by J. V. Jones
Tarissa spoke before Jack could stop her. “There was a little accident, Mother. I was stirring the stew when the whole shelf came down.”
“How can that be?” asked Rovas. “I nailed that up good and strong before winter set in.”
“Hmm, I think we have our answer, then,” said Magra. “If ever a man lacked practical skills, it is you, Rovas Widegirth.”
“Less of the wide girth, woman. You know as well as I do that to be a successful merchant you need to appear prosperous. There’s nothing like a big belly for showing a man’s got money to spend.”
Jack wondered what a woman like Magra was doing with a man like Rovas. They were total opposites. Magra was refined; her speech, her appearance, even the words she chose, spoke of nobility, yet Rovas was a self-confessed rogue. It didn’t make any sense.
“No need to worry,” Rovas was saying. “There’s plenty more where that came from. How can I call myself a smuggler and not have some hidden stashes?” He turned to Jack. “Come with me, boy. You can help me dig up the vegetable garden. I buried a chest of salted beef there. The only problem is, I can’t remember exactly where.”
As Jack left the cottage, he caught Tarissa’s eye. He sent her a look of thanks. She had saved him from some difficult questions.
Rovas spotted the burn mark on his hand. “How’d you do that, boy?”
“I was helping Tarissa save the pots from the flame.”
“Right hand, eh? Never mind, that won’t stop me teaching you the blade. A true fighter knows how to wield a knife with both hands. This way your left can have a head start.”
• • •
Nabber made his way along Bren’s busy streets. Traders and beggars called to him. He bought a stuffed pork pie from a street merchant and tossed a handful of coppers toward a cripple and his blind mother. The speed with which the mother found the coins was nothing short of miraculous for a blind woman. Nabber smiled brightly her way. He knew she could see, but he admired her skill anyway. The way her eyes rolled wildly in her sockets was truly the work of a dedicated artiste.
He bit into his pie. It was delicious, hot and juicy, with at least a passing resemblance to pork.
It was a beautiful day, that is, for a place as cold as Bren. The sky was light blue and clear, the air crisp and fresh. Something was going on in the city, he was sure of it. To the north of the city, where all the fancy buildings and the duke’s palace were situated, the streets were being cleaned and banners were being hung. Probably expecting important visitors, Nabber concluded. Affairs of state didn’t concern him, however. He had one mission on his mind today: he was going to help Tawl.
He passed a market stall where hand mirrors were being sold. He picked one up and had a quick look at himself. “S’truth!” he muttered to his reflection. He hastily smoothed back his hair with a handful of spit. To think he’d gone following Tawl last night with the hair of a wild man. His collar was none too clean, either. Swift would be disappointed. “Always wear a clean camlet,” he would say. “You’ll look less like a scoundrel that way.” Nabber could see the wisdom of Swift’s words. Though he still wasn’t sure what a camlet was.
He was tempted to pocket the mirror—it would make a fine addition to his personal grooming accoutrements—but the stall-holder had a mean eye, and Nabber prided himself on knowing when not to take chances.
The sun followed him to the west of the city. It was late afternoon and Nabber wondered if he should have made an effort to find Tawl earlier. The problem was that the best pickings were to be found before noon, and he’d been reluctant to give up a day’s earnings. Swift would have thought him foolish. So here he was, best part of the day over, bag full of coinage in his tunic, on his way to find the knight.
He took a turn onto Brotheling Street and made his way toward the place where he’d last seen Tawl. The smell was more accurate a guide than any map. Each building had its own characteristic odor, and Nabber honed in on the one he remembered from last night. The place looked rather dismal in the daylight; the timbers were rotting and the paint was peeling. It just went to show how generous the night was with its favors. The building had looked like a palace under its patronage.
Nabber knocked boldly on the door.
“Go away, you’re too early,” came the reply.
“I’m looking for a man, name of Tawl. He’s a fighter.” Nabber was forced to shout at the wood, for the door had not been opened.
“No one here named Tawl. Now get lost!”
“He was here last night. Big fellow, golden hair, bandage on his arm.”
