by J. V. Jones
Screams of mother and daughter filled the air. Just as he reached the door, the knife-man caught up with him. His face was murderous. He grabbed Nabber’s arm and twisted it hard behind his back. Nabber heard a crack as it was dislodged from the joint. The pain brought tears to his eyes. The knife-man brought the blade to his throat. “I’m gonna slice you to ribbons,” he said, pushing the knife forward.
In that instant someone entered the room. Nabber heard the sliver of the knife leaving its sheath. And then a voice familiar, “You touch that boy and you’ll die before you draw your next breath.” It was Tawl.
Blood wet and sticky trickled down Nabber’s chest. The blade had found flesh. Nabber felt faint with shock: his flesh.
The knife-man backed away slowly. Mother and daughter were quiet. Tawl’s expression was enough to frighten anyone into silence. Deadly silence.
The second the blade was drawn back from his chest, Nabber felt strong arms about him. Their touch was the most comforting thing he’d ever felt. He promptly fainted. The last thing he was aware of was the reassuring smell of the knight as he carried him from the brothel.
Twelve
Nabber became aware of a dull pain in his shoulder. He shifted slightly, hoping to ease it, but could find no relief. Apart from that he was fairly comfortable; there was straw, not fresh but not soiled, dim light, warmth, and the unmistakable smell of horse dung. If he was in a stable, he didn’t want to know about it. Horses were not his favorite animals.
Memories filtered through his mind. How could he have been so foolish as to have stabbed Madame Thornypurse? Where was his brain? And then, suddenly anxious: where was his sack? Nabber opened his eyes immediately and looked around in the straw. No sign of it and, to make matters worse, he was in a stable. Wooden stalls rose up about him and various tack, bits, bridles, and other baffling horsy things, hung from nails like holy relics. And there! Horses blowing and nickering.
As he tried to stand up, pain shot through his shoulder. His left arm wasn’t responding the way it should; it hung limply at his side, the upper tendons badly strained. Everything came back to him: the knife-man, the blade to his throat, Tawl to the rescue. With his good arm he felt his throat. It was bandaged, and something that smelled bad, which probably meant it was doing good, was smeared on either side of the cloth.
The stall door opened and in walked Tawl. Nabber had only seen him from the back the day before so he was shocked at the change in the knight’s appearance. His skin was pale and dark hollows surrounded his eyes. “How are you feeling?” he asked, placing various pots and packages down on the floor.
Nabber only had one thought on his mind. “Where’s my sack?”
“Must be back at Thornypurse’s.” Rather firmly, Tawl took Nabber by the shoulders and forced him to sit back down again. “Your left arm is out of the socket.”
“We’ve got to go back and get my sack. There’s a fortune in gold inside it.”
Tawl ignored what he said, closed his hand about Nabber’s wrist, and then pulled sharply. With his other hand, the knight forced the joint back into the socket.
Nabber screamed loudly at this indignity. The pain was excruciating. His vision blurred and his head started reeling. Still, his thoughts were on his sack. “My contingency’s gone. It took me months to . . . Aagh!” he cried as an arm’s length of muscle protested at being moved. Wisely, he decided to let the newly fixed limb rest at his side. “Took me months to build that contingency. We’ve got to get it back.”
Tawl shook his head. “You’re not going back there.”
“Well, you go, then.”
“If I ever decide to go back there, it will be on my own business, not yours.” A hard edge to the knight’s voice stopped Nabber from pressing further. He tried a different approach instead.
“They were poisoning you.”
“Yes. I thought so after I was sick two days in a row.”
“Blayze put them up to it.”
Tawl seemed tired, almost disinterested. “Makes sense. Though I doubt if he intended Thornypurse to nearly kill me. It wouldn’t look so good—him beating a man who can barely stand.”
For the first time, Nabber realized that Tawl was ill. Here he was acting like a big baby over a sore arm and a flesh wound, while the knight had probably been given enough poison to kill a brothelful of whores.
