by J. V. Jones
• • •
The fool, thought Baralis, as the crowd began to murmur nervously. Now was neither the time nor place to let Bren know that the old king was dead.
The duke’s face paled visibly. There wasn’t a man in the courtyard who didn’t notice it. Baralis knew the duke well; he wasn’t the kind of man to show any emotion in public, and the fact that his face had paled was a sign more telling than a murderous rage. Maybor would die for this!
The news would be around the city before they sat down for the welcoming feast. Kylock is now a king, they would say, and the duke was shocked to hear it!
Baralis urged his horse forward. All eyes were drawn by the movement. Maybor sent him a look filled with loathing—the man had no sense of discretion. The duke acknowledged his presence with a slight incline of his head. When he spoke his voice was cold.
“Lord Baralis, perhaps you can tell me when King Lesketh died.”
Baralis looked into the calculating eyes of a hawk. “The king died peacefully in his sleep two weeks after we left Harvell, Your Grace. A messenger was dispatched with the news.”
“His Highness begged me to inform you that he is still eager for the match.” It was Maybor, determined not to be left out of the reckoning.
The Hawk of Bren—for that was how he was known to his enemies—ignored Maybor’s comments. Raising a gloved hand, he turned his horse and made his way back toward the palace. His retinue followed him through to the inner courtyard. Baralis and Maybor were borne along with the crowd.
The duke had ill liked learning of Lesketh’s death along with the stableboys and grooms. It should have been handled differently. The duke should have heard the news in private, and it should have been left for him to decide how and when to tell his people.
Baralis rubbed his aching hands together. Perhaps there was something to be gained from the slackness of Maybor’s tongue. The duke was a proud man and would not look kindly on anyone who made him look a fool. Baralis searched for the duke’s figure in the crowd. He had dismounted and was giving instructions to his equerry. Once finished he slipped away through a small side door. Not wasting a second, Baralis dismounted and followed him.
This was the old part of the palace. The damp stone proclaimed its age. Many centuries ago it had been a fortress and then a castle and later a mighty citadel. Baralis marveled at the skill of the artisans; they had created a magnificent disguise. The structure had the look of a gracious palace, but it was fortified for war.
The whole city was ringed with walls. Like a tree each ring marked growth, each successive duke had strengthened the battlements in a thousand small and unassuming ways. It would be a foolish army that underestimated the defenses of the city of Bren.
Baralis reached out and touched the stone wall; it was almost a caress.
“Do I detect a trace of proprietorship in your touch, Lord Baralis?” It was the duke, his voice cold and without humor.
“No,” said Baralis, turning to face him. “Merely admiration.”
“Then I suppose I should feel flattered,” said the duke. “Not threatened.”
He was quick, too quick. Baralis searched for a way to draw the conversation away from such a dangerous, and fundamental, subject. “I am here to offer my apologies for Lord Maybor’s indiscretion.”
“Apologies hold no interest to me, Lord Baralis. Has Kylock taken any action against the Halcus?”
The Hawk had gone straight for the heart. Already he was considering the effect of Kylock’s kingship on his northern neighbors. Baralis was well pleased that they were alone: there was no one here to contradict the lie. “Petty border squabbles are of little interest to Kylock. His eyes are turned inward to the court.”
The duke was not convinced. “The city of Bren thought it was getting a prince.”
“And how long did you expect him to keep that title? It was no secret that Lesketh had more use for a sickbed than a crown.”
“I expected Kylock to stay a prince until the marriage was consummated.” The duke took a step forward and his face emerged from shadow. “Let’s name trouble plainly, Lord Baralis. The north is already nervous of this match. Kylock being crowned is ill tidings. Kylock winning battles is a threat.”
“I haven’t noticed you playing peacemaker.”
“Bren’s policies are my concern, not yours,” said the duke.
“Even when those policies affect everyone in the southeast?” Baralis was not so easily intimidated into silence. “Tyren was lucky to find an ally in Bren, as he’s sadly lacking in friends elsewhere.”
