The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  Danger was a constant companion. His hands suffered their first disfigurement when he laid them upon an oxen and tried to get her to drop her calf. It was before her time and she fought the compulsion with all her strength. Nature was on her side. The thread broke, and before he knew it his hands were burning. The energy from the drawing demanded an outlet. His flesh bore the scars to this day, Still, it was nothing compared to what he saw later in an open air bear-baiting ring close to the meat market.

  Bearbaiting could be seen on every street comer in Hanatta. It was the city’s favorite pastime, and fortunes were won or lost on the performance of a hound. Baralis enjoyed the spectacle of blood and carnage. He liked watching the faces of the spectators as the dogs harried the bear. This night the crowd was anxious; high on nais and a week of fasting, they were eager for excitement.

  The hounds belonged to a man of great wealth and importance. The collars around their necks were beaten gold. They were inbred for carnage: thick-necked, strong-jawed, with teeth that gripped till death. Loosed into the enclosure, they drew circles about the bear, working together to agitate and confuse.

  All went well at first. One of the hounds drew close, distracting the bear while the other approached from the side. The beast let out a mighty squeal as the hound’s teeth sank into the flesh of its foreleg. The bear raised up on its hind legs and the dog left the ground. Wild with frenzy, it swung its mighty paws in a half-circle and the dog lost its grip. The sheer force of the bear’s momentum sent the hound flying to the far side of the enclosure. The crack of its skull was clearly heard. One dog left and its wealthy owner was getting nervous.

  Baralis saw the man searching the crowd for a face. A moment later he nodded to a man dressed like a beggar, and soon after Baralis felt the beginning of a drawing. Straightaway he realized what was happening: a sorcerer was attempting to weaken the bear. His mistake was to do it too gradually. He needed to make it look natural, to mimic the signs of fatigue. At first he did a good job, slowing the creature down by restricting the blood flow to its heart. Then the bear became frightened. It ignored the remaining dog and crashed into the fence. The crowd scattered and all but one got away. A young boy was trapped beneath the tangle of wood that had been the enclosure. The bear, shaking and in pain, fell upon its victim.

  The sorcerer tried to withdraw. Desperation marked the intent. With the crowd screaming and the bear tearing the boy limb from limb, the drawing began to turn. Blood frenzy was upon the bear. The power of instinct fought for the beast. Will to survive met with silent knowledge accumulated over hundreds of centuries—and struck with the force of a whip. The bear’s blood pumped fast and furious, smashing through the sorcerer’s clasp.

  No one paid any attention to the beggar in the crowd. The raging bear was a greater spectacle. The man in rags fell to the ground, foaming at the mouth. His body was racked by spasms and blood seeped from his nose and ears and eyes. A minute later he was dead, his skull split by the backlash of the drawing.

  It was never wise to spend too long in any creature. If a deed were to be done, then let it be done swiftly. He’d given Maybor’s horse no chance to react, slipping in with the grace of a dancer and then striking with the speed of a storm. He’d learned caution that day by the meat market. There was little glory in coming to the same end as the sorcerer who had drawn upon the bear.

  • • •

  Nabber scraped the dung from his shoes and cursed all animals, especially horses. The problem with following someone was that your eyes had to be on your mark, not your feet. Now, filth was as much part of city life as markets and merchants, and Nabber usually had no opinion on it, but only this morning he’d taken it upon himself to lift a very splendid and very flimsy pair of silk shoes. Swift had once said, “A pocket’s shoes are his greatest defense,” and always advocated cloth, not leather, for those on the game. Silk was indisputably silent, but it also had the unfortunate tendency to soak through with urine and slops the minute a man walked out the door.

  Still, they were an excellent fit and he had other more important things to occupy his mind than the stains on his shoes.

  Tawl was drinking in the tavern opposite. There had to be some way to get him to come to the meeting. Loot wouldn’t be enough, or would it? Minutes earlier the knight had walked into the Brimming Bucket accompanied by the woman with straw yellow hair and the lady proprietor of the brothel, Madame Thornypurse. If there were ever any females who liked money better than those two did, then Nabber had never met them.

