The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  Slowly, Baralis put down the sack containing his potions and scrolls, careful to pick a spot that was free of dirt. “I’ll burn the hearts from your bodies and leave the skin untouched.” It was said simply, with no boast—and that was what made the men afraid.

  The two that had already backed away ran off. That left two others: the stick-man and his friend. One last kick to the victim’s groin, and the friend was off. Baralis raised an eyebrow. “I think you’d better follow your little playmates. It wouldn’t be wise to face me alone.”

  The stick-man’s gaze met his. Slowly he sneered, then walked away.

  From the ground came a small, soft voice. “Thank you, master. Thank you.” The man stood up and Baralis couldn’t believe his eyes: He was a giant, broad as a wagon, tall as a building.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Crope, master.” The man had been badly beaten, and not just once: his face was a mass of bruises and scars. He held his head low in a pathetic attempt to disguise his height.

  “Come, follow me home, Crope,” said Baralis. “Those wounds of yours need tending.” And so the man had come to his chambers, and they’d been together ever since.

  There was nothing Crope wouldn’t do for him. An outcast from birth, he was ridiculed and hounded, blamed for everything from kidnapping to rape, from murder to thievery. Crope’s only defense to accusations was simply to say he was sorry. Most of the time he didn’t even know what he was saying sorry for. No one had ever shown him kindness. He lived in a world of fear, where his greatest concern was staying away from people who might pick on him: young boys, drunken men, fight-hungry soldiers. He only went out at night. Baralis had changed his life. He was his protector, his savior, his only friend.

  Baralis stirred himself from his memories. He never liked to spend too long reminiscing. The future was what counted, not the past. “Crope,” he called. “Has the young lady been asking about me?”

  “The beautiful one with golden hair?”

  “Yes, you fool. Catherine, the duke’s daughter.”

  “She was here yesterday, master. She wants to come and see you as soon as you are well.”

  “Good. Good. I will see her next time she calls.” Baralis put down his cup and rubbed his chin. He and Catherine had a lot to talk about: sorcery, sex, and treason. She owed him her life, and he wasn’t a man to let such a precious debt go uncollected.

  • • •

  Maybor was busy teaching his dog to kill. He had taken a pillow, stuffed it with the shredded remains of Baralis’ undershirt, tied it to a piece of rope, and hung it from the rafters at man height. He was now in the process of getting Shark to jump up to the place where Baralis’ throat would be. The dog was learning fast. Maybor called the dog over, patted it rather warily, and gave it a huge chunk of bloody meat. “Good boy. Good boy.” After a minute he stood up, went over to the pillow, set it swinging, and then backed away to a safe distance. “Kill, Shark! Kill!” he cried.

  The dog leapt like a warrior, teeth drawn like knives. This time it went straight for the throat, and it didn’t let go. Its grip was so great that it hung, suspended in the air from the pillow. Shark swayed back and forth, neck thrashing from side to side, feet kicking air, until the rope gave way. Dog and pillow came crashing to the ground. Even then Shark didn’t let go. The dog worried away at the pillow until there was nothing left.

  Maybor was distracted from this gratifying spectacle by a loud rap on his door. Who dared knock in such an arrogant manner? His question was answered immediately as the duke let himself in the room.

  “Ah, Maybor, I’m glad I found you here.” Looking around at the sight of feathers flying and linen shredded to ribbons, he said: “Training Shakindra, I see.”

  Maybor shrugged. “Personal protection, nothing more.”

  “Have you reason to need protection, Lord Maybor?”

  “Probably less reason than you, Your Grace.”

  The duke laughed. “Well said, my friend. A man’s power can be measured by the number of his enemies.” He slapped his thigh and Shakindra came toward him. He bent down and stroked her ears. “Good girl. Good girl.”

  Maybor was glad of the chance to gather his thoughts. There was only one reason why the Hawk would come to his chambers: to discuss Kylock’s invasion of Halcus. It wouldn’t be right for him to broach the subject first: he had been told the news in confidence by Cravin. In reality, pigeons were only a day or two ahead of people, and he wouldn’t be at all surprised if half of Bren knew about it by now. Still, playing ignorant suited him best at the moment. “To what do I owe this honor, Your Grace?”

