by J. V. Jones
It was a guard, but not a regular one, judging from his dress and his accent. Nabber smiled a little sadly and looked down at the floor. “Praying for the souls of my dearly departed family.”
“Hmm,” said the guard. “I didn’t see you go in there. Did you see him go in there, Bodger?”
“Can’t say that I did, Grift.” A second guard emerged from behind a pillar. “Though I don’t think we should bother the boy in his time of grief, Grift.”
“You make me ashamed of myself, Bodger,” said the first guard. “Go on, boy, get going. Here.” He handed Nabber half a skin of ale. “Take this with you, it might ease your loss.”
Nabber took the skin of ale and bowed to both men. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “My mother, Borc bless her soul, would weep to see such kindness from strangers. She always said that a man who would give away his ale one day, would give away his heart the next.”
“Well spoken, my friend,” said the older of the guards. “It’s nice to see a young man who respects his mother’s memory, ain’t it, Bodger?”
The one called Bodger sniffled loudly. “Right nice, Grift.” He blew his nose into the polishing cloth. “Right nice, indeed.”
Nabber patted the man lightly on the shoulder and took his leave. He liked those two guards; they were a lot easier to get along with than the others he’d encountered around the palace. Bodger and Grift, eh? It wouldn’t hurt him to befriend those two, especially as they guarded the nearest tunnel entrance to the kitchens.
A short walk brought him to the room he and Tawl shared. Not bothering to knock, he walked straight in. There was no sign of the knight. His weapons were gone. His pack was gone. A sinking feeling overcame Nabber. Tawl had taken off. Whirling around, Nabber took a more detailed scan of the room. Most of the knight’s clothes still lay in a heap by his pallet, and various pots and pans were strewn across the floor. Even his bedroll had been hung above the fireplace so that the smoke would ward off the moths. Nabber rejoiced to see it. Tawl might be gone, but he was obviously planning on coming back.
Twenty-three
Wake up, my dear. Wake up,” came a voice, a little less distant than the last. Melli even thought she recognized it. Not a great friend, or a family member, but someone who cared nonetheless.
A part of her wanted to wake up, but it was such an effort. Her eyelids were as heavy as lead and she knew that the niggly, uncomfortable feeling in her side would show its teeth and turn to pain if she came around. At the moment she could experience the sensation without being aware of the hurt. It was better this way. If only the voice would leave her alone. But it kept on and on, by turns encouraging and cajoling, worried and then, if she moved a little, ecstatic. There was touching, too. Her hands were patted, her forehead was rubbed, her mouth was opened like a trap. Truth be known, she didn’t move to give them encouragement, but to pull away from their prodding, prying hands. She wanted to be left alone.
It wasn’t to be, though. The next assault was cool water; Melli felt it trickle along her hairline and then down her neck to her chest.
“Wake up, me dear. Everything’s all right now.”
This really was becoming too much. What would they do next? Hot oil? Magic potions? One thing was certain: they weren’t going to give up. There was only one thing to do.
With a great effort Melli rallied the muscles about her eyes. Funny, she’d never even known they existed before. She supposed her eyes just flapped open and shut of their own accord. The muscles now seemed to be making up for nineteen years of anonymity. They were doing a good job of it, too. A delicate, needle-pulling pain accompanied the opening of her eyes.
“She’s awake! She’s awake!”
A blurry form slowly focused and a name, like a gift, came to match the likeness. “Bailor.”
“She’s lucid. She recognizes me.”
The figure seemed rather excited about something. Other people crowded around, and Melli would not have been at all surprised if they’d burst out in applause. Her reflexes were tested, her pupils were stared into, fingers were held out for the count. Melli dutifully said, “two” or “three,” but already she was getting a little bored. Life had been simpler when she was asleep. The final insult was when they began to force some foul-tasting liquid down her throat. She raised her arms in the air, slapping wildly, and shouted, “Leave me alone!”
That certainly seemed to have the desired effect. They all backed away, nodding and tutting and clucking like hens. Bailor ushered them out of the room and came to stand by her bedside. He squeezed her hand and said, “You are a very lucky lady, my dear. You nearly died the other day.”
Melli decided Bailor could stay; his voice was kind and he wasn’t looking at her as if she were a newly dissected specimen. Besides, if she was lucky she wanted to know about it. “What do you mean?”
“My dear, you fell off your horse. Don’t you remember?”
It all came back to her: the horse, the mountains, the jump. She shuddered at the memory. How could she have been so stupid? There was no excuse for reckless riding. “What happened after I fell?”