  Action was called for, and with shoes squelching at every step, he crossed the street and entered the tavern. The Brimming Bucket would have been more aptly named the Leaking Bucket, for there was ale everywhere and it wasn’t confined to the cups and the barrels. Nabber’s shoes found themselves in a foamy puddle a wrist deep. People were shouting and singing and brawling. Two women were arm wrestling, a group of men were busy swapping insults, and one man was holding a cup full of beer to his eye.

  Kylock, Kylock, Kylock. The name was on everyone’s lips. Even the men who were insulting each other were speaking it. “You’re as devious as Kylock and as ugly as his father’s corpse,” said one of them, receiving grunts of appreciation from the crowd.

  “You should speak the name of our future king with respect,” piped up another.

  “Kylock will never be king here!”

  “The duke wouldn’t let him.”

  “The duke won’t live forever.”

  “Catherine will rule Bren, not Kylock.”

  “She’ll marry him, use his armies, rape his country, and then send him back to his mother!”

  “Aye!” came the voice of the crowd as one.

  Nabber had little interest in such worldly matters. Whoever was ruler in Bren made no difference to him. Loot was what counted, not kings. He pushed through the crowds, kicking shins and stomping on toes when people refused to move out of his way. He soon heard the shrill voice of Madame Thornypurse.

  “My sister will be arriving next month,” she said. “Couldn’t bear staying in the kingdoms a moment longer. The place is such a backwater, you know.” The good lady spotted Nabber. “You’re the messenger from the other day, aren’t you, boy?” She patted the back of her heavily powdered hair and smiled. “I never forget a face.”

  “A good memory is the least of your charms, Madame Thornypurse,” replied Nabber with a short bow. It never hurt to flatter the ladies—even the ugly ones.

  “Such a fine young man.” Her eyes narrowed for a moment. “Another message to deliver?”

  “As perceptive as you are beautiful.” An idea was beginning to form in Nabber’s head. “Is the knight here?”

  “Just over yonder with my daughter, Corsella.”

  So that was what the thieving, dyed-haired, hanger-on was called. “I just can’t believe it,” he said.

  Madame Thomypurse looked confused. “Believe what?”

  “I can’t believe that you’re her mother.” Nabber smiled winningly. “Tell me the truth. You’re sisters, aren’t you?”

  Simpering like a girl a third of her age, Madame Thornypurse said, “You’re not the first to ask me that. It’s the rat oil, you know.”

  “Rat oil?”

  “Yes, very expensive. You have to squeeze a lot of rats to get even half a cup.”

  Nabber was feeling decidedly out of his depth. He hadn’t got the slightest clue what rat oil was. He proceeded with caution. “It’s worth the expense.”

  “I rub it into my face twice a day.”

  That explained a lot of things.

  “Should I call the knight over?” she asked.

  Nabber shook his head and looked down at his feet.

  “What’s the matter, young man?” said Madame Thornypurse. “I detect a little reluctance on your part.”

  “You are a perceptive woman. I am a little nervous about approaching him.” Nabber got the reply he’d hoped for:

  “Can I help in any way?”


  “Madame Thornypurse, I wouldn’t dream of burdening you with a matter of such . . .” Nabber made a great show of choosing the right word “. . . importance.”

  “Importance?”

  “And profit.”

  Madame Thornypurse’s entire body quivered at the word profit. She took a step forward and laid a proprietorial hand upon his shoulder. “Tell me everything, my dear boy.”

  “You’ve heard of Blayze, the duke’s champion?” Madame Thornypurse nodded eagerly. “Well, he’s interested in meeting with your friend, the knight.”

  “He wants a fight?” cried Madame Thornypurse.

  “Ssh. Don’t tell half the tavern.”

  Madame Thornypurse looked suitably contrite. “Go on.”

  “There’s no need to tell you,” said Nabber, “of the vast sums of money that will change hands on such a venture.”

  “No need at all,” she whispered.