“Here,” said Tawl, handing him a freshly baked loaf. “Eat this, it will help keep your strength up.”
“What about you, the poison?”
“I’ll be all right. I caught it before it was too late.”
Nabber was skeptical. “How can you be sure?”
The knight looked down, intent on unwrapping the bundles. At first, Nabber didn’t think he was going to reply. Then after a moment he spoke. His voice was quiet, and he never once lifted his gaze from the floor. “I learned about poisons at Valdis. How to identify them, how to treat their effects. Thornypurse gave me hemlock: a mistake only a novice would make. A thumbnail of leaf can kill a man, and Blayze wanted me weakened, not dead.
“I knew there was something wrong the next morning.” Tawl shrugged. “At Valdis you learn to monitor your body closely. I felt something eating away at my stomach, so I readied some charcoal and swallowed it.”
“Swallowed charcoal!” Nabber was disgusted.
Tawl managed a smile. “When it’s prepared right, it forces a man to expel the contents of his stomach.”
Nabber nodded. “I heard you throwing up, all right, if that’s what you mean.”
“I was rid of the poison before it was too late. Another debt I owe to Valdis.” The knight raised a hunk of bread to his lips, but didn’t bite off any. He put it down untouched. Nabber noticed how badly his arms were shaking. The fact that Tawl had somehow managed to carry him from the brothel seemed nothing short of a miracle. “Anyway, it looks like Blayze will end up with what he wants: a vulnerable opponent.”
“You can’t mean you’re still going to fight him?” Nabber was horrified. “The fight’s only two days away. You’re in no fit state to—”
“You’re not my keeper, boy,“ said Tawl. “I gave my word and I’ll keep it.”
There was no way Nabber could let this happen. The knight wouldn’t stand a chance against the duke’s champion. Blayze was fit and healthy, with muscles like a prize bull, whereas Tawl looked ready for the sickbed. It was suicide! This was one of those rare moments when the truth was called for. Nabber took a deep breath. “Look, I’ll go to Blayze and tell him the deal’s off. I was the one who got Madame Thornypurse to drag you to the meeting in the first place. It was all my idea.” He squirmed in readiness for a verbal thrashing.
Tawl’s voice was gentle. “It makes no difference now, Nabber. What has been agreed upon cannot be undone.”
A strong wave of guilt hit Nabber—just when he though he was free of it, as well. “But you could get killed.”
“Better to die than risk dishonor.” Tawl seemed to regret his words the moment they left his mouth. Abruptly, he stood up. “Eat your food and get some rest. I’ll be back before dark.”
“I think you’re the one who needs rest.”
Tawl opened the door. “I need a lot of things, Nabber, but right now I’ll make do with a drink.” The knight dropped the latch and left Nabber alone in the hay.
• • •
Bailor, head of the duke’s household, sat in the most comfortable room in the duke’s palace: his own. For seventeen years now, ever since His Grace had come to power, it had not been considered fashionable to have chambers more luxurious than the duke. This had proven rather difficult for the court to bear, as the duke was an austere man with more liking for simplicity than sophistication.
Though he didn’t mind the show of it. Indeed, the palace itself was more magnificent than ever: two beautiful new courtyards, a domed ceiling, fountains, and stained glass. The building of beautiful distractions had served to conceal the building of greater fortifications. Arrow loo
ps had been recut to run lengthwise, square towers were pulled down and round ones built in their place. All the roofs had been raised to a slope and the crenellations along the battlements had been shuttered with iron. Yes, the duke was a man of simple tastes: invasion and protection.
And women.
Bailor stood up and went over to the window. It was shuttered with wood, but hinges were currently being cast that were strong enough to take the weight of metal sheets. The ladies would not like those. Not that the ladies counted in Bren.
