The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  Tarissa pulled a face, but came and stood beside him. Jack stepped behind her and placed her hands on the dough. Slowly, he taught her how to knead and then roll it, explaining that every dough had a different texture and showing the right way to test for it. He guided her fingers and directed her arms.

  Jack was acutely aware of her nearness. The curve of her neck was the most tempting sight he’d ever seen. The feel of her hands beneath his was a joy to be savored. The dough was soon forgotten and all that counted was touching and being close.

  A rattle of the door and in walked Magra. Jack and Tarissa stopped what they were doing immediately. Like lovers caught kissing, they both blushed with guilt.

  “Baking, I see,” said Magra.

  “Jack was just teaching me how to knead dough,” said Tarissa, hastily scraping the flour from her fingers.

  “So Jack’s a baker, is he?” Magra slammed the egg basket down on the table. “Well, that’s about as good as I can expect, stuck here in the borderlands.”

  Jack was more confused than ever. He thought Magra had gone out with the sole intent of leaving them alone. Now here she was, clearly unhappy with the result. Magra obviously considered him to be beneath her daughter. Why then had she conspired to bring them closer?

  Tarissa moved over to the wash basin and began to clean her hands. Jack finished shaping the dough. He turned it onto the baking stone and then covered it with a large copper pot. This was the nearest most cottages could get to an oven: heat would rise from the stone and be caught in the pot. He didn’t hold high hopes for the sweet loaf; the yeast had little time to work, so the bread would be heavy.

  Glancing toward Tarissa, a thought dark with possibilities occurred to Jack. Perhaps Magra was reluctantly bringing them together because the alternative was worse.

  Uneasy with the direction his mind was traveling, and afraid where his thoughts might eventually lead, Jack quickly cleaned up the table and made his way outside. The borrowed sword was in his hand. He felt the need to do something physical. Rovas had hung an empty beer barrel from a tree, so when it was swung, Jack could practice dodging and feinting. Jack set it swinging, but dodging wasn’t on his mind. He wielded the sword and stabbed the barrel over and over again. Splinters flew though the air. Jack hardly saw them. He was determined to destroy the barrel. The metal hoops raked against his sword, damaging his blade, but the wood gave way like butter. Thrust after thrust he aimed, the man who had hung the barrel his imaginary target.

  • • •

  “No, Bodger. The women of Bren like their men short and hairy.”

  “So you’re in with a chance, then, Grift.”

  “We both are, Bodger.”

  “I may be short, Grift, but I’m definitely not hairy.”

  “You seen the back of your neck lately? I wouldn’t want to be around you come a full moon.”

  “You don’t believe all those old wives’ tales about werewolves, do you, Grift?”

  “Have you noticed, Bodger, that it’s always the old wives who live the longest?”

  “What d’you mean, Grift?”

  “I mean, Bodger, that they live that long because they know all the perils. You won’t catch an old wife going out on a full moon without a supply of prunes.”

  “Prunes, Grift?”

  “Aye, prunes, Bodger. The deadliest of fruits.”

  “How so, Grift?”

  “Well, there’s two things werewolves want to do with women: rollick ’em and then eat ’em. And I don’t know if you’ve every rollicked a girl who’s been pruning, Bodger, but let me tell you, it ain’t pleasant.”

  Bodger shook his head sagely. “What about the eating part, Grift?”

  “No one likes the taste of prunes, Bodger. Not even werewolves.”

  The two men toasted to Grift’s good sense and settled back in their chairs.

  “So who told you about the women of Bren, Grift?”

  “Gatekeeper, name of Longtoad. Apparently it’s the women of Rorn who go for tall men. Anyway, he told me a few interesting things about the duke.”

  “What about the duke, Grift?”

  “By all accounts the man has the sexual appetite of an owl, Bodger. He just about lives for rollickin’. But he’s fussy, if you know what I mean.”

  “Fussy?”

  “Aye. He’s got a deep fear of catching the ghones. According to Longtoad, that’s how his father died. The late duke hit the deck soon after his plums did. So the current duke only rollicks women who have never been touched.”

  “Ugly women, is that, Grift?”