  “Now this is strictly confidential.” Nabber could feel Madame Thornypurse’s fingers digging into his shoulder. “If the knight dies—and let’s face it, there’s a good chance of that—someone will have to bury him.”

  The girlish glow of greed faded from the good lady’s face. “Bury him?”

  “As the knight has no family in the city, whoever agrees to care for his body will take his portion of the spoils.”

  “The knight is like a son to me!” cried Madame Thornypurse. “I would consider it my duty to care for his dearly beloved corpse.”

  “You are a remarkable woman,” said Nabber. “Now, let’s get down to business. The knight needs to meet Blayze tonight at sundown by the three golden fountains. Can you arrange for him to be there?”

  “As my life depended on it.”

  “Good. Until we meet again, fair lady.” Nabber quickly looked toward Tawl. The knight was downing yet another skin of ale, oblivious to his surroundings. “Let him drink all he wants. It will make for smoother negotiations.”

  Madame Thornypurse nodded judiciously and held out her hand to be kissed. Nabber reluctantly obliged, thoughts of rat oil uppermost in his mind, and then made his way from the tavern. He struck a path toward the three golden fountains. If his plan was to work, he needed to have a few words with the duke’s champion before Tawl did.

  • • •

  Rovas burst into the cottage. “The rumors are true: Lesketh is dead and Kylock means to win the war.”

  The effect of Rovas’ words on Magra and Tarissa was profound. Mother and daughter looked straight at each other. All color drained from Magra’s face. Tarissa stood up, sending her sewing flying into the air and went to kneel beside her mother. She took and kissed her hand. Magra pulled away. “When did this happen?” she asked. Her voice was high and strained. Jack thought she sounded angry.

  “He died in his sleep over a month ago now.” Rovas looked away.

  Silence followed. No one moved. The fire sent shadows dancing across the room. Tarissa’s face was buried in her hands. Magra sat very straight, her eyes focused on a point far in the distance. Rovas and Tarissa seemed to be waiting for her to break the silence.

  Finally she did. She stood up and walked toward the fire. Her back was straight and rigid. “Kylock will win the war,” she said.

  Despite the weight of the words, everyone in the room seemed to draw a sigh of relief. Jack got the distinct feeling that Magra had somehow changed the subject. Yet the dead king and Kylock were the subject.

  “How will this affect his marriage to Catherine of Bren?” asked Tarissa, jumping in to fill the silence. Her question was for Rovas, but she looked at Jack. She was checking to see how the strange scene had affected him. He gave nothing away. She smiled gently, and Jack, even though he realized she had some other motive, found himself smiling back. Tarissa was the most seductive-looking woman he had ever seen. Jack’s mind began to drift away from thoughts of asking questions.

  “I’ve a feeling the marriage will go ahead regardless,” Rovas was saying. “Things have progressed so far that to halt them now would cause embarrassment to both parties.” The smuggler looked weary. He poured himself a tankard of ale and downed it in one.

  The three continued talking, discussing the war and its possible effects, yet Jack no longer heard them. He was watching, not listening.

  Tarissa was speaking, her soft and lovely mouth assuming countless beautiful forms. Jack recalled the feel and the taste of it. The memory took his breath away. Why had she pulled back from him last night, when only moments earlier she had invited him forward? There was no answer, and if Grift’s counsel was anything to go by, that was not unusual with women. The castle guard had warned him many times about the perils of romance: “If you’re as confused as a peacock in a snowstorm, then things are going well,” he would say. “But, if you’re as carefree as a barnacle on a rock, then there’s trouble acoming for sure.“

  Jack had little experience with women, but he knew enough to suspect that Grift was not always right. Still, what did he expect? He’d kissed a woman older and wiser than himself. A voluptuous, tempting woman with eyes of hazeled gold. He felt a little ashamed of his thoughts; they talked of war while he thought of lust.

  Taking his eyes from Tarissa, he noticed Rovas looking at him. The smuggler flashed a warning, and for half a second Jack was convinced that he was reading his mind. For some reason, Rovas didn’t want him having anything to do with Tarissa. Earlier that day, when he’d been out in the back field practicing with the long sword, it had been Magra who brought his midday meal. At first Jack thought it was because Tarissa was avoiding him, but now, seeing the hostile look in Rovas’ eye, he wondered whether it was because the smuggler had ordered her to stay away from him.

