The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  Night had fallen while they ate. The sky was dark: there was neither moon nor stars to relieve the blackness. They didn’t make it as far as the gate. They sat on the wall that formed part of the dairy shed. The only light was a glimmer escaping from the shuttered window of the cottage.

  Tarissa turned to Jack. “So you like my breasts, eh?”

  Jack smiled despite himself, liking her forthrightness, and at the same time thrilled by the sudden intimacy. With that one sentence, she had become, in his eyes, a woman of the world—daring and openly sexual. He cursed himself for not being able to think of a suitably gallant and risqué reply.

  Tarissa, for her part, didn’t seem the least put out by his silence. “You do admit you were looking at me over the dinner table?”

  “Would you be offended if I said yes?”

  “I’d be more offended if you said no. A woman likes to feel she is attractive.”

  “Surely you don’t need my looks to confirm that.”

  Tarissa smiled, the curve of her cheek catching the shuttered light. “How old are you, Jack?”

  “One and twenty,” he lied.

  “Well, you’re tall enough for it, and broad as can be hoped, but your face tells a different story from your body.” She laughed. A warm and pretty sound, that was, in Jack’s opinion, exactly what the night needed to make up for the lack of stars.

  “I’m eighteen.”

  “Aah.” Tarissa settled herself comfortably on the wall. “Do you want to know how old I am?”

  “No.”

  At last he’d said something that pleased her. She leaned forward. Her cloak fell apart; the cleft of her breast was deep with shadows. Gently, she pressed her mouth against his. Her lips were soft and still salty with chicken fat. Her tongue was cidered and succulent. Their bodies drew close with little prompting. Jack’s hand strayed to the meat of her hips. His saliva washed her palate clean and he tasted the woman beneath the meal. Tarissa pulled back abruptly. Her breath came heavily, emphasizing the swell of her breast. There was a look to her face that Jack could not comprehend. She gently eased his hands from her hips.

  “Perhaps you are too young for me after all.”

  It was a cruel blow, which she was well aware of, for her eyes carefully avoided him. Jack was confused but not surprised. He’d spent plenty of time listening to Grift’s advice about women, and the one thing the castle guard was consistent about was that women had been born to confound men. Jack knew Tarissa had been more than willing: her tongue had been his guide. Thwarted desire turned to anger.

  “Why did you pull away?” he demanded, grabbing hold of her wrist.

  “I already told you. Or do you need me to repeat it twice, like a nurse to an infant?”

  Jack’s arm was up in an instant. Only a great feat of willpower stopped him from slapping her. And she knew it.

  “Tell me the truth,” he said, his other hand still holding on to her wrist. “What am I to you?” It became clear to Jack that his demand went deeper than what had happened between them this night. “Ever since I’ve been here, I’ve heard nothing but lies and evasions. Why are you so interested in murdering the captain who killed Melli? And what really happened to her?” Jack was shaking. “You were there the day she was murdered. Tell me what you saw.”

  Tarissa turned back to the light. “Let go of my wrist, and then I will tell you what I can.”

  Jack obliged, and seeing the red marks that he’d raised on her flesh, he felt a measure of remorse. This he hid as well as he could; anger was getting him further than moderation.

  An owl called out, its baleful cry announcing the darkest hours of the night, hours given to witchcraft and deception and worse. The wind, which had been a cold but gentle breeze, showed its teeth and gnawed at Jack’s bones. Tarissa spoke:

  “I didn’t see much the day your friend died. I had to keep myself hidden. I couldn’t risk being picked up by the Halcus guard. I was a distance away, in the trees that surrounded the pond where you laid the dead man to rest. I saw the riders approaching. Two men, the captain and his deputy, entered the coop, closing the door behind them. They were in there less than an hour, and when they came out, there was blood on the deputy’s club.

  “Later on, when the riders had withdrawn, I went down to the coop. The girl Melli lay dead on the floor.”

  Jack’s stomach constricted and his throat became dry: Melli had suffered more than he thought. He should have been the one to die. He should never have left her alone that day. His thoughts turned abruptly, as if his mind was defending itself against the torments of guilt. “The body is still there, then?”

