased that his good friend Bevlin was bumped off by someone he tried to help.”

  “Indeed, Your Eminence. The Old Man is known for his loyalty to his friends.”

  “What action do you think he might take?”

  “Who can tell, Your Eminence?” said Gamil with a slight shrug.

  “You can tell, Gamil. That’s what I pay you for.”

  “These things are difficult to predict, Your Eminence. Perhaps the Old Man might seek revenge for Bevlin’s death by having the knight assassinated.”

  “Hmm. The situation bears watching. Keep an eye to the gates and ports. I will be interested in knowing if any of the Old Man’s cronies leave the city.”

  “Yes, Your Eminence.”

  Tavalisk pulled on the bell rope; he needed food. Playing the lyre had honed an edge to his appetite. No wonder so many of the great masters were as fat as pigs.

  “I think it would be wise to pick up our man, Gamil. I can’t allow one of my spies to turn traitor and get away with it. And who knows, once his tongue is sufficiently loosened by the rack, we might find out just what the Old Man is planning to do about Bevlin’s death.” The archbishop put down the lyre. Something about its shape reminded him of pomegranates—his favorite fruit. “Is there anything else?”

  “A rather unsettling rumor about Tyren has reached my ears, Your Eminence.”


  “How unsettling, Gamil?”

  “I’ve heard that he’s ordered the knights to intercept and seize all of Rorn’s cargoes that are headed to the north.”

  “This is intolerable! Who does that gold-greedy bigot think he is?” The archbishop pulled on the bell rope again. He now had need of a drink as well as a meal. “I need this confirmed as soon as possible, Gamil. If it is true I will have to come up with a suitable form of retaliation.”

  If a war was coming, let no one say that Rorn was slow from the stables. The archbishop smiled a tiny smile. The whole thing was really quite stimulating. The Known Lands had been too long without a decent conflict, and as long as it was waged in the north, both he and Rorn would be safe from its ravages.

  “I shall endeavor to find the fact behind the fiction, Your Eminence. If there’s nothing further, I will take my leave.”

  “I was rather hoping you would stay, Gamil. After a quick snack, I was planning to play all of Shuge’s masterworks, and I’m anxious for your opinion on my fingerings.”

  “But Shuge’s masterworks run to some five hours or more, Your Eminence.”

  “I know, Gamil. It will be a real treat for such an avid music lover as yourself.”

  • • •

  There were six sacks of grain in the kitchen and Rovas was busy turning them into eight. Jack watched as the seasoned smuggler practiced one of the less ethical tricks of his trade. He poured a portion of the barley grain into a new sack until it was quarter full, then he took a quantity of what looked to be wood shavings and poured them into the sack. Next he topped the sack up with more grain and tied it with a length of twine.

  “Couldn’t that do a person harm?” asked Jack.

  Rovas smiled showing wide teeth in a wide mouth. “There’s people who’d put worse than wood shavings in grain, boy.”

  “Such as?”

  “Ground bones, soil, sand.” Rovas made an expansive gesture with his arm. “The people who get this grain should count themselves lucky. I’ve taken the trouble to shave the wood real fine. No one will choke on it, and I’ve heard that it’s good for the digestion.”

  “Better for your pocket, though.”

  “What’s the point of a man doing business if he can’t make a little profit?” Rovas reached over to Jack and tousled his hair. “You’re young yet, boy, and you don’t know the ways of the world. Commerce is and always has been its driving force.” He slung one of the sacks of grain over his shoulder. “You’ve got a lot to learn, Jack, and if I do say so myself, I’m the man to teach you.” With that he stepped outside and began loading the grain onto his cart.

  Once he had finished, he turned to Magra, who was spinning by the fire. “Come, woman,” he said. “Accompany me to market like a good wife would.” Rovas then addressed Jack. “You see, boy, potential customers will think a seller more honest if they see he is a family man.”

  “Perhaps I should go along as your son, then,” said Jack with a hint of amusement, “just to complete the family circle.”

  Rovas slapped Jack on the back. “You’re learning fast, boy. But I’ll have to decline. I’ve known these buyers for many years now, and a long lost son might prove a little difficult for them to swallow.”

  “So might those eight sacks of grain.”

  Rovas laughed heartily and even the normally hostile Magra managed a snort of amusement. The smuggler buckled his belt and slipped a knife and a sword under the leather. “When I get back, boy,” he said, “I’ll start teaching you how to use a blade like a real man.” He winked merrily and then was off, Magra trailing after him.

  Jack breathed a sigh of relief. It was good to be on his own. It seemed as if he’d had no chance to think since he’d heard that Melli was dead. He moved closer to the fire and poured himself a cup of mulled cider. The sweet and heady fragrance of apples tugged at his senses, evoking memories of his life in Castle Harvell. The kitchens were often filled with the scent of apples, either with baking or cider-making. There was such simplicity then; no dangers, no worries, no guilt.

  He ran his hand over the thick and bristling growth on his chin and neck. It had been many days since he’d had a shave. The last time had been the day the Halcus soldiers came to the coop . . . the day that Melli was murdered.

