The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  “Make it twenty and you’re on.” The voice of a nobleman.

  “We have a deal.” Another exchange of markers, this time with a polite bow, and then Nabber stepped back into the crowd.

  The fighters were well matched at first. Each man executing a seemingly effortless array of feints and thrusts. The fight gained momentum and an edge of anger honed the skills of both men. Tawl was forced to parry a blow with his forearm, and his opponent’s blade cut through to bone. Blood welled slick and dark in the lamplight. The crowd cheered. Nabber, always the businessman, knew a good opportunity when he saw one: everyone thought that Tawl had lost his advantage.

  “Who’ll give me two to one on the stranger?”

  Nabber was inundated with takers and collected markers like fallen leaves. The problem was that by the time he’d finished his dealings, the fight had taken a turn from bad to worse. Tawl’s arm was drenched in blood and lay limp at his side. He was backed up against the wall of the pit, his opponent’s knife at his throat. Tension was so high that most of the crowd had actually stopped betting. Nabber willed his knees not to give way under him.

  “I’ll give you five to one on the stranger,” hissed someone in his ear. To Nabber, the idea of betting at such a time seemed appalling. He turned around and kicked the man hard in the shins.

  The subsequent need for a quick escape prevented Nabber from seeing what happened next. Suddenly the crowd went wild, stamping their feet and calling at the top of their voices. When Nabber managed to get close to the pit once more, he found the balance of power changed. Tawl had his opponent up against the wall of the pit. The man’s knife lay on the ground. Tawl’s knife was at his throat. The eyes of the knight were dangerously blank. The knife blade shook with tension as both men fought over its course. It hovered and wavered, close enough to flesh to draw blood, yet not near enough to slice muscle and tendon.

  Tawl’s opponent gathered his strength and in one brilliant move pushed the knife away from his throat. The knight was forced to step back. The last thing the dark-haired man saw was Tawl stepping forward. Freed from the stalemate, Tawl pivoted to the side and fell upon his opponent’s flank. He sliced the man open from belly to groin.

  The crowd was shocked. It had happened too fast. Where was the skill? The finesse? A moment passed while they decided how to respond. Nabber was disturbed at the sheer violence of Tawl’s attack. His opponent was lying in his own blood, his entrails seeping from the wound. Even now, Nabber knew with all his heart that he couldn’t abandon his friend. It wasn’t Tawl who he’d just watched fight: it was someone else. He gathered his breath deep within his lungs and let out a cry:

  “To the victor!”

  The crowd followed his lead. The stalemate had been broken and Bren was happy once again to cheer the winning side. The noise was dizzying and the sparkle of coinage was dazzling. The dead man was soon covered with silver. Nabber took his markers from his tunic and began to look around for his debtors. He spotted the nobleman in the distance, trying to slink away unnoticed. Nabber spat with disgust. He should have known better than to bet with anyone of the blood. They were notoriously absent losers.

  He had just decided to cut his losses when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Nabber didn’t look round at first; it certainly wouldn’t be anyone eager to pay their bets. For a brief second his heart thrilled, perhaps it was Tawl. He spun around. The man wasn’t Tawl, but he was familiar all the same, “Well met, my friend,” said the stranger. “ ’Twas a good fight, eh?” It was the man he’d pocketed his first day in Bren: the huge chest, the wide arms, the shiny black hair.

  Nabber suppressed his natural desire to run. There was no way the man could prove it was him. Then he remembered the portrait. It was tucked under his belt and would give him away as surely as falling leaves gave away autumn. He remained outwardly calm despite the turmoil within. “Not a bad fight. Though I’ve seen better in Rorn.”

  “Is that where your friend is from?” The stranger’s eyes glanced toward the pit. “Rorn?”

  Nabber was immediately on the defensive. “What makes you think he’s a friend of mine?”

  “I watched you working the crowd for him. Quite a job—reviving betting and then saving his skin at the end.” The stranger smiled, showing white teeth. “Nice trick that—having a boy in the crowd.”

  “I ain’t nobody’s boy,” said Nabber.