  “No, you fool, virgins. It’s the only certain way of ensuring a girl ain’t got the ghones.” Grift finished his ale. “Well, Bodger, I think it’s time we were going, those pews won’t clean themselves.”

  “It was an inspired move of yours, Grift, to get in with the chaplain. If it wasn’t for that, we’d be stuck in the stables looking after the horses.”

  “Aye, Bodger. My powers of persuasion are matched only by the power of my intellect.”

  • • •

  Every eighth step there was horse dung. A mathematical oddity, but true nonetheless. Perhaps horses got together to arrange it like that, because there was just enough distance between droppings to lure a man into a false sense of security and then splat! Dung on his shoes.

  Nabber was spending a lot of time looking at his feet. He told himself it was because of the dangers of dirt, but really it was because he was feeling a strange new emotion: guilt. He’d heard about guilt before, stories of people being stricken with it, of sorrow and madness. Swift himself had adamantly maintained that “guilt is the death of a pocket,” so Nabber had come to the logical conclusion that it was a sort of vague disease that could kill a man unless he found a cure.

  It was all Tawl’s fault. Somehow the knight had managed to give him a bad dose of guilt. Here he was, man of the world, doing what every self-respecting dealer was supposed to do—make deals—yet he was feeling as if he’d committed the crime of the century. It had gotten so bad that he could hardly look a man in the face and had taken to looking at the ground with all the intent of a smircher looking for gold.

  Everything had been going fine until he’d gotten the rat oil woman involved. After that it had gone downhill faster than a greased archbishop. What had possessed him to tell that smug dandy of a fighter, Blayze, that Tawl had a shameful past? It had seemed like inspiration from the gods at the time—a sure way of goading the knight into agreeing to the match. It had worked, too. From his vantage point behind a tree at the corner of the square, he’d seen it all: the discussion, the tussle, the women, and the guards. He’d even heard Tawl say he was up for the fight. What was the matter, then? Why did he feel so bad?

  Looking back, Nabber tried to pinpoint the exact moment when he’d begun to feel the first pangs of guilt.

  It was about the time when Tawl wandered off alone, leaving Madame Thornypurse and her straw-haired daughter Corsella to talk to Blayze. Big ears weren’t enough to hear what passed between the three. That in itself was a bad sign: according to Swift, “the worse the plot, the quieter the plotting.” Something had gone down there by the three golden fountains—Nabber was sure of it—and it boded no good for the knight.

  Guilt had been festering ever since, and he had to do something about it before it killed him.

  Nabber’s feet picked a path to Brotheling Street. The loot in his pack jangling as he walked. Each clink of coinage served to irritate his already chronic condition. He’d done well by Blayze. The man had given him twenty golds, not to mention the ten slivers he’d pocketed from Madame Thornypurse herself whilst they were talking in the Brimming Bucket—there was one lady who knew how to conceal her valuables! After all, it was only fair that he reclaimed as much of Tawl’s gold as possible, and Nabber was quite certain that the pouchful of loot suspended from Madame Thornypurse’s underdrawers rightly belonged to the knight. So, all things considered, he’d made a pretty profit fr
om the whole affair.

  That was only part of the problem. What if the knight lost the fight? Or worse, what if he died? He, Nabber, would be left holding the loot, and as he was already suffering from chronic guilt, such a blow would surely finish him off.

  Best to make sure it never happened. To save the knight would be the same as saving himself.

  He arrived by the red-shuttered building. For some reason, knocking at the door didn’t seem like a good idea, so Nabber slipped down the adjoining alleyway and sought out the warped window casing that had proven so useful many nights earlier.

  The place was decidedly dark and dingy inside. Too early for business, a few tired-looking girls lounged around the benches, intent on getting drunk before the punters arrived. Madame Thornypurse was nowhere to be seen. A flash of bright hair marked Corsella, busy rubbing rouge into her sour, little face. Disappointed, Nabber was about to turn away when he heard the unmistakable sound of someone retching—a familiar noise to a boy who at one time had the dubious privilege of living next door to the most notorious mass poisoner in Rorn: Master Sourgill, the proprietor of Sourgill’s Fresh Fish Tavern.