“The knights are being persecuted. Bren offers them safe haven.”
“Tell me, Your Grace,” said Baralis, “since when did joining Bren’s forces on the battlefield count as safe haven?”
The duke’s face hardened to muscle. There was no fat to fill out either lip or cheek. “Tyren is free to do as he wishes. No one forced him to aid my causes.”
“Such a convenient little friendship. You make sure that no one interferes with their trade and they help fight and finance your battles.” The duke was about to speak, but Baralis raised a warning hand and halted the words in his throat. “Do not talk to me about the nervousness of the north, Your Grace, when well you know that it is Bren they are wary of, not the kingdoms.”
The duke’s hand encircled the hilt of his sword. Jewels flashed between his fingers. “Lord Baralis,” he said, “I will give you this warning once, and I advise you to heed it well. Do not make the mistake of challenging me. You may hold power at Harvell, but here in Bren my will is law. I tell you now, this marriage will go ahead only if I see fit to let it. And no second-rate nobleman from a court too long stagnant will influence me either way.” The duke turned on his heels and walked away, leaving Baralis to swallow his words.
• • •
Tavalisk was fingering his flute. He felt too weak to blow. Four days of cutting down on his food had damned near finished him off! Hunger made him vicious. Already this afternoon he had planned a suitable program of punishment for his physicians, a new method of torture for all the knights in his dungeons, and a way to fine all musicians. This burst of brilliance had only served to hone his appetite further, and now the archbishop’s mind was firmly on his next meal.
His one and only consolation was at his side: The Book of Words by Marod. If ever he needed a good reason to live as long as possible, all he had to do was glance at the book to find one. Conflict in the Known Lands was almost certain and according to Marod, he, Tavalisk, had a key part in its outcome. The archbishop had no intention of dying before he’d had a chance to play his role to the fullest.
With that thought in mind, he pulled his bell cord. The physicians were wrong: missing supper would kill him more quickly than a thousand feasts.
Unfortunately his aide answered the call. “Gamil, I rang in the hope I might be fed, not bored.”
“I thought the physicians had advised a diet of bread and music, Your Eminence.”
“I’ve had enough of music this week to last me a lifetime. I swear I will have every musician in Rorn flogged and strung.” Tavalisk smiled sweetly. “Do you play, Gamil?”
“Alas, Your Eminence, I have no skill with music.”
“One day you must tell me exactly where your skills lie. I, for one, have seen no evidence of anything special except an extraordinary capacity to annoy me.” The archbishop reached over and jabbed his cat with his flute. The creature hissed most rewardingly. Music did have its uses, after all. “Since you’re here, Gamil, you might as well tell me what you learned on your latest foray.”
“The spy has been brought in, Your Eminence. I took the liberty of questioning him—”
“You took the liberty, Gamil!” interrupted Tavalisk, annoyed that he’d missed out on the fun of a good torture. “You mean you had someone interrogated without my knowledge or consent?”
“I thought Your Eminence would be pleased by my initiative.”
“If I’d wa
nted initiative, Gamil, I would never have employed you in the first place.” Tavalisk’s little finger was caught in one of the air holes of the flute. Realizing that this was not a good time to look undignified, he buried his hand and the attached instrument beneath his robe. “One more lapse like this and I will be forced to take the initiative of having you dismissed. Now carry on.”
Gamil’s face was a study of barely concealed malice. “The Old Man has sent two of his cronies to Bren. Apparently they left the city two days back.”
“Hmm. Then revenge for Bevlin’s death is imminent. The Old Man is obviously seeking to assassinate the knight.” Tavalisk was busily trying to work his finger free of the flute. “Did our former spy show any remorse for his treachery?”
“Just before the rack dislocated his left arm, he did express a degree of repentance.”
“That is gratifying to hear, Gamil. I must commend you on your judicious use of torture.” Tavalisk suspected he had pushed his aide a little far and was seeking to neutralize the threat. “Anything else?”