It was time to do business. Bailor had noticed of late that the duke grew rapidly bored of the women that were brought to him. They were all beautiful—a few exquisitely so—most to some degree cultured, and every one of them was young and willing. Now, normally Bailor wouldn’t mind His Grace’s short attention span; after all, what the duke finished with one day was his the next, but the man was becoming irritable, blaming him for picking women with no life, no intelligence. What did His Grace expect? He had neither the time nor inclination to bother with wooings and clandestine affairs. He simply wanted to bed a woman and have done with it; yet he still expected, indeed demanded, that these women be fine and cultured like the ladies of the court.
Bailor spent a good part of every day searching for such women. He had contacts in Camlee, Annis, and Highwall, knew flesh-traders from Tyro and Chelss, was friends with impoverished nobles with young daughters, and had spies in all the convents. Everything he had—his high position, his fine rooms, his well-stocked coffers, and his wide-ranging responsibilities—depended solely on his ability to find women for the duke.
Daughters of the high nobility would not go near the man. The risk to their precious reputations was too great: the duke had never been known to compensate a girl for her shame. Of course, the truly difficult part was ensuring that these women were virgins. The duke insisted on that above anything else.
Altogether it made for a difficult task, but one that the head of the duke’s household would never dream of relinquishing to another. It formed the foundation of his power base.
Bailor had started young: carrying love notes between lovers as a boy. One day a certain young lady of high birth had pleaded with him for his help. She was in love, but her feelings were not returned. She was desperate, cried prettily and was willing to pay. Five golds it cost her for the love potion. Such substances were frowned upon in Bren as the devil’s handiwork and no decent woman dared to use them. He’d never looked back. Drugs, potions, erotica, young women, and young boys: he could get anything for anybody. The court depended on him and paid handsomely for his silence.
Quickly, Bailor shrugged off the silk he wore around his chambers and donned the wool and linen expected of a man of his ranking. He had learned long ago that not only was it wise to appear modest, but it made for better bargaining, as well.
He made his way down to the small reception room he called his own. It was as sparse as his private rooms were sumptuous. A man was waiting for him. A deformed and ugly cripple: Fiscel the flesh-trader.
“No need to get up, my friend,” he said, repulsed at the sight of the man struggling from a chair. “How are you this day?”
“I am well. The pass was smooth.” Tiny drops of spittle sprayed over the desk. Bailor resisted the urge to draw his hand away.
“What have you for me today? A girl from Annis, perhaps?” Of all the northern cities, Annis had the reputation for the most beautiful women.
“No, from the kingdoms.” Fiscel’s high voice grated upon Bailor’s nerves.
“Women from the kingdoms are plain and bad tempered.”
“Not this one, she’s a beauty. Court trained, too.”
“A nobleman’s daughter?”
Fiscel nodded. “A nobleman’s bastard.”
“Well, bring her in, then.” The head of the duke’s household was becoming impatient.
“Come now, Bailor. You know I like to set a minimum before I let you see the goods.”
“How much?”
Fiscel leaned back in his chair. “Five hundred golds.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no way I can guarantee that as a minimum.” It was an outrageous price, three times what was normally asked.
The flesh-trader’s hand closed about his walking stick as he braced himself to stand. “Very well, then. I will take my business elsewhere.”
Bailor’s interest was now piqued. He couldn’t let the man leave without seeing the woman who could command such a minimum. Putting an arm on the man’s shoulder, he said, “There’s no rush, my friend. Stay and take a cup of wine.”
“Like you, Bailor, I don’t drink during negotiations.”
Both men had each other’s measure.
“Three hundred golds,” said Bailor, “and I’ll see her this instant.”
“Five hundred golds or you’ll see her not at all.”
This was not the way negotiations normally went. Somewhere along the way, he’d lost control. Damn Fiscel! The truth was that he now desperately wanted to see the girl. Perhaps this one might engage the duke’s interest longer than a week. “Four hundred, then. That’s my final offer.”
“Then this is my final refusal.” Fiscel’s good eye gleamed with cunning. “Look, Bailor, you and I have known each other for many years. Would I demand such a price without first being sure of the value of my goods?”
“Very well, five hundred minimum, but I don’t promise I’ll purchase.”