  “I saw you follow him the other night,” said the man. “After he beat that young lance from out of town.”

  Nabber decided to change tactics. “What’s it to you?”

  The man shrugged, his whole body becoming taut for the barest instant. Nabber suddenly realized what he was dealing with: a contender.

  “Perhaps I should introduce myself,” he said. “I’m Blayze, the duke’s champion.”

  Impressed, but determined not to show it, Nabber said, “My, my, shouldn’t you be busy defending the duke, then, rather than hanging around on street corners?”

  The man ignored the jibe—Nabber had to give him credit for that. “I like to keep an eye on the competition, and your golden-haired friend is the only decent fighter I’ve seen in a long while.”

  “Just as well for you, really.”

  Another shrug. “Makes no difference to me, boy, I beat all comers.” He was confident without being arrogant, and well spoken—for a fighter.

  “Need a decent fight, do you,” said Nabber, “to help raise your favor?”

  The man who he now knew to be called Blayze pulled away a little. “I’m not about to waste my time talking with a boy whose tongue is quicker than his wits. Now, unless you’re willing to admit you know the lance who just won in the pit, I’m off.” He turned and began to walk away.

  “Tawl,” shouted Nabber. “His name is Tawl and he’s from the Lowlands.” Friendship was one thing, but on a night like this when the coinage shone brighter than any oil lamp, it was difficult to believe that anything mattered more than money and its making. Besides, what was the harm of telling Blayze a name?

  The man carried on walking. “Arrange a meet for me. Two days from now at sundown by the three golden fountains.” He never turned around to discover if his words had been heard, he merely slipped into the crowd. A few seconds later, Nabber spotted him making his way down the street. He was accompanied by a slight figure who was both cloaked and hooded.

  Nabber took all his markers and snapped them. No chance of finding who they belonged to now. No chance of finding Tawl, either. The knight had left the pit. Even if he were to find Tawl, he would never agree to come to a meeting set up by him. It was probably for the best. Blayze had the look of a man who wasn’t used to losing; a full complement of front teeth and a straight nose were rare sights in fighters. And the body! Nabber whistled in appreciation. More muscles than a shipful of sailors. Tawl wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Or would he? Nabber began to make his way toward Brotheling Street. Tawl had a unique talent that owed more to rage than to muscle, so perhaps the outcome was anything but certain. One thing that was certain, though, was that there was loot to be made here. Plenty of it. The duke’s champion fighting the latest sensation in Bren: Nabber could almost hear the sound of money spinning about the pit. This was just the sort of earner that Swift spent his days dreaming of—and it was his for the taking!

  As Nabber walked up the street, he felt an unfamiliar sensation. Like bellyache, only higher and deeper, it formed a tight band around his chest. He tried ignoring the feeling at first and set his thoughts upon solving the problem of how he was going to get Tawl to agree to a meet with Blayze. However, the pain wouldn’t go away. It niggled and chided and allowed him no peace. Despite his attempts to pass it off as an unusually high case of indigestion, Nabber knew in his heart it was guilt.

  • • •

  Melli drifted through the hazy clouds between waking and sleeping. Some tiny still-lucid part of her brain hinted that sleep was best. Some large still-active part of her belly swore tha
t it was.

  Cheap Halcus wine and exotic southern liqueurs didn’t mix. She’d paid the price for their incompatibility all day. Rolling along a bumpy road in a wagon that was obviously built before Borc’s first coming hadn’t helped much, either. She was sick and feeling sorry for herself.

  Her brain defied her stomach and set a course for full waking. Without opening her eyes, she was aware that it was late. The light filtering through the tissue of her eyelids was low and golden; candlelight, and the cries of owls and wolves had found their way into her dreams for some time now. The smell of incense and almonds was as strong as ever, and she realized, rather belatedly, the wagon was no longer moving.

  She heard the door open and then felt a flurry of cold air race in. Fiscel’s voice said: “Alysha, I want a word alone.” Melli kept her eyes closed and lay very still.

  “Lorra.” It was Alysha’s low and alluring voice. “Go outside for a while.”

