The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  Tarissa came and flung her arms around him.

  “But,” he said, disentangling himself and pushing her back so he could look directly in her eyes, “you must make me the same promise that I made you: no unnecessary daring, no bravery. First sign of danger and you’re gone.”

  “I promise.”

  Jack held her arms tightly and wondered how he could strengthen the promise; it seemed too flimsy to guard the safety of one so precious. “Do you swear on your father’s memory?”

  Tarissa gave him a deep, unreadable look, and answered, “I do.”

  • • •

  Tavalisk was eating otters. Sea otters, to be exact. Such adorable furry creatures and so tender when caught fresh from the womb. These ones had been caught by a master: no club marks to mar their fragile skulls. They must have been smothered, and carefully at that. The rocky coastline just north of Toolay was the only place these rare creatures existed. According to the men that caught them, their numbers grew less each passing year. The archbishop didn’t believe a word; it was all a ploy to up the cost. Take these six beauties here: nearly a gold apiece at current market prices. It was nothing short of outrageous! Still, little was wasted. He intended to have a fine collar made from their pelts.

  Oh, but they were succulent, though. All one had to do was hold a bone in the mouth and suck; the flesh came off more quickly than a cleric’s robe in a brothel. All things considered, it was rather a strange-tasting meat: a little salty, a little fishy, a little piquant on the tongue. In fact, it wasn’t really to his liking; but it was expensive. Sometimes that was all that counted.

  There was a knock at the door and in walked Gamil. He was carrying a wax-sealed letter. “This has just arrived by fast messenger, Your Eminence. It’s come all the way from Bren.”

  As Gamil leaned over him to hand him the letter, Tavalisk took hold of his assistant’s robe and used it to wipe the grease from his hands. Gamil had little choice but to ignore the indignity.

  “Aah,” said Tavalisk, breaking the seal. “It’s from our friend Lord Maybor. My letter must have been forwarded to him in Bren.” He raced through the spidery script. “The man writes like a blind monk. Hmm, he’s still in our corner, though he is urging caution, he says—” Tavalisk read from the letter “‘. . . there are ways to rid ourselves of the dark villain without opposing the match.’ He’s obviously afraid that if he comes out openly against the marriage, then his lands and position will be endangered, which of course they will. Kylock as sovereign could hardly let one of his subjects brazenly flout his wishes.”

  Tavalisk read on. “Maybor is basically asking me if there is any way I can use my influences to have Baralis killed: ‘You are a great man, with contacts throughout the Known Lands, you must know someone in Bren who could do the deed.’ ” The archbishop broke into a high, tinkling laugh. “No. No, my dear Maybor. I’m not falling for that one. There’ll be snow on the drylands before I do another man’s dirty work for him.”

  “I don’t understand, Your Eminence,” said Gamil.

  “I am surrounded by fools!” Although he sounded annoyed, Tavalisk was really rather pleased by the statement: rather fools than foxes. “Maybor is a self-serving coward. He probably has some personal vendetta against Baralis and thinks he can use me to settle it for him.” The archbishop picked up an otter’s rib and dipped it in sauce. He brought it to his lips, bit on it, and then began to wave it at Gamil as he spoke. “Now, I dislike Baralis as much as the next man, but the time isn’t right to assassinate him yet. There are other factors to be taken into consideration first.”

  “Such as, Your Eminence?”

  “The Knights of Valdis for one. Kill Baralis now and the pot will be taken off the boil; I’ll lose my one chance of finally putting Tyren in his place.” The archbishop was about to mention his plan to become head of the Church, but then thought better of it. He wasn’t sure how much he could trust his aide. “Anyway, as a man of the cloth, it wouldn’t be right for me to sanction murder.” Was that a snort he heard from Gamil?”

  “So what does Your Eminence intend to do with Lord Maybor?”

  Tavalisk ran his tongue along the bone then sucked upon the tip. “Lord Maybor will soon come to realize that he’s involved in something more important than a mere petty rivalry. At such a time he will need the support of his friends. Write him a letter stating that when he finds the courage to follow his convictions, then I’ll be ready with the gold to back them.”

  “Very good, Your Eminence. Is there anything else?”