  The duke walked over to the table and poured two cups of wine. He handed the first one to Maybor, the second he left sitting untouched. “I was wondering if you would like to invite your family to Bren for the marriage ceremony.”

  Maybor nearly choked on his wine. It went down his throat, heading straight for his lungs. He coughed, he spluttered, he turned as red as a beet. Marriage! What was this? The duke was speaking as if the marriage between Kylock and Catherine was still going ahead. It made no sense. There was only one conclusion: no one had told him about the invasion.

  The duke waited for Maybor to compose himself, his lips drawn together in a faint look of distaste.

  “Are you aware, Your Grace,” said Maybor, wiping wine from his chin, “that Kylock has invaded Halcus?”

  The duke nodded. “Of course.” He spoke in a manner that invited no questions.

  Maybor was confused. Surely the duke would be furious over the news? The people of Bren would not like the idea of their precious heir being married to a king with a taste for blood. When the duke died, Catherine would rule Bren, and now, by invading Halcus, Kylock had shown that he was not the sort to sit passively by and let his wife rule alone. Indeed, the way things were progressing at the moment, it looked as if Bren might be destined to form one small part of Kylock’s northern empire. Yet here was the duke, calmly making wedding plans. It made no sense.

  “You never answered my question, Maybor,” said the duke. “Will you bring your family to Bren?”

  “My eldest son, Kedrac, is a great friend of the king. I’m sure Kylock would insist upon him attending the wedding.” Maybor couldn’t resist the exaggeration. Besides, if the marriage was going ahead, he needed to be seen to support it. Kylock would confiscate the lands of a traitor in an instant. Cravin was right, the best thing to do now would be to assassinate Baralis. The man wielded too much power and had too much influence over events. Once he was out of the way, the marriage would become less of a threat.

  “And your daughter?”

  Maybor was thrown off guard for the second time. “My daughter, Your Grace?”

  “Yes, you do have a daughter, don’t you?” said the duke. “What’s her name, now?”

  “Melliandra.”

  The duke spun around. “Aah, so she was probably called Melli as a child?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I heard that she is a beautiful girl. Do you happen to have a portrait?”

  Stunned, Maybor nodded.

  “Let me see it, then. If Melliandra attends the wedding, perhaps she can have the honor of waiting upon Catherine.”

  Maybor breathed a sigh of relief: so that was the duke’s interest—seeing if his daughter was comely enough to be a lady-in-waiting to Catherine. Maybor dashed over to his desk. It would do him no harm to have Melli close to Catherine. In fact, the whole thing was perfect; when Melli was found she could take residence at the court of Bren. Not only could she befriend the woman who was destined to rule the most powerful city in the north, but also she would be a safe distance from any rumors that might cause her disgrace at Castle Harvell.

  Unlocking his cedar-wood box, Maybor reached inside and pulled out his daughter’s likeness. Carefully he cleaned it against his robe. The miniature was covered in fingerprints from constant handling: it was all he had to remember her by. He held it out. “Here is my daughter, Your Grace.�
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  The duke took the portrait and held it so it caught the light from the window. He seemed pleased with what he saw. When he spoke it was quietly, more to himself than Maybor. “Oh, yes, yes,” he said. “She is the one.”

  “So should I invite her to attend upon Catherine?”

  The duke gave Maybor a shrewd look. “As you wish.” He returned the portrait and then made his way to the door, his sword glinting with every step. “I hope that you and I can become friends, Lord Maybor,” he said, pausing on the threshold. “I’ve known for some time that you have been opposed to the match of Catherine and Kylock, but let me assure you there will be nothing to worry about when it happens.” With that he bowed curtly and left.

  Maybor could only stare at the space that the man had occupied. He didn’t have the slightest idea what the duke meant. In fact the whole visit was nothing short of bizarre: talk of friendship and families. A total disregard for Kylock’s flagrant aggression. What did it all mean? Maybor poured himself a second cup of wine and sat down on his bed. Shark came and lay at his feet. Cravin’s words from the other day came back to him. Perhaps the Hawk had come up with a way to neutralize the marriage.