  The retching was followed by a painful, hacking cough, and then Corsella piped up: “Ssh, Tawl, you’ll wake Mother.”

  The knight was obviously in an adjoining room, so Nabber worked his way around to the back of the building. The smell, which had been bad enough in the alleyway, rose to the level of an overpowering stench. The source was an open ditch. It ran along the length of the street and was filled with things so appalling that even Nabber didn’t care to look at them.

  Finding an eye-hole was not as easy as he’d hoped. Eventually he pulled some sick-looking greenery from its place on a ledge. The resulting fissure was crawling with spiders, but provided a view into the back of the building.

  Tawl was crouched on the floor, shivering from head to foot. For a brief moment Nabber was transported back to Bevlin’s cottage, to the time when the knight rocked the dead man in his arms. The shock of remembrance cooled his skin and set his hands trembling. The young pickpocket was suddenly struck with the sense that he was dealing with things far beyond his ken. His life had always been straightforward: see it, want it, take it. There was profit, food, and dicing. Yet on the other side of the wall crouched a man to whom none of that mattered, and strangely, Nabber felt drawn to him for that very reason. He had no word for love, no inkling how to use it. Friendship was all that his experiences had allowed. So the extreme anger he felt toward the person who had done this—for he was no fool and guessed that a certain rodent-oiled hand was responsible—he attributed to that one familiar concept.

  The guilt was so bad he thought he would be struck down where he stood. It was most definitely time to pay the lady of the house an unexpected visit.

  • • •

  “Thank you, my man, just leave it on the table.” Maybor waved a languorous dismissal. The second the door was closed, however, he fell on the box like a wolf on a fawn. Messages from the kingdoms.

  Several dull scrolls from his overseer concerned with dwindling winter supplies, a note from his servant Crandle advising him that he was still too ill to make the journey to Bren, and then the interesting stuff. A letter from Kedrac, and a missive, complete with ribbons and wax, written in a hand that he had seen only once before. The last time the letter had been delivered by an eagle.

  Maybor turned to his son’s letter first. The handwriting was large and familiar, so it was relatively easy for him to read.

  Good. Kedrac had seen sense over the chambermaid affair, stating that, “No woman, especially a dead one, should be allowed power enough to break the bonds between father and son.”

  The boy knew how to choose his words. Maybor was well pleased. Kedrac was now his again and, with Melliandra gone perhaps never to return, he valued what remained of his family more highly. As he read on, joy turned to excitement. Kedrac was talking about the new king. Apparently Kylock was turning out to be quite a leader: “Father, he is brilliant. His plan for defeating the Halcus is both daring and inspired. He intends to send a battalion into enemy territory and attack the border forces from the rear.”

  Maybor drew a hand to his face and scratched his chin reflectively. If Kylock succeeded, it would certainly put an end to the stalemate, though it seemed rather an aggressive act for a country whose only concern was supposed to be securing its borders. Baralis would not be pleased about this.

  As he folded his son’s letter, a wicked smile stretched across Maybor’s lips. Kedrac had provided him with an interesting morsel to let drop upon the duke’s plate. He was going to have to be careful with his politicking. No one must know that he was against the match, not even his son, for it seemed from the letter that Kedrac admired his sovereign. Perhaps was even privy to Kylock’s inner council: plans of attack were a covert business. Yes, discretion was most definitely called for. Best not to risk the anger of the newly crowned king.

  On to the next letter. Waxed, but not sealed. According to Crandle, it had arrived a few days after he’d left for Bren. With fingers a little stiffer than he’d like, Maybor unraveled the scroll. Damned foreign handwriting! All loops and fancy dangles—a man could ruin his eyesight just deciphering it.

  Slowly the words took shape. It was the second letter from the mysterious would-be conspirator from a city far in the south. Only not so mysterious now: “You rightly guessed that I am a man of the Church. Ask yourself this, then: who is the only man of God who holds power worth the wielding?” It had to be the archbishop of Rorn. A small yet very intense thrill passed down Maybor’s back. He was intriguing on a grand scale now. Reading on, he found more to his liking: “The union between Bren and the kingdoms will cast a broad shadow over the north. He who is responsible for the joining will guide its progress.” And then, further down the page: “If you harbor the desire to oppose the match, you will find the might of the south behind you.” The archbishop was obviously not a man to parry words like a love poet.