  Jack threw the cup into the fire where it smashed against the back wall—he should have been there! It should have been he, not Melli, who was clubbed to death. He had failed the only person who’d ever relied upon him. He cupped his face in his hands, pressing his fingertips deep into his temples. The pain of guilt became a tangible pressure. He felt it build up, demanding release. A sharp metallic taste slivered along his tongue.

  The shelving that hung above the fire suddenly rattled and then gave way, sending all the pots and pans that were hanging from it plunging into the flames. Jack stepped back in horror. He heard a door open behind him and Tarissa walked in.

  “What in Borc’s name have you done?” she cried, dashing forward to salvage what was probably a week’s worth of food from the fire. “Don’t just stand there, help me!” She grabbed hold of the metal poker and speared the haunch of mutton with its tip. “It’s badly charred, but the meat will be all right,” she said. “Wrap a rag around your hand and save what pots you can.”

  Jack obeyed her orders and pulled several pots from the fire. Most were empty, their contents spilt and then lost to the flames.

  “The stew and porridge!” cried Tarissa, but it was too late. Those two most staple of foods sizzled on the embers.

  Jack pulled the last of the pans from the fire. He managed to salvage a pot full of beets, two roasting turnips, and a string of sausages.

  “What happened?” demanded Tarissa. She was obviously upset. Angry tears gleamed in her eyes. A family’s wealth was judged by its supply of food.

  “I don’t know,” Jack said. “The shelf just collapsed.” He wasn’t being honest, he knew what had happened: as his anger and frustration flared, the shelf had given way. The two were related, there was no doubt in his mind, and it was sorcery that provided the connection. He supposed he should be thankful that no one was hurt. Only he didn’t feel very thankful at the moment, just tired and confused.

  “Here, let me look at your hand. The rag is badly scorched.” Tarissa sat beside him on the bench and unwrapped the rag. The flesh beneath was livid red. Tarissa’s face softened into remorse. “I’m sorry, Jack,” she said. “I shouldn’t have asked you to put your hand in the fire. Please forgive me.” Her fingers hovered above the burn and then lightly touched his wrist.

  Jack could not meet her eyes. Blistering pain swelled in his hand. He almost welcomed the sensation. It diverted his thoughts from the truth. Sorcery accompanied him, and like a shadow it would follow him to the grave.

  Tarissa began searching in cabinets for ointments to put on his skin. He was deeply moved by her sudden change in demeanor. Her kindness was an unexpected gift. Jack sat and let her rub salve onto his wounds. Her touch was gentle, as if she were afraid to hurt him further. He looked at her face. Her lashes were long and fair, her nose short with a tiny bump, her lips pink and full. She was beautiful, not perfect, just beautiful. She looked up and their eyes met. For a brief second Jack was puzzled by what he saw. There was something about her that was known to him. Delicate hazel eyes, an intricate mingling of brown and green, met his.

  Her lips moved the barest instance: an invitation as bold as open arms. He leaned forward and kissed her, a chaste kiss made less so by the plumpness of both sets of lips. Jack felt her tender flesh give way and then envelop him. He reached out with his arm to draw her near, but she backed away. She stood up awkwardly and would not look at him.

  “It was you that made the shelf give way.” A statement.

  Jack looked to the floor. “I never laid a hand upon it.”

  “I know.” Tarissa smiled with tantalizing assurance.

  Jack could think of no reply. There was little point in lying; she had guessed the trut
h. Instead he asked, “Is Tarissa your full name?”

  She laughed outright at this blatant attempt to change the subject, yet seemed happy to go along with it. “My full name is Tarissyna,” she said.

  Jack felt his spirits lighten. She knew the truth but didn’t condemn him: her second gift to him. “Tarissyna is a noblewoman’s name in the kingdoms.”

  She shrugged. “Perhaps, but I’ve lived in Halcus most of my life, and my name counts for little here.”

  “When did you leave the kingdoms?”

  “I was a babe in arms when my mother brought me here.” There was an edge to her voice. It took Jack a moment to realize it was bitterness.

  “Why did Magra leave?”

  “She was not wanted. She was an inconvenience to people in high places. By staying she risked death.”

  “And you?”

  Tarissa laughed coldly. “They wanted me dead more than my mother.”

  “But you were just a baby.”

  “Wars have been waged over babies.” Tarissa turned away and began to brush the remains of the food from the hearth.

  Jack could tell she wanted to say no more. She had told him just enough to pique his interest, and he found himself more puzzled than ever. He could still feel the press of her lips against his. It acted like a reprimand, reminding him not to question too deeply, after all she had done no less for him. By dropping the subject of the shelf falling into the fire, she had saved him from awkward questions. He would do no less for her.

  Jack knelt beside her, helping to scrape the burnt stew from the grate. He looked at Tarissa, and she looked at him. Their mutual secrets, only hinted at, never told, acted as a bond between them. And when their arms brushed together as they cleaned up the fireplace, neither was inclined to be the first to pull away.

  A short time later, when the grate shone like a newly minted coin, the door burst open and in came Rovas and Magra. The older woman sniffed the room like a bloodhound and then made straight for the fire. “What has happened here?” she cried. Even in anger, her voice carried the elegant modulated tones of a noblewoman. Her eyes darted to Jack.