  • • •

  When it came to being pests, spiders were second only to horses. Both creatures had an annoying tendency to leave things about that a man was likely to walk in. Now, spiderwebs might be less disgusting than horse dung, but they were definitely more creepy. Especially in the dark, when the only thing you could feel was their clammy threads brushing against your face, quickly followed by the scurry of tiny feet as a spider ran down your neck. Even now, Nabber could feel a handful of the eight-legged creatures busy spidering beneath his tunic. Unfortunately, nothing short of getting undressed would rid him of the pests, and he wasn’t about to do that. No, sir. No one was going to catch him in his underwear down a secret passageway. He wasn’t one of those.

  The duke’s palace was turning out to be most interesting. It was amazing where a little bit of reconnaissance could lead. No less amazing was the way people turned a blind eye to a boy wandering around on his own. Nabber supposed he didn’t look like the dangerous cutthroat sort, which, while being a little disappointing, certainly came in handy. He simply didn’t exist to the world of cooks, ash maids, and butchers. Guards occasionally gave him the once over, but generally after a little verbal dilly-dally, they left him well alone.

  So here he was, down in the secret depths of the palace, keeping company with the foundations. Quite interesting, really, if you didn’t count the spiders.

  It had all happened by accident. Two days ago he’d been walking along a harmless-looking corridor on his way to the nobles’ quarters when he was approached by two guards. These men had obviously been drinking and were looking for a little amusement. They questioned and taunted him, and then began prodding his chest with their spears. Just before they left, the smaller of the two had punched him hard in the chin. Nabber went slamming into the wall. As the guards walked away, happy with the success of their bullying, Nabber became aware that something had happened to the wall behind him. His shoulder blade had fallen against a tiny protrusion in the stone. He didn’t dare move until the guards were out of sight. Only when their footsteps had faded into the distance did Nabber feel safe to lift his weight off the wall. As soon as his shoulder came away from the wall, a series of near silent clicks sounded within the stone. Nabber was torn between dual instincts: fear and curiosity. Curiosity won and he stayed and watched the wall swing open.

  Borc, did that passage smell when the wall moved back! The stench of decaying rodents combined nicely with the strong reek of mold. It was like being in Swift’s hideout all over again—made him feel quite nostalgic for a moment. Of course, there was nothing to do but step into the dark. The instant his feet landed on the inside stones, the wall fell back into place. Nabber had to admit that it was a little scary to find himself in total darkness. Rorn’s alleyways by midnight were pleasantly shady compared to this. Still, Swift’s words gave him comfort. “There’s nowhere as profitable as the dark,” he would say as he watched the sun set over the city of Rorn. And so, with that maxim in mind, Nabber began to make his way along the tunnel and into the depths of the duke’s palace.

  The past two days had proven very illuminating indeed. The possibilities for nefarious looting were almost unlimited. Swift would have wept with joy. You could never tell where you’d come out: meat larders, nobles’ chambers, armories. There was even a tunnel that led outside to an open sewer in the city. The whole palace was practically asking to be robbed!

  Nabber quickly decided on his best course of action. He would stagger along the passages, arms stretched out, spiders adangling, until he came to places where the light seeped in through tiny hairline cracks in the stone. Then he would step on all the surrounding flagstones until one gave way and the wall opened up. He had to be careful, of course, for there was a chance there would be people on the other side.

  The first time he’d emerged from the tunnels he’d surprised a rather noble-looking lady kneeling down to help a guard untie his britches. Nabber had tipped his cap respectfully and said, “If you’re having trouble with those ties, my lady, I always find that a little pig grease does the trick.” Well, the lady had run away screaming and the guard had just stood there as if he were nailed to the floor. Nabber was back in the tunnel in no time, lesson well learned: listen carefully before making an unexpected entrance.