“The Knights of Valdis are becoming bolder, Your Eminence. Ever since they gained Bren’s support, they have done nothing but cause us trouble. The rumors about them seizing all of Rorn’s cargoes heading north are true. Ten cartloads of salted fish and seventy bolts of finest silk were taken just past Ness.”
Tavalisk was pleased to hear it. Now at last he could take firm action against Tyren and his circular friends. And he was just in the right sort of mood to take the offensive. “Send letters out to Toolay, Marls, and Camlee, demanding that they each supply five hundred troops to help guarantee the safe passage of southern cargoes. Tell them that Rorn will be committing a similar number.” The archbishop considered for a moment. “Rorn’s five hundred will have orders to kill any knights they encounter—even ones who are not engaged in the confiscation of goods.”
“But, Your Eminence, the other powers won’t agree to patrol the trade routes if Rorn is acting out a personal vendetta.”
“The other powers won’t know about the order until it is too late. When one of our men finally butchers a knight on neutral territory, he will not be seen as acting for Rorn alone.”
“Thereby implicating the other southern powers.”
“Exactly, Gamil! Toolay and Marls might as well save their breath; nothing indicts more surely than a vigorous denial. Anyway, there’ll probably be little time for finger pointing; these things have an uncanny way of escalating.” The archbishop managed a wistful sigh.
“Your Eminence is most cunning.”
“Thank you, Gamil.” In his excitement, Tavalisk had stuffed his finger even deeper into the flute. Beneath the fabric of his cloak, he tried desperately to pull the two apart. “Of course, this will require delicate handling.”
Gamil’s eyes strayed to the archbishop’s lap. He looked bemused for a moment, and then said finally, “Indeed it will.”
“I don’t intend to drag the south into a war that by all rights is the north’s affair,” said Tavalisk. “No. Let the north fight it out between themselves, I am merely seeking the means of bringing matters to a head. If things work out well, our southern friends will be eager to go along with any plan that promises to keep the knights away from their doorsteps.”
“Your Eminence is playing a dangerous game.”
“They are the only sort worth playing, Gamil.”
Tavalisk dismissed his aide. He was too caught up in the thrill of politicking to set him the usual demeaning task. Once the door was closed, the archbishop turned his attention to the flute. Realizing he would never get his finger out by pulling, he smashed the instrument against the desk. The wood cracked, and as he freed himself the splinters drew blood. Tavalisk shrugged, brought his finger to his lips, and began to suck on the bloody tip. It would do until he got his next meal.
• • •
Forty-nine, fifty, done. Jack straightened his back and his vertebrae clicked in protest; he’d been bent over too long for their liking. Six blades, each drawn fifty times over the whetstone. He tested the sharpness of the last by splitting a strand of his hair. He’d done a good job.
Rovas had insisted that he learn how to take care of his large armory of weapons. So Jack had spent much of the day nailing leather to clubs, greasing blades, restringing bows, and filing the rust from spearheads. He enjoyed the simple discipline of having tasks to do, especially now, when, unlike his time at the castle, he was free to walk away if he pleased. It felt good to use his muscles, to sweat, to ache, and to work without having to think.
Jack brushed the hair from his forehead. It was much too long. Frallit would have reached for his knife at the mere sight of it. Jack paused, blade in hand, and wondered whether to hack it off. It was thick and wild and the winter sun had scattered gold amidst the brown. When the knife fell, it sliced leather, not hair. Jack cut a strip of cowhide and used it to tie his mane at the back. He didn’t need to conform to anyone’s rules now.
Satisfied by this small act of independence, he made his way back to the cottage. Strange how only two days ago he’d felt an overpowering urge to leave. He still couldn’t understand the reason why. What was Bren to him? Even now he could remember the urgency; it had been just like the times at Castle Harvell, when he’d lain awake through the night, desperate to find adventure and purpose, yet by the time morning came the urgency had gone.