  “No, no,” said Tarissa quickly. She would not meet Jack’s eye. “The captain sent two soldiers out the next day to pick up the body.”

  The owl called again. To Jack, it was as if the unseen predator was confirming his doubts. Tarissa was not telling the whole truth. He studied her as best he could in the darkness. Her eyes were downcast, a tendon on her neck quivered delicately, but it was her hands that gave her away. She was clutching the fabric of her dress with such force that the fabric was beginning to rip.

  Jack reached for Tarissa’s shoulders and began to shake her. “I want the truth!”

  “Easy now, Jack.” It was Rovas. His voice was a thickly buttered warning.

  Tarissa stepped back and looked toward Rovas. “Go on in, Tarissa,” he said. She stood defiant. “I would speak with Jack man-to-man. Now be gone.” Tarissa held her position a moment longer and then made her way back to the cottage. Both men watched in silence until the door was closed behind her.

  Rovas turned to Jack. “You touch one hair on her head again, and as Borc is my witness, I will kill you!”

  Jack was almost pleased by the threat; his anger now had a legitimate challenge. “I wouldn’t be so sure that you could.”

  “You’re no match for me, boy.” Rovas was contemptuous. “You’re nothing more than an overgrown sapling. You can barely hold a blade.”

  “There are things more dangerous than any weapon.”

  Rovas looked at him keenly, eyes narrowing to slits in his brawny face. Moments passed while the two men stood against each other. Then, to Jack’s surprise, Rovas slapped him hard on the back.

  “You have a nice way with intimidation, Jack,” he said. “Have you ever considered joining the Halcus? Intimidation is the one element of soldiering they take seriously.” Rovas laughed merrily at his own joke.

  Jack could feel the smuggler’s will upon him, encouraging him to laugh along. He obliged, but not because he found the joke amusing.

  The laughter died as abruptly as it started. Rovas placed a paternal hand upon Jack’s arm. “Listen, my friend. You were right when you said Tarissa wasn’t telling you the truth. But don’t blame her; she spoke only to spare your feelings.” Rovas took a deep breath, drawing the darkness of night into his lungs. “The girl was raped and then beaten. When Tarissa found her, her head had been cut off.” One final squeeze of his arm, and Rovas was off, back to the cottage.

  The owl called again. Jack barely heard its cry. He leaned against the wall and wept.

  Nine

  Baralis walked over to the window. He unlatched the shutter and gazed upon the Great Lake. The northern wall of the duke’s palace rose from water, not from soil. Early morning mist robbed the lake’s surface of its gleam and stole both scale and grandeur from the view. The worst of the mist’s sins, however, was the damp.

  Baralis rubbed his hands. They ached with a pain so biting he wished he could cut them off. He considered going to the head of the duke’s household and demanding that his rooms be changed for ones with a more southerly position. He decided against it. It would be perceived as a sign of weakness and the duke, who was both physically and mentally strong, might use the knowledge to his advantage. Better to suffer than to be thought a weakling.

  He called for Crope to lay out his robes of state and bring a shine to his chain of office. Maybor was right, prince�
��s envoy was now a worthless title. It was time to be known as king’s chancellor.

  The welcoming feast was to be held tonight. The duke had been thoughtful in delaying it a day to give the weary travelers time to rest. Baralis’ lip curled at the breach. Canceling the feast had been an act of caution, not courtesy. The good duke would spend today seeing how Bren took the news of Kylock’s recent elevation. Only when he had assured himself that there was still enough support for the match would he give the order to his staff.

  The Hawk still wanted his prey. Oh, he called a fine warning, but Baralis could tell the difference between genuine reluctance and merely the show of it. The duke needed an alliance with the kingdoms; not only did he have no male heir, but the city consumed grain and timber at such a rate that it could no longer support itself. By allying with the knights he was courting trouble in the south, and by annexing bordering towns and villages he was courting trouble in the north. To top it all off, he wanted to be named a king. An alliance with the kingdoms would bring wealth, might, and titles his way.