  “But it’s cold and dark. I was nearly asleep—”

  “Go now,” said Alysha, cutting the young girl’s complaints short. “Or I will make you stay out the whole night.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  Alysha laughed. “You’re no great prize, Lorra. Your flesh would fetch as much dead as alive.”

  Melli tried hard not to shudder, but the coldness of the woman’s words was too much. The sound of the door slamming was testament to their sting. Lorra had obviously decided not to take Alysha up on her threat.

  Fiscel spoke softly, “Is the new girl all right?”

  The rustle of silk suggested a shrug. “She will live. Her stomach reacted to the herbs in the nais, that’s all.”

  “Are you sure she is asleep?”

  “She hasn’t stirred all day.”

  “Good,” said Fiscel. “We must talk about what you saw last night.”

  Melli now realized what the dull pressure was in her abdomen: she badly needed to relieve herself. Having grasped this, she became desperate and slowly curled her body into a ball.

  The voices of both people had dropped even lower. Alysha was speaking. “She is trouble. It is bad luck to even travel with her.”

  “What makes you so sure of this? How do I know that what you say isn’t a drunken woman’s fancy?”

  “You know me better than that, Fiscel,” hissed Alysha. “Only last winter I saved your skin by warning you when the storm would hit. Ignore my warning this time at your own risk.” The chink of glasses was followed by the pouring of liquid. The sound was torture to Melli’s bladder.

  “What are you saying, then?”

  “I’m saying that we should sell her as soon as possible, lest we become victims of her fate.”

  “But I had plans to take her across the drylands,” said Fiscel. “One such as her would be worth a fortune in Hanatta.”

  “Hanatta is months away. I say we get rid of her before the moon wanes.”

  Why was she such a liability? Melli cast her mind back to the evening before. There was drinking, a little eating, more drinking and then—Melli’s body stiffened under the light wool blanket—then there was the testing. A wave of nausea rippled through her body. She swallowed hard to keep the bile from her mouth. That foul woman had done something to her, something dirty and shocking. Her eyes stung and she was forced to open them the barest fraction to let out the tears. In that one second, she glimpsed Fiscel and Alysha; they were distorted by the salt water and looked like monsters. Melli, who had long prided herself on her fearlessness, suddenly felt alone and afraid.

  Her knife, which for days now had been her main source of comfort, began to seem like a useless toy. Even now she could feel its metal-coolness against her side. Only Borc knew how she had managed to hold on to it after the dress-splitting of the night before. But it wasn’t important anymore. These two people, who were calmly discussing her fate in much the same way as her father must have done while arranging her betrothal to Kylock, had the power of life or death over her. That sort of power could not be challenged by a knife.

  Apparently she did have another weapon, though. They were wary of her. Alysha must have discovered something during her testing and Melli doubted that it was the ghones.

  “We pass Highwall tomorrow. You know people there.” It was Alysha again.

  “No,” said Fiscel. “Too close to the initial transaction. Word could reach the good captain, and our guarantee of safe passage through Halcus might be withdrawn.” There was a faint rustle as Fiscel adjusted his position. “If you’re so set on being rid of her, then the best I can do is Bren. If the weather holds, we’ll be there in less than a week.”

  “The same contact as before?”

  “Yes. He’ll pay a fair price, but our friend in Hanatta would pay us double.”

  “If we ever reach Hanatta.” Alysha’s voice became harsh. “Where I come from, we call people like her thieves. Their fates are so strong they bend others into their service. And what they can’t bend they steal.”

  Melli was shocked. What was in her that was so dangerous? For some reason her thoughts turned to Jack. She remembered the day in the pig farmer’s cottage when she’d been given a glimpse into the future. Jack’s future. If Alysha had uncovered some of this, then it was Jack’s fate she was seeing, not hers. Or was she fooling herself? Melli ran through what little she remembered of the vision. She had been there alongside him!

  She was out of her depth. Fate, visions, sorcery: it was all madness. Her father had spent a lifetime denying such things existed. She loved him for that. Strange to believe that before meeting Jack she would have agreed with him.