  “Yes, actually, there is. I’ve been wondering about our other friend, the knight. It’s been a long time since I heard news of him. If memory serves me correctly, didn’t the Old Man send out two of his cronies to track him down?”

  “Yes, Your Eminence. I had the traitor interrogated in order to find out what the Old Man was up to, but he died on me.”

  Tavalisk paused in tearing a leg from the otter. “That was rather careless of you, Gamil. I wondered why you’d kept silent about the whole thing.”

  “I beg Your Eminence’s apologies. I am not as skilled at these things as you are.”

  “Well, at least you recognize that fact. Go on.” Off came the leg, tendons flapping in futile protest. Thigh meat was not as appetizing as rib.

  “The last we heard about the knight, he was due to fight the duke’s champion. I haven’t been able to ascertain yet whether he won or lost, but by all accounts he was in pretty bad shape, so it’s highly probable that the outcome was not favorable. If he’s not already dead, then his days are surely numbered. The Old Man is not famous for his missions of mercy, and his two cronies would most certainly have arrived in Bren by now.”

  “Yes, I’m sure they have.” Tavalisk had lost interest in the otters and pushed the platter aside. “Before you leave, Gamil, I wonder if you can do me one small favor.”

  “Certainly, Your Eminence.”

  “I’d be grateful if you could just run over to the market district for me. These sea otters are tender, but I think they might be off. Be so kind as to get me a refund. Tell the stall-holder I intend to keep their pelts as punishment for selling shoddy goods. Obviously I’m willing to accept any further gifts he may feel the need to bestow upon me once the subject of informing the magistrates is mentioned.”

  Gamil bowed. “Your Eminence is master of the judicious threat.”

  • • •

  Tawl had to get out of the palace. He needed to be alone to think, to walk the dark streets and look up at the stars. Feeling better than he had in days, he rose from his straw pallet. Tawl’s first instinct was that of a knight after combat: mentally he checked every muscle, every tendon, every cell in his body for damage. Running through the procedure he’d learned at Valdis, he started at the heart and worked his way outward. Following the lines of the major arteries, his consciousness swept along with his blood.

  Straight away he met a blockage. The blood vessels in his upper chest were damaged, some were blocked. Blayze’s knife had severed them, the cauterizing iron had sealed them. There was muscle damage, too. He would need leeching to encourage the blood to flow through the tissue. Upward he traveled. His brain was swollen from the sleeping draughts. Envisioning the unnatural substances as debris, Tawl concentrated on sweeping them away with his blood. Next he went downward to his stomach. There was some minor internal bleeding: a legacy of either the hemlock or the fight. A gentle constriction of the blood vessels would give the lining a chance to heal. His kidney was recovering from a well-placed blow; there was a little swelling, but nothing that wouldn’t mend on its own.

  Finally, Tawl traveled to his limbs. A myriad of damaged veins and arteries caused him to switch his path like logs across a road. Blayze had given him a score of bruises, some barely registering, while others, like the one on his left shin, were surrounded by pools of yellowing blood. Tawl worked quickly, forcing blood through vessels that were threatening to close and drawing the flow away from ones tha
t were too weak to bear the strain.

  The last thing he came to were his circles. The burn was healing slowly. Skin was forming around the scab. Pink and shiny, fragile as a newborn babe, it was beginning to bridge the gap. It would be many months before his arm was fully recovered. There was nothing Tawl could do to quicken the process—even Valdis had its limits.

  The monitoring complete, Tawl drew his mind from his body. A slight dizziness accompanied the shift. The doctors had done a good job. He’d be left with a few more scars but little permanent damage. A wiry smile crossed his lips; it was obviously going to take more than one man to kill him.

  Nabber was nowhere to be seen. He was probably off somewhere looking for loot or trouble. He’d probably find it, too. Tawl smiled again, this time with real pleasure. There was no one like Nabber for getting himself into trouble.

  A full ale skin lay resting upon the table. Tawl picked it up, unstoppered the cap, and began to pour the contents onto the fire. When the skin was half empty, he raised it to his lips and took a healthy swig. Never again would he lose himself to drink, but it wasn’t in his nature to live like a saint. One mouthful was enough, though, and the rest of the ale he sent hissing to the flames.