  Some of the tunnels were too narrow for full-grown adults, and even he’d had a little difficulty squeezing through them. Many of the lower ones were waterlogged and more than a few were impassable, with water levels reaching high above a man’s head. Nabber supposed it was because the palace was built on the shore of the great lake, and anything that lay below water level had long since been flooded. Sometimes Nabber would come across places that were well lit. Portcullises on the lake side let both light and water in—probably built so that invaders couldn’t swim under the lake and into the castle. Rather clever, really. One of the portcullises had nasty spikes which jutted out into the lake: one decent wave and a diver would find himself impaled. Nabber was full of admiration for the man who’d thought of that particular modification.

  He’d been just about everywhere by now and was wondering whether to share his newfound knowledge with Tawl. The tunnels would be perfect for slipping in and out of the palace unnoticed. Of course, the only way he’d found so far was through the sewers, so a man wouldn’t smell too good at the end of it, but the benefits of a quick escape far outweighed the hazards of a wall of sewage.

  Nabber was worried about Tawl. The knight needed watching in case he did anything irrational. Just as he seemed to be sobering up and coming to terms with his newly spoken oath, in stepped the Old Man’s cronies. They’d stirred up all the old memories, and with them the guilt. Trying to get the knight to take a mysterious letter from the very man whose death had caused all the madness in the first place: Bevlin. Tawl hadn’t mentioned the incident and neither had Nabber. The letter, which was currently safe from water and sewage in the little room they shared just off the kitchens, was on his mind constantly. There was no point in opening it; he could only read a few words, so the message would have no meaning. But it was more than that which stopped Nabber from breaking the seal.

  Somehow it had become his solemn duty to bear the letter for Tawl until he needed it. Nabber didn’t doubt for an instant that a time would come when Tawl would bitterly regret discarding the letter. His job was to be there when he did.

  Nabber made his way upward through the tunnels with remarkable ease. He was quite sure by now that he could see in the dark—and not a single carrot in his life! He was hoping to get Tawl to agree to move out of the castle. The guest-host relationship was wearing a bit thin, and Nabber was anxious to do some prospecting. Never since learning about the importance of contingency had his been so low. Not one gold piece, not half a weight of silver, not even a brass ring. A man
could get nervous just thinking about it. He needed to be out there, or rather, back here, with no guest-host obligation to hold back his hand. Figuratively speaking, it wouldn’t be pocketing, it would be thievery, but he judged himself ready for the promotion. Swift would be proud of him!

  Now all he had to do was get Tawl to go along with his plan. There was no way he would leave the knight on his own; where the knight went so did he. Therefore, his only hope was to come up with a good reason why Tawl should move out of the castle. Nabber hadn’t thought of one yet, but he was a great believer in thinking on his toes and he was quite sure one would come to him as soon as he saw the knight.

  The quality of the darkness gradually changed and Nabber knew he was close to the entrance. Quite by accident he’d stumbled on one not far from the kitchens at all—in the chapel. This wasn’t the same as the rest of the entrances, as it was hidden behind a wooden panel. It spiraled upward, ending in a single door. Whoever built the tunnels must have intended that it be cut off from the other passages, as it was self-contained with no other entrances. Nabber had gained access by spotting a likely looking ventilation tunnel and managing to squeeze himself through it. Tempted by the look of the upper doorway, he followed his newly learned lesson and crouched down for a while to listen to what was on the other side. Guards, by the sound of it. Footsteps could be heard pacing back and forth at regular intervals, which meant that someone or something important must be on the other side. It didn’t take a Silbur scholar to guess that there was trouble waiting behind the door, so Nabber backed quietly away.

  Forcing his reluctant body through the ventilation tunnel, Nabber found himself right by the chapel entrance. He placed his ear against the wood. All quiet on the other side. One firm push and the wooden panel swung backward. As predicted, the chapel was empty. Nabber stepped out, replaced the panel, and took off his cap. If anyone came across him now he’d be just another boy praying for Borc’s guidance.

  He slipped out of the main chapel door and was just about to make a run for freedom when a voice piped up. “Hey, you, boy! What you doing in the chapel?”