  Jack decided to test his theory. He stretched his arms and stood up. “My body’s as stiff as a week-old loaf. I’m going for a walk before it gets dark.” He looked directly at Tarissa: “Do you want to join me?”

  That one simple question sent a wave of looks, warnings, counter-warnings, and unreadable expressions criss-crossing among the three.

  Tarissa took a deep breath, “I think that I might.” She looked to her mother, appealing for help.

  “It’s nearly suppertime, girl,” said Rovas. “You have to help your mother with the meal.”

  Everyone waited on Magra. The woman was staring at the smuggler. Her face held a warning that Jack couldn’t understand. Didn’t want to understand. “I can get supper on my own,” she said. “You go ahead, Tarissa, but don’t be long.”

  The tension between Magra and Rovas was unmistakable. It crackled as fiercely as the fire, but was as invisible as its heat. The smuggler wanted to speak up against her, that was plain to see, but she was Tarissa’s mother and therefore had final say. She was scared, though, and not the only one: her daughter’s hand shook as she tied the laces on her cloak.

  Crack! Rovas kicked over the timber scuttle, sending chopped logs careening over the floor. “What are you waiting for?” he cried. “If you’re getting supper, then damn well get it now!”

  Tarissa was at her mother’s side in an instant. “I won’t go out, I’ll stay and—”

  “No,” said Magra, “you and Jack take a walk.”

  “But—”

  “Go now,” she said, her tone inviting no contradiction. Standing up, she started to pick the logs from the floor. Rovas had his back to the room and was facing the fire. He didn’t turn to look as they left.

  The cool air blasted against Jack. Its freshness on his lips made him aware of a sour taste in his mouth: sorcery. Rovas had been lucky. He held his hand out, not sure if he needed comfort, or if he was trying to give it. Tarissa clasped it tightly and motive no longer mattered.

  They walked in silence: an unspoken agreement not to speak until they were free of the cottage. The sky dimmed and the wind shifted, pushing them on their way. Jack’s head felt as heavy as one of Frallit’s baking stones. He hadn’t even been aware that something was building inside of him. He was confused by the scen
e he’d just witnessed, and angry at Rovas for losing his temper. So angry he’d been ready to lash out. The frightening part was that sorcery was becoming so familiar to him that he no longer noticed its presence. One step toward Tarissa and Rovas would have been dead. Jack was sure of it. He’d done no less for Melli.

  Jack’s thoughts turned in midstep. Everything darkened. Nothing mattered except staying and killing the man who had raped and then murdered Melli. Rovas didn’t matter, wild plans to run off to where the action was didn’t matter, even Tarissa with her soft brown hair and fingers callused by swordplay didn’t matter.

  “Jack, you’re hurting me.” Tarissa pulled her hand away.

  Startled, Jack said, “I’m sorry, I was thinking about . . .” He couldn’t say “Melli,” couldn’t speak her name out loud. Even thinking it brought back the horror of Rovas’ words: “When Tarissa found her, her head had been cut off.” To say it would risk the words becoming an image.

  “Your mind is on your friend,” Tarissa said. She turned to face him; Jack saw the mirror-image of his eyes in hers. “I’m sorry . . .”

  He waited. The sky waited, the wind in the trees waited. She had something else to say. Only she didn’t say it. She said something else, but it wasn’t what she’d started.

  “. . . I’m sorry about Rovas just now.”

  “He is very protective toward you. Like a father.” Jack watched Tarissa’s expression. He was almost glad when it gave nothing away.

  “We have no one else except him,” she said. “He took us in when we were penniless, cared for us all these years. He asks so little in return.”

  “What does he want from me, then?”

  “I think you know that. He wants you to kill the captain.”

  “Why?” Strange, but by asking these questions, Jack got the impression that he was letting Tarissa off the hook.