  The duke might not be pleased that Kylock now had sovereignty, but he wouldn’t let that displeasure spoil the match. It just suited him to pretend that it would.

  Baralis made his way down toward the center of the palace. His steps were slow and he paused many times to admire the skill of the masons, who had managed to make walls so thick seem so graceful. Less than a year from now it would be he, not the duke, who presided over this domain. Even now, as he descended the stairs to greet his host, Crope was above in his rooms, unpacking the poisons that would kill him.

  No sudden and suspicious end for the Hawk. Soon after the marriage of Catherine and Kylock was consummated, the duke would start to complain of a slight biliousness of the gut. Months would pass and the duke’s ailment would gradually worsen. There would be cramps and vomiting and then blood in the urine. By this time poison would be suspected and the duke would eat nothing that had not been tested. ’Twould be too late. The poison—a drink shared in celebration with the king’s chancellor to mark the night his daughter was bedded—would have gnawed so deeply into stomach and liver that nothing but Borc’s grace could save him.

  He had Tavalisk to thank for the poison. The information he’d gleaned from the archbishop’s library was well worth the price of the loan. What was one war, if it helped him win another, more glorious, one?

  The poison was as subtle as the silken rugs of Isro and as deadly as their blades. One drink was enough: it settled in the gut and gradually corrupted the tissue that cradled it. The sharp taste would be a problem, but by choosing to administer it on a night of celebration, Baralis was hoping to pass it off as a traditional bridal drink, complete with exotic herbs and spices.

  That was all in the future, though; for the time being he needed to concentrate on finalizing the betrothal. It had been foolish of him to challenge the duke yesterday—Maybor’s stupidity had been catching. He had to ingratiate himself with the duke and his court. There were worries to be allayed and problems to be smoothed over, and when all else failed there were bribes to be given.

  Baralis reached the magnificent visitors gallery. Domed ceilings were currently the latest fashion in the south, and the duke’s palace boasted the only one in the north. Voices floated across its lofty expanse. There was no mistaking the rough-barrel sound of Maybor.

  “So you see, Your Grace, Kylock is planning to finish the war once and for all.”

  “Indeed, Lord Maybor,” came the duke’s low and deceptively smooth voice. “I am gratified to hear it.”

  Baralis crossed the tiled floor with the speed of a panther. He ignored Maybor and bowed to the duke. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

  “Lord Baralis, I trust you slept well?” The duke didn’t wait for an answer. “My steward felt that the north wing might be a little damp. I told him only you could be the judge of that.”

  “My rooms are more than satisfactory.”

  “Good,” said the duke. “The king’s envoy has just been telling me of Kylock’s wish that the war with the Halcus be won as soon as possible.”

  “He’ll be planning to send more troops to the border,” chipped in Maybor.

  Baralis felt hate so potent it nearly turned to sorcery on his lips. He took a calming breath to control himself. Not since adolescence had he come so close to drawing out of sheer emotion. Maybor was acting like a malicious fiend; he was well aware that the slightest hint of aggression from Kylock would endanger the match. Not only that, the man was inventing details of his own! He didn’t have the slightest idea whether or not Kylock intended to send more troops to the front. To make matters worse, here was the duke picking the man’s brains like a glutton at a feast and flattering him all the while by calling him king’s envoy!

  “As king’s chancellor,” said Baralis, “I will be the first to know when Kylock decides to move against the Halcus.” Time to play Maybor at his own game. If lies were called for, let no one find him wanting. “Kylock begged me to assure Your Grace that although, as Lord Maybor has just stated, he wishes to win the war, he will take no action until the marriage vows have been spoken.”

  Maybor’s mouth opened in protest but, probably unable to find a suitably diplomatic way of contradicting him, he closed it again.

  The duke did not look pleased. “As you gentlemen seem to be having some difficulty agreeing on an official version of Kylock’s policies,” he said, “I think I will leave you alone and let you fight it out amongst yourselves.” With that the duke bowed smartly and left.

  Baralis and Maybor stared at each other until the sound of the duke’s footsteps receded to nothing more than a distant flapping.