The cottage was a welcome haven from the cold. The fire burned brightly, casting a glow of kinship on its surroundings. Magra sat in a tall chair, sewing, while Tarissa tended the stew. Jack was filled with a sudden envy for Rovas. The man had this sight to come home to every night: two women waiting for him, logs on the fire, and hot food above it.
Rovas himself was engaged in one of his many dubious practices. He was blowing air into legs of mutton. Inflating the tendons like a bellows made the meat appear fatter and more succulent than it actually was. Jack was well pleased that the smuggler-cum-con-artist hadn’t asked him to do that particular job.
Magra began to lay food on the table: crusty bread, roasted chickens stuffed with apples and hazelnuts, rabbit stew, and turnips braised in cider. The one thing that a smuggler was always sure of was good food on his table. They sat down and picked up their knives. As in most country households there was no talking whilst eating.
Jack still hadn’t managed to figure out what held these three people together. At first he’d assumed that Rovas and Magra were man and wife, but he’d since learned that was not the case. They were a curious group: Magra with her elegant manners and cool demeanor, Rovas with his bluff good humor and disregard for the niceties of life, and Tarissa falling somewhere in between the two. Lacking her mother’s noble ways, she was softer, more easygoing, yet she still retained something of Magra’s character. Her pride, perhaps.
The food was delicious, flavored with strong herbs and seasonings favored by the Halcus. Jack used the opportunity of sitting around the table to steal glances at Tarissa. He’d had no chance to talk to her since the day he’d sent a week’s worth of food into the fire. He still remembered her kiss. Kisses he’d had before: Castle Harvell was full of young maids willing to give a young lad a teasing peck on the lips, some even offering their tongues and tender breasts. He’d even kissed the daughter of a lord, Melli. But Tarissa’s kiss had meant more. It held all the power and mystery that only an older woman could bestow.
Jack supposed that she was at least five years older than he. She was of medium height and full figured, with hips that curved more wickedly than any young girl’s. He watched her as she ate. She had an appetite to match Melli’s, tearing away at chicken bones and washing the meat down with cup after cup of cider. Unlike Melli, however, Tarissa helped prepare what she ate. The pies and the broth were made by her own hand. She knew how to keep a flame on the fire and how to bank the ashes overnight. Her hands were callused, her arms were muscled, and her face was freckled by the sun. Tarissa was no highborn lady; she was used to hard work and fresh
air. Jack admired her as she wrapped the remains of the cheese in a cloth she first dampened with ale. He could be friends with a girl like this.
Only he wasn’t sure if friendship would be enough. His gaze moved upward to her face. He saw her lips were glistening with chicken fat. The cider had flushed her cheeks, and the heat of food and fire had brought moisture to her skin. A droplet of sweat gathered mass in the dip of her neck. When heavy enough it trickled downward to her breast. Jack followed its progress as it slipped down the pale skin, eventually sequestering itself beneath the fabric of her dress.
Tarissa looked up and caught the object of his gaze. To his horror he felt himself blushing.
“It is hot in here, isn’t it?” Tarissa’s smile was that of a woman who knew her charms were being appreciated.
Jack was thankful that she’d provided him with an excuse for turning red, but he was still embarrassed at being caught staring at her breasts. To cover this he uttered the first words that sprung to his lips. “A little too hot for me, I fear. I think I might take a brief stroll outside.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” said Tarissa. “I’ll join you.”
Jack was too surprised to think of a reply. His problem was solved when Magra spoke up. “It’s too late for you to be going out, Tarissa,” she said.
“Aye, too cold as well,” added Rovas.
Jack could tell that Magra and Rovas were just using excuses to mask the fact that neither of them wanted Tarissa to be alone with him. Which was rather odd, since he’d been alone with her three days earlier. Tarissa, however, had no intention of having her wishes curtailed. “Nonsense,” she said. “I’ll wrap up well and we’ll only go as far as the gate.” She favored Jack with an intriguer’s smile.
Together they walked toward the door, Tarissa pausing to don her cloak. Jack felt the pressure of disapproving gazes. For some reason Rovas looked more annoyed than Magra.