“What’s in it for me?”
Nabber began to feel more comfortable talking to the faceless voice; information for coinage was a concept he was more than familiar with. “Two silvers if you know where he is.”
“Ain’t worth my breath.”
“Five silvers then.” This was turning out to be more expensive than he hoped. Still, it all helped the cash circulate. Swift had given him long lectures on the importance of circulation.
“Done.” The door was opened and a small-eyed woman emerged. Nabber recognized her at once as being the woman who had stolen Tawl’s gold. “Let’s see the spark of your silver.”
Nabber brought out the promised coinage. “May I be so bold as to ask the name of such a fine-looking woman as yourself?”
The woman looked taken aback by this request. She patted her elaborately coifed hair, and said, “I’m Madame Thornypurse to you, young man.”
Powder from her head swirled into the air, and Nabber had to fight the urge to sneeze. “So, Madame Thornypurse, which way was the gentleman headed?”
“Not a friend of yours, is he?” The woman’s voice was as shrill as a mating goose.
“No, madame,” said Nabber. “Never met him before in my life. I’m merely a messenger.”
Madame Thornypurse sniffed in approval. “The man you’re looking for has gone drinking in the Duke’s Fancy. It’s a tavern on Skinners Lane. Now hand over the cash.”
“It was a pleasure doing business with you, madame,” said Nabber with a little bow as he passed her the coinage. Swift himself would have been impressed at the speed with which the money disappeared into her bodice. Nearly as quickly, the door was shut in his face.
Nabber sneezed heavily; the hair powder finally proved too irritating to ignore. He then made his way along Bren’s busy streets. He soon found the Duke’s Fancy. It was a tall and brightly colored building. A group of men were dicing in the doorway. Nabber was tempted to join them, for he loved to dice more than he liked to eat, but he passed them by, pausing only once or twice to see how the dice were landing. It was really quite a pity he was on a mission, as the dice were landing with the grace of a goddess. A man could circulate a lot of coinage with dice as sweet as those.
He entered the tavern and pushed his way through the throngs of revelers. The air was thick with the smells of hops, yeast, and sweat: a fine drinking man’s odor.
Nabber caught the flash of straw yellow hair: it was the woman who’d collected Tawl’s money for him the night before, and then passed it on to old Thornypurse. Indignation swelled in his breast and he stepped toward her. She was calling loudly for more ale and was being enthusiastically cheered on by a group of men and women. The ale came—a whole barrel of it—and she reached into a sack to pay the innkeeper. It was Tawl’s sack. The woman was buying drinks for Borc knows how many people, and paying for them with Tawl’s money!
The knight was still nowhere in sight. Nabber’s eyes followed the sack. As always, his hands were ahead of his brain. The straw-haired woman was distracted for only an instant as she raised her cup in toast, but it was enough. Nabber slid the sack from the table. With fingers that never faltered for an instant, he bundled it into his cloak. Now was not the time to revel in the thrill of the snatch, so he bowed his head low and made for the door.
A second later the cry went up: “My gold! Someone’s stole my gold!”
Nabber had
to stop himself from shouting out that it wasn’t her gold at all. He kept calm. He could see the door. Only a few steps and he’d be gone. There was some disturbance in the crowd behind him. He couldn’t afford to look back. He pushed the last of the people out of the way and made it to the doorway. Still not sure if he’d been fingered, he began to saunter slowly down the street. He was just about to break out into a nonchalant whistle when he heard the telltale sign of footsteps behind him. Nabber quickly abandoned all attempts to appear blameless and started to run as fast as his legs could carry him.
Swift, while being a thief of great sophistication, had known of the occasional need for a quick escape. Nabber followed his instructions: “Never run in a straight line. Take every turn that crosses your path, always head to where the crowd is at its thickest . . . and move like the wind.” Down streets and alleys he fled, through markets and gatherings he charged. The footsteps still followed. He dived into an alleyway, good and dark, and ran up its length. It ended in a stone wall. Nabber drew a deep breath. It was too tall to scale; he’d just have to blaze a path backward. Quickly he scanned his brain for any words of wisdom that Swift might have imparted on this particular predicament. He came up blank. Nabber was forced to conclude that Swift would never have been stupid enough to run up a blind alleyway.