Fiscel stood up. “You’ll purchase.”
• • •
Alysha’s long and elegant fingers bit into her flesh like talons. Not once had she loosened her grip since they’d entered the palace. Melli hated the woman. She had spent hours this morning being scrubbed and plucked like a pheasant for the table; there was a new dress, ribbons for her hair, and pearls for wrist and throat. Alysha had been merciless; coarse brushes, tweezers, toothpicks, and caustic ointments were her instruments of torture.
Fiscel was returning. The sight of him limping across the courtyard sent a tremor of apprehension up Melli’s spine. Alysha’s grip became tighter, and she was forced forward to meet him.
“Did he agree to the minimum?” Alysha’s voice betrayed uncharacteristic concern.
Fiscel was out of breath. He leaned heavily on his stick. “Yes, Follow me. We must display while the man is still curious.”
Display! Melli did not like the sound of this one bit. She stood her ground and refused to be moved. They were in one of the palace courtyards and a few noblemen were walking around the shrubs and fountains. She could shout to them, tell them that she was a nobleman’s daughter and demand that they help her. Only she was a long way from home and the name Maybor would mean nothing to people of Bren. Even if it did, Melli couldn’t be sure that her father wouldn’t just disown her.
She was trapped. Fiscel and Alysha watched her constantly. She hadn’t been allowed out of the wagon for over a week. Everything, including using the chamberpot, had to be done in full view of Alysha’s sly and smiling face. At first Melli had been on her guard, looking for chances to run away, constantly feeling for her knife, but no opportunities occurred and gradually her watchfulness was replaced with planning. Melli had given a lot of thought to escape, and she had decided that her best option was to wait until she was sold. The man who bought her would get no interest on his investment. She would be gone before he could lay a hand upon her.
At least that was the plan up until a few hours ago. When they entered Bren late last night, she hadn’t expected to be taken to the duke’s palace. Escaping from here was not going to be easy. It looked open enough—servants coming and going, courtiers strolling about—yet guards were posted on every corner and the portcullis smelled of newly rubbed oil.
Alysha’s grip bit to the bone and Melli stepped forward. As they crossed the castle grounds, people turned to stare at them, and many a knowing look was flashed their way. Eventually they came to a small wooden doorway just past the entrance to the kitch
ens. Fiscel turned abruptly and raised his stick to Melli’s chest.
“One smart word out of you, my precious, and I’ll beat your ribs to splinters.” And then to Alysha: “You stay here.”
Melli was pushed through the doorway, Fiscel following behind. They entered a small cramped room that was lit by four candles. A plump man, plainly dressed, sat behind a wooden table.
“Here she is, Bailor. Did I overestimate her charms?”
The stranger stood up, his face registering no emotion. He caught hold of Melli’s arm and drew her toward the light of the candles. Dressed plainly he might be, but he smelled of expensive oils. Melli tried hard to keep calm during the scrutiny. Strangely, it helped that the man didn’t seem too impressed by her. If he’d been smiling and gloating, it would have been a different matter.
After a while, the man turned to Fiscel. “I’ll take her,” he said.
The flesh-trader licked a speckle of drool from his lips. “Aah, but we haven’t agreed to a price.”
“Five hundred was the price.” Judging by the man’s voice, Melli realized that he was more than a common servant.
“Five hundred was the minimum,” corrected Fiscel. “We both know she is worth more than that.” He contemplated the knotted end of his stick. “Say, eight hundred.”
“This is ridiculous, you know I’m not authorized to pay such an amount, His Grace—”
“Save your breath, Bailor,” interrupted Fiscel. “You’re not bargaining with some local brothel-keeper now. You can pay, we both know it.”
Melli’s hand rubbed against the bodice of her dress. The knife still sang beneath. Amidst all this madness, nothing seemed as sane as the blade. Fiscel would get his way, she did not doubt it. She should be pleased; here was a chance to rid herself of the abominable twosome and finally escape. Why then were her hands shaking and her legs so weak they could hardly bear her weight?