  It was time to deal with the past. Slipping his knife through his belt, Tawl made his way across the kitchens. A pretty maid showed him the way out and then hinted that she was free most evenings. He bowed deeply, tempted by her offer, yet declining it all the same. She was too young, too innocent, and he needed too much. He would strip her of all her illusions.

  Outside the air was cold. The wind cut past his cheeks, clearing away any last traces of drowsiness. His chest pained him as he walked toward the gatehouse. The palace guards waved him through the gate. Shadows grew longer as he watched, and by the time he’d made his way across the square, they’d all merged into one and named themselves the night.

  Bevlin was dead. To complete his quest now would be meaningless; he didn’t know why the boy was important, or what he was fated to do. Tawl brushed his hair from his eyes. It wasn’t that simple, but it would do for a start. He had to bring order to his life. He was no longer a knight, but he’d lived by Valdis’ code for so long that it had made him who he was. Discipline and duty ran deep within his veins. The need to be worthy ran even deeper. Es nil hesrl. I am not worthy. They were the last words on every knight’s lips, and doubtless he’d die with them on his own. Valdis would follow him to the grave.

  Tawl lifted his bandaged arm. Surely there was some way to make amends for his mistakes. Not public amends—he was long past caring what other people thought—but personally, for himself. Forgiveness could never be his, so all he could hope for was a sense that his sins weren’t committed in vain. The only thing he had to hold on to was his newly sworn oath to the duke. There at least was a chance to serve someone well; with honor, if he were blessed.

  He had taken the oath entirely aware of what it meant. He wasn’t drunk with liquor or punches, or lightheaded from loss of blood. He was stone cold sober. It marked the end of his knighthood and his quest, and knowing that he spoke it gravely. In a way it was little more than an official declaration of what he’d known since the night he’d murdered Bevlin: there was no going back. The oath was his way of severing all ties with the past.

  Taking a turn-off, Tawl found himself in a narrow street lined by dark buildings. The full moon, which had shown itself earlier, was hidden behind chimneys and slates. A footfall, light as a landing bird, sounded in the distance behind him. Without conscious thought, Tawl’s hand stole toward his knife. There were two of them. The breeze carried their odors and they disturbed more rats than one man alone.

  Out came the blade, not a sound to mark its passing. Tawl slowed down and gave his pursuers chance to catch him. He counted to twelve and then turned around to meet them. He hoped they were well armed; it would be good to die fighting. Just as he leapt forward, a man’s voice cried out:

  “Here, Tawl! Leave it out. We didn’t come all the way from Rorn to be murdered down a dark alley, did we, Clem?”

  Clem shook his head. “No, Moth.”

  Tawl struggled to right himself. He couldn’t believe it. What were two of the Old Man’s cronies doing following him? An instant later he answered his own question: they’d come to Bren to kill him for Bevlin’s murder. Only they didn’t look very murderous.

  “I see you finally got your hands on some nice weaponry,” said Moth, eyeing his blade. “Course, Clem’s got a better one, ain’t you, Clem?”

  Clem nodded enthusiastically.

  “I see you’re a little surprised to see us, my friend,” continued Moth. “I must say we’re a little surprised to be here. Never thought we’d get to see the beautiful brazen battlements of Bren, did we, Clem?”

  “Not the brazen battlements. No, Moth.”

  Tawl didn’t know how to react. Part of him wanted to clasp both men’s arms and take them for a drink. Another part of him felt too ashamed to do anything but wait and discover their purpose. How much did the Old Man know?

  “You’re a difficult man to track down, my friend. If it wasn’t for Clem here, we would never have found you.”

  “How was that, Moth?” asked Clem.

  “Well, you were the one who insisted we take a walk in the full moon.”

  Clem smiled proudly. “That I did, Moth.”

  “So the credit’s all yours, Clem.”

  “But you were the one who spotted him, Moth.”

  “You have a point there, Clem. I say we both did the Old Man proud.”

  “Why are you here?” demanded Tawl. He had the distinct feeling that, if left to their own devices, Moth and Clem could carry on like that all night. “Have you come to take me to the Old Man?”

  “Not at all, my friend. You wouldn’t be standing here if that was the plan. Would he, Clem?”

  Moth had a point. Last time Tawl had encountered them he hadn’t even heard them coming.