Knees trembling from fatigue more than fright, Nabber turned to face his pursuer. The man was silhouetted against the light. He moved forward and the sunlight shone on his hair. Golden hair. It was Tawl.
A long moment passed. The sun retreated with the tact of a diplomat, leaving man and boy alone. A low wind gusted down the alleyway. It toyed with the filth, picking up more smell than substance.
Tawl stood and looked at Nabber, his great chest heaving, his hair the color of dark gold. There was no expression to be read on his face. Without a word he began to move away.
To Nabber’s amazement the knight turned and started to retrace his steps down the alleyway. Tawl’s pace was slow and his head was bowed. Nabber couldn’t bear it an instant longer. “Tawl!” he cried. “Wait.” He saw the knight hesitate for the briefest instant, and then, without turning round, he shook his head. At the sight of this small, almost negligent gesture, Nabber felt his throat grow tight. Tawl was walking away from him.
Swift had warned him many times about the dangers of friendship: “Never let a man get close enough to rob your purse,” he would say. Having no friends himself, merely accomplices, Swift was a person who put little value on friendship. Up until the time he’d met Tawl, Nabber had been inclined to agree with him. But Swift wasn’t always right. Yes, he could turn a phrase more smoothly than a milkmaid churning butter, yet for all his cleverness he could trust no one. And no one trusted him. Suddenly the idea of ending up like Swift—a man who asked you what you wanted before asking your name—didn’t seem as enticing to Nabber as it had in the past.
He ran after Tawl and put a hand on his arm. “Tawl, it’s me! Nabber.”
“Get away from me, boy.” Tawl’s words were as sharp as blades. He pulled his arm free and continued walking.
“Here,” said Nabber, handing him the sack. “Take your loot back. I only robbed it to stop your ladyfriend from spending it all.”
The knight pushed the sack away. “I don’t need you as my keeper. Have it yourself. There’s plenty more where that came from.”
“You mean you plan on staying in Bren?”
“My plans are not your concern, boy.” Tawl quickened his pace, but Nabber kept to his side.
“What about your quest? The boy . . .” Nabber was about to say, “the boy who Bevlin sent you to look for,” but stopped himself. Now wasn’t a good time to mention the dead wiseman.
Tawl swung around. “Leave me be!”
There was such venom in the knight’s words that Nabber actually took a step back. He got his first close look at his friend’s face. Tawl had aged. Lines that had been mere suggestions a month earlier had deepened and set. Anger blazed across his features, but there was something more in his eyes. It was shame. As if realizing he’d been found out, Tawl lowered his eyes and turned back to his path. His footsteps echoed softly as he walked away.
Nabber was tempted to give him up; the man wanted no one’s help. It was getting late and the idea of a hot supper at a fine tavern was most appealing. He watched Tawl reach the end of the passageway and turn onto the street. Just before he passed out of sight, Tawl ran his fingers through his hair. It was a simple movement, one Nabber had seen him do a hundred times before. The familiarity of the action made Nabber realize how well he’d come to know Tawl. The knight was his only friend, and they were both a long way from home. Supper began to seem less important.
He hurried after Tawl. It had been a mistake to approach him in such a forthright manner, asking about the quest, telling him he was being cheated of his money. If he was ever to get the knight back to his old self, he’d have to try a more subtle technique. Tawl obviously wanted to forget the past, forget the wiseman, forget the search for the boy, forget even himself. Well, he’d make sure that Tawl wasn’t allowed to forget. The one thing that he was sure of was the fact that the knight had lived to find the boy. It had been his sole purpose, and for him to give up on it so completely struck Nabber as being unspeakably tragic.
For tonight, though, it would be best if he just kept watch on him. He’d bide his time and wait for a suitable opportunity to get back in the knight’s good graces.