  Melli turned her attention back to the two people who were deciding what would become of her.

  “We’ll head for Bren, then,” Fiscel was saying. “While we’re there I’ll pick up a replacement.”

  “As you wish.”

  Silk rustled softly at first and then the light from the candle dimmed as someone passed in front of it. There was a peculiar slurping sound followed by a sharp intake of breath. Melli risked opening her eyes. Alysha was naked from the waist up and Fiscel was kissing her breasts. The raven-haired woman seemed impervious to the caress and stood, back straight as a spear, staring straight ahead. Melli closed her eyes again. She’d seen enough.

  There was no way of knowing how long she lay awake, listening to the small, desperate noises of Fiscel’s lovemaking. But when it was over and Lorra returned to the wagon once more, she’d never been more grateful for silence.

  Eight

  Maybor cursed his stays for the third time in less than an hour. He cursed his dead horse, too. He thought for a few minutes and then cursed Baralis as well.

  They were approaching Bren. The city walls gleamed like steel. In their shadows awaited the cause of Maybor’s bad temper: the delegation sent to greet them. Only minutes now before they met. Crucial minutes when people who counted would make their judgments. And here he was, sitting on a horse that was not his own, with a blanket tucked beneath the saddle to cushion his backside, dressed in the same cloak he’d been wearing for nearly a week!

  Baralis, Borc rot his soul, had destroyed the trunk that carried his magnificent ermine cloak when rescuing Crope from the avalanche. What was one dead servant compared to the loss of a fine cloak? Still, at least the rest of his new and hastily made wardrobe was intact, and a man only needed a cloak if he intended to venture out into the cold.

  Maybor urged his horse forward; he wanted no one to doubt that he was leader of this party. Horns sounded and the delegation from Bren swept forward to meet him.

  “We wish you welcome on this fine day, Lord Maybor,” said the herald. “Your presence does honor to our city.”

  “It is I who am honored to be here,” replied Maybor, pleased that they knew who he was.

  “We beg the privilege of accompanying you to the palace, where the duke awaits.”

  “I am content to follow your lead.” Maybor inclined his head graciously, took up a position at the front
of the delegation, and rode into the city of Bren.

  It was nothing like he had expected. The sheer scale of the place overwhelmed him; it made Harvell seem like a backwater. The roads were laid with cobble and stone. Tall buildings crowded close, and people lined the streets in their thousands. Soldiers were everywhere, accompanying their entourage, keeping back the crowds, their longswords hooked but not sheathed at their waists. The duke was obviously a man who understood the value of a silent threat.

  The sound of people cheering was music to Maybor’s ears. He had not wanted this match, but it was plain to see that there was glory in it, and he was determined to have his share. He waved to the crowd and they responded with vigor, calling and waving their banners. There was a likeness painted on many of these banners and it took Maybor a while to realize that the handsome smiling face was supposed to be Kylock. Handsome the new king might be, but he couldn’t recall ever having seen him smile.

  Before he knew it they were approaching the palace gates. The drab browns and grays of the crowd gave way to the deep blue of the ceremonial guard. The gates swung open and Maybor found himself looking at the granite stronghold that formed the duke’s palace. He took a sharp intake of breath; an ill-advised move, for his still tender lungs were not used to such force and retaliated by contracting violently.

  Caught between the awe inspired by the palace and the inconvenience of stifling a coughing fit, Maybor came face-to-face with the duke. Garon of Bren wore the blue of his soldiers and the same naked sword at his waist. He was lean like a fighter, and his most imposing feature was his elegant hooked nose. The duke brought his horse alongside of Maybor’s and held out his arm in welcome. The two men clasped hands in the military fashion, each careful to show no weakness of grip. The courtyard was packed with people; everyone from noblemen to grooms was silent, eager to hear what passed between the two.

  “I bid you welcome, friend,” said the duke.

  Maybor was aware that all eyes were upon him. He searched his mind for just the right words to impress the court of Bren. “On behalf of His Royal Highness King Kylock, sovereign of the Four Kingdoms,” he said, “I am honored to accept your hospitality.”