  Maybor waggled his finger and tutted. “Been leading His Grace astray, I see,” he said. “I considered it my duty as king’s envoy to put him straight.”

  This was too much for Baralis. The drawing was on his tongue in an instant. It slivered through the air with the force of his intent. A second later Maybor was doubled up in pain. “If you ever, ever, make me look a fool again,” hissed Baralis to the curve of the man’s back, “I swear that I will smite you down where you stand.” Satisfied that his threat had been heeded, Baralis withdrew the sorcery.

  A servant walked past and glanced their way. Maybor straightened up, his breathing quick and strained, his face purple. “You will regret this day in hell,” he rasped.

  Baralis almost admired the way the great lord mastered his pain by walking away with head held high.

  The drawing had been a warning blow, nothing more. It was never wise to draw directly against another. There was always a chance that a man’s will could interfere, causing the power to snap back with the momentum of a strung bow. Sorcerers had died that way. Some drawings could be easily done: a compulsion upon the muscles to prevent them from contracting, a delving into the mind to search for answers, a survey of the tissue to find diseases. But they were all instances that caused no harm to the body, their effects purely temporary. If one wanted a man dead it was far wiser, and safer, to use a method other than sorcery to kill him.

  Sorcery served better as accomplice than assassin.

  Winter’s Eve had been the exception. When the flash of a blade had warned of immediate danger, learning gave way to instinct—and Baralis had paid the price for it.

  Dumb creatures were a lot easier to harm, though there was danger even then. Drawing himself into Maybor’s horse had been a risk. Sorcery acted like an infection: it triggered the body’s natural defenses. Animals, particularly large ones, had been known to fight off drawings. During his time in the Far South, Baralis once watched a man die who was trying to cause harm to a bear.

  He had traveled to Hanatta a month after his mother’s funeral. The small farming community where he’d lived hadn’t suspected that he was responsible for her death. They shook their heads and called it a natural miscarriage. His masters had known, though. Her corpse stank of sorcery.

  But what could they do? He was a ch
ild who had made a childish mistake. They wanted to be rid of him all the same. So they coated their desire in a layer of concern: “We can teach you no more, Baralis, your skills are beyond us. In the Far South there is much to learn.” They hoped he would never come back.

  Thirteen, he was. Sent on a journey across the drylands and then over the mountains and into the tropics. He’d traveled with a pilgrimage of knights and priests. A week before they reached Hanatta, he murdered a man. This time with intent. Rain beat down upon leather hides, but that was not what woke him. A man’s hand reaching for the smoothness of thigh beneath the coarseness of blanket did. The dagger, a parting gift from his father, slid into the man’s belly like a marker into a barrel of ale. Sorcery honed the blade, but his hand held the haft.

  The next morning they found him: fast asleep with a dead man at his side. The air was so humid that the blood was still wet on his thighs.

  For the second time that year he was pronounced free of guilt. Who would condemn a boy for taking measure against such an act? Just like his masters, the pilgrims couldn’t wait to be rid of him.

  Hanatta was a city so foreign, so completely different from anything he’d ever known, that it scared and thrilled in one. People so striking that to look at them was a joy, jostling past others so disfigured that Baralis wondered how they survived. He soon found the man to whom the letter of introduction was addressed. He’d read the letter hundreds of miles earlier. It was an unmistakable warning: . . . Baralis is brilliant, yet needs to be taught kindness and humanity, else he turn into something that we all might regret.

  The masters at Leiss had badly miscalculated. The man they sent him to was concerned with ability, nothing else. Moral niceties were pushed aside in the pursuit of knowledge. Four glorious years of experimentation and discovery followed. There was nothing they didn’t try. No drawing was too heinous, no ritual too bloody, no animal too valuable to lose.

  The sorcery of the Far South was different from that of Leiss. More subtle, less reliant on potions and physical strength, and infinitely more sophisticated. He learned how to make creatures his own, and perfected the skill of entering and then searching the body. Looking back now, he realized that the manuscript at Leiss which contained the means of his mother’s death had probably come from Hanatta.