  Maybor put down the letter and took up his cup. All in all, two very interesting exchanges. He felt as if he’d been endowed with new power. There was a danger here, though. The worst kind: personal danger. To be a thorn in Baralis’ side was one thing, to risk his own lands and position was quite another. His step must be light and his voice as quiet and beguiling as an angel.

  Dipping quill into ink, he set about writing a reply to the letter from the east. The task took many hours, Maybor learning subtlety as he wrote.

  • • •

  Nabber knocked loudly on the door. “Open up! Open up! Duke’s business.”

  Corsella, freshly rouged and all the worse for it, answered. She took one look at him, and said, “Bugger off, you little snot.”

  Foot in the door, Nabber pressed his advantage. “I’m a friend of your mother’s. I was talking with her the other day in the Brimming Bucket. It was me who arranged the fight for Tawl.”

  “You do look sort of familiar. Who are you, then?” Corsella, while matching Madame Thornypurse in looks, obviously fell short of her mother’s intelligence. Which suited Nabber nicely.

  “I’m Blayze’s brother . . .” Nabber searched for an appropriate name “. . . Scorch. And I must have a word with your mother as soon as possible.”

  Corsella simpered in memory of the handsome champion. “You don’t look like him.”

  “Aah, well, he’s got my father’s nose. Mine came from a distant uncle.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Look, I really don’t care whether you believe me or not, but how will your mother react when she finds you closed the door on the duke’s own messenger?”

  Madame Thornypurse was obviously less than a loving mother, for Corsella thought for a moment, and then said, “You better come in.”

  She led him through to the large open room he’d spied on from the alleyway. The lounging ladies merely ignored him. A large man who he’d never noticed before was sitting in the corner putting an edge to hi
s blade. Nabber was silently praying that Tawl would stay in the back of the house; now was not the time to be recognized. A few minutes later Corsella returned.

  “Mother will see you in her chamber.”

  Madame Thornypurse in her bedclothes was a sight to be reckoned with. Wearing a white sleeping gown and cap, she looked like a hideous, vengeful angel. There was a vaguely putrid smell in the room, probably the rat oil.

  Nabber was nervous, but determined not to show it. He took up her hand and kissed it. “Good evening, fair lady.”

  The fair lady was having none of it. She snatched back her hand. “You never told me you were Blayze’s brother.”

  Nabber shrugged. “There was no point in telling you.” He thought for a second, then added, “Besides, everyone in Bren knows of me, I assumed you would, too.” That seemed to do it. The skepticism drained from Madame Thornypurse’s face.

  “So what do you want?”

  “Well, you know you and my brother arranged to . . .” Nabber let the sentence dangle, hoping that Madame Thornypurse would finish it for him.

  “Give the knight a few doses of poison?” she prompted.

  Nabber sucked in his breath. Nothing in his whole life had made him as angry as those casually dropped words. This woman was poisoning Tawl!

  Before he knew it, his knife was in his hand. He cursed its shortness. Madame Thornypurse screamed and tried to scramble away. Nabber was hardly aware of what he was doing. He wanted to hurt this woman badly. She cowered back in the bedclothes. Her slippered foot protruded from the sheets. With one mighty thrust, Nabber stabbed it. Blood spurted from the wound. Madame Thornypurse wailed hysterically.

  Corsella and the man who’d been tending his blade burst into the room. The man was wielding his newly sharpened knife. Corsella screamed and went to swipe at Nabber. Nabber dodged and found himself face-to-face with the blade.

  Madame Thornypurse was holding her foot and screaming, “Kill the little bastard!”

  As feet seemed to be working for him, Nabber stamped hard on the knife-man’s toes. “Aagh,” cried the man, making the error of thrusting his blade at the same time he was clutching his toe. Nabber shot past him in an instant. Corsella grabbed hold of his hair and tried to wrestle him to the ground. Nabber didn’t like anyone touching his hair, and he punched Corsella hard in the stomach.