  “We’ve got a letter to give you, ain’t we, Clem?”

  Tawl felt a pulse begin to beat on either side of his forehead. The smell of the abattoir caught in his nostrils. “Who is the letter from?”

  Moth took off his cap and nudged Clem, who did likewise. “The letter is from the recent and most tragically deceased Bevlin.”

  Tawl couldn’t look at either of them. There was a dry lump in his throat. “Why give it to me?”

  “Because it’s addressed to you, my friend,” said Moth. “Just before the good man died, he sent a missive to the Old Man with a second letter inside it. Apparently he left instructions that—” He turned to his companion. “How did he put it, Clem?”

  “That in the event of his death it should be forwarded to the knight, Moth.”

  “Beautifully done, Clem. No one can remember word for word like you.”

  Tawl felt sick. He’d come this far, sworn an oath that forever damned him, and had just found a measure of acceptance for his new fate. He didn’t want to resurrect the past. There were too many memories that could drag him down. The only way he could cope was to keep it all behind him. “I don’t want the letter.”

  Moth looked a little taken aback. “Well, we’ve got to deliver it, my friend. Will you do the honors, Clem?”

  Clem searched in his tunic and pulled out a folded parchment. As dark as it was, Bevlin’s seal could clearly be seen in the wax. It was the color of blood. Clem held it out for Tawl to take.

  Despite everything, Tawl could not keep his hand from moving forward. His fingers itched to feel the smooth surface of the parchment. Just as he was about to take the letter, the moon rose over the chimneys. Full and large, it seemed to fill the sky, yet there was only one destination for its light: Tawl’s arm. The bandage covering his circles glowed white in the moonlight. Instinctively Tawl pulled his arm away, the moonlight followed the move. He tilted his arm away from the moon, but somehow its light still caught the bandage. Under the linen lay the circles. Under the circles lay a man not w
orthy to bear them.

  He was no longer a knight of Valdis. There was no quest. He didn’t have the right to take the letter. He served the duke of Bren now, not Bevlin’s memory.

  Tawl pulled back his arm. “I can’t take the letter. I’m sorry. If you’d found me four days earlier . . .” He couldn’t finish the thought, let alone the words.

  “But we came all this way,” said Moth. “The Old Man won’t be pleased, will he, Clem?”

  “He’ll be right mad, Moth.”

  “Look, me and Clem are going to walk away. We’re going to leave the letter on the ground. When we’re gone, you can take it and no one will ever know.”

  Tawl smiled at Moth and shook his head. “It’s not as easy as that. I wish that it were.”

  “Me and Clem hate to see you upset, Tawl,” said Moth. “Is there anything we can do to help—on the quiet, like, not a word to the Old Man?”

  “No, nothing, but I thank you all the same.” Tawl held out his arm and clasped both men’s forearms in turn. “Please leave. Do whatever you have to with the letter.”

  Moth and Clem pulled aside for an instant and exchanged a few hurried words. “Clem wants to know if you need any coinage,” said Moth.

  “No, thank you, Clem.” Their kindness was almost too much. He didn’t deserve it.

  A few more hurried words and then they both turned toward him. “Well,” said Moth, “it looks like me and Clem will be on our way. We’ve decided that we’re going to leave the letter anyway, haven’t we, Clem? Can’t go back with the thing. It wouldn’t look good.”

  Clem nodded rather solemnly and placed the letter at Tawl’s feet.

  “Me and Clem wish you profit on your journey.”

  “And health at your hearth,” said Clem.

  “Nicely put, Clem,” said Moth. The two backed away from Tawl as if he were a king. Shuffling backward they reached the end of the street, waved once in silent salute, and then were lost in the shadows of the city.

  Tawl wanted to call them back. But he wouldn’t. He wanted to read the letter. But he couldn’t. He stood in the moonlight, a lonely figure without a cloak, and waited until he was ready. The letter shifted in the breeze, its corners lifting seductively. A trace of text could be seen for a moment; it was written in Bevlin’s clumsy hand. Tawl knew he had to go: stay any longer and he would succumb to temptation and tear the letter open. His soul screamed to read it. Duty demanded he wouldn’t: he was the duke’s to command now. One oath broken was enough.