Nabber stepped onto the street. He paused a minute to buy a pastry from a street trader—missing out on a hot supper was one thing, but going without anything to eat at all was quite another—and then struck a path back toward the Duke’s Fancy.
Seven
Of course, Bodger, there’s really only one way to tell if a woman’s a virgin.”
“You mean apart from them having straight hair, Grift?”
“That one’s an old wives’ tale, Bodger.”
“I’ve got to agree with you there, Grift. Ever since you’ve been wearing those extra-tight hose, you could easily be mistaken for an old wife.”
“Hmm, I wear them strictly for therapeutical reasons, Bodger. With vitals as delicate as mine, the first gust of wind sends them north, and once they’re there, it’s murder to get them back.”
“Aye, Grift, you’re famous for your temperamental vitals.”
“Do you want me to impart my worldly wisdom or not, Bodger? Other men would pay good money to be taught by a master such as myself.”
“Go on, then. What’s the real way to tell if a woman’s a virgin?”
“You have to put her in a room with a badger, Bodger.”
“A badger?”
“Aye, Bodger, a badger.” Grift sat back on his mule and made himself as comfortable as a man on a mule can be. “You take the badger, Bodger, lock it in a room with the girl you’re testing. You leave them alone for a couple of hours, and then go and see what’s happened.”
“What’s supposed to happen, Grift?”
“Well, Bodger, if the badger falls asleep in the corner, then the girl’s been around the haystack, if you know what I mean. But if the badger comes and curls up on her lap, then she’s a virgin good and true.”
“What if the badger bites the girl, Grift?”
“Then the girl will catch the ground pox, and no one will care either way, Bodger.”
Bodger nodded judiciously; Grift had a point there. The two men were at the back of the column, making their way down a wide but steep mountain path. The air was silent and brittle. No birds called, no winds blew.
“You had a close call yesterday, Bodger.”
“I was lucky to be brought out from under the avalanche, Grift.”
“I don’t think luck had much to do with it, Bodger. Lord Baralis makes his own luck.” Although Grift was sorely tempted to ask Bodger exactly what had happened at the avalanche site the day before, he knew it was wise not to do so. No one who’d been pulled out from under the snow had talked ab
out it. In fact, no one in the entire party had mentioned the incident. People were pretending it never happened. By the time they reached Bren, it would be gone from everyone’s memory. Six men had died.
Hearing a noise behind him, Grift looked around. “Here, Bodger, Crope’s finally caught up with us. That’s him joining the rear now.”
“Aye, Grift. He’d be hard to mistake down a deep tunnel. I wonder why he insisted on hanging back at the avalanche site this morning.”
“Let’s find out why, Bodger.” The two men pulled aside from the column and waited until Baralis’ servant was abreast of them.
“Nasty bruise that, Crope,” said Bodger, motioning toward Crope’s forehead.
“Hurts real bad,” replied Crope in his low and gentle voice.
“Is that why you didn’t ride with us first thing, then? Because you weren’t up to it?”
Crope shook his head at Grift. “No, I had to go digging.”
“Burying treasure, Crope?” Grift winked at Bodger.
“No, Grift,” Crope said, oblivious to Grift’s sarcasm. “I lost my box in the ’lanche. Slipped right out of my pocket, it did. Took me a long time to find it.” Crope smiled and patted the square-shaped bulge in his tunic. “It’s back where it belongs now.”
“Why, Crope, you amaze me,” said Grift. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you say so many words in one go. That box must be pretty important to spark such an outpouring of verbal eloquence.”
Crope’s face lost its smile. “None of your business, Grift. I wants to be on my own now.” With that Crope pulled on his reins to slow his mount, and Bodger and Grift rode ahead.
“Well, Bodger,” said Grift, “if I know Crope, he’s probably keeping his old toenail clippings in that mysterious box of his.”
“Aye, Grift. Either that or his nasal hair.”
“He’d need a bigger box for that, Bodger!”
Bodger nodded his head judiciously. “Still, Crope risked riding through the pass on his own just to save that box.”
“The pass wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, Bodger. We were over it in no time.”