“Well, that’s what I want to ask you about,” said Bailor very softly, kneeling down by her side. “You hit your head on a rock and knocked yourself clean out, but that wasn’t what caused the most damage.” He paused a second and squeezed her hand gently. “There was a knife inside your bodice and you fell right onto it. It went straight through your side. You almost bled to death.”
Melli couldn’t look into Bailor’s eyes. The unspoken question—what was she doing with a concealed weapon?—lay heavily between them. It was ironic, really; for months she’d carried that knife with the sole intent of defending herself with it, and now it had nearly killed her. To make matters worse, Bailor and the duke probably thought she was an assassin. The strange thing was that she wasn’t being treated like one. Surely it wasn’t normal for a gaggle of physicians to tend to an assassin in a bedchamber fit for a king? “Where is the duke?” she asked.
“Alas, my dear, His Grace had to leave early this morning. There are many things to see to at the palace. He should be back before nightfall, though. Yesterday he got here so late we didn’t think he was coming at all.” Bailor’s face lit up as he spoke. “He is going to a great deal of trouble for you, my dear. Bringing physicians and medicines and maids. He insisted that I ride out here immediately, and only last night he turned up with a bodyguard for you. His Grace values you very highly, indeed.”
“Why?” None of this made any sense. What was she to the duke? A possession, nothing more; a girl to dally with until he grew bored and moved on to the next. He might be attracted to her, but that could hardly explain all the trouble he had gone to.
Bailor stood up, joints creaking, and found himself a chair to sit on. Settling himself down, he turned his face away from the fire. His features were hidden in the shadow as he replied: “Melli, my dear, I think he’s in love.”
“With me?” This was preposterous, she hardly knew the man. Why, on the few occasions they’d met she’d done nothing but insult him!
“Yes, you. I’ve never seen His Grace so devoted to a woman. He’s worn out a team of horses riding back and forth. He’s even given up his bedchamber for you to stay in.” Bailor leaned forward a little and his face caught the light. “Personally, my dear, I don’t think he’s ever met a woman who treats him as badly as you do. I think it sparked his interest. Most women just fall at his feet.”
There was a small part of Melli that was quite pleased at what Bailor said. She did think of herself as less docile than most ladies of the court and it gratified her vanity to think that the duke had noticed this. The fact that he obviously appreciated a little backbone in a woman was further cause for pleasure. Melli chided herself; the bump on her head had obviously made her quite silly. The duke couldn’t be interested in her, not a girl bought from a flesh-trader who had said she was a bastard. No. There must be more to this.
A worrying thoug
ht occurred to her. “Was I delirious at all?” Perhaps she had said something that she couldn’t remember, something that might have given away who she was.
“No, my dear,” said Bailor, making himself busy in the corner of the room. “This is the first time you’ve spoken in three days.” He seemed uncomfortable with the subject, for he changed it abruptly. “By all accounts, His Grace was quite frantic. There was a moment on the first night when you’d lost so much blood that everyone thought you were going to die. Apparently the duke blasted the physicians, threatening to have them all killed if they didn’t save you. You’re very lucky, indeed.”
Melli tried to sit up, but pain shot through her side.
“Easy, my dear. You’ve been stitched, so you’ll be tender for a few days.”
Feeling suddenly tired, Melli settled herself amongst the pillows. “So the duke will be here tonight?” she asked, more concerned with falling asleep than getting an answer.
“Most probably. He’d be here now if there hadn’t been a spot of trouble in the west.”
“Trouble?”
Bailor nodded. “Kylock invaded Halcus about a week back now and apparently he’s smashed right through the border forces. The duke received a report today that said Kylock’s now heading for Helch, slaughtering women and children along the way.”
“I always thought the forces of Halcus and the kingdoms were evenly matched.” Melli suddenly didn’t feel sleepy anymore.
“Well, my dear, from what I’ve heard Kylock has brought in bands of mercenaries. He sends them ahead to torch villages and then moves his forces in to finish the job.”
“Those are dirty tactics,” said Melli. “King Lesketh would never have done anything like that.”
Bailor smiled at her as if she were a child. “King Lesketh never won any wars.”
That seemed rather a harsh statement coming from Bailor. Melli didn’t believe it told the whole truth. “Why is Kylock killing women and children?”
“It creates terror. Word spreads that Kylock is ruthless and men become afraid for their families, so they surrender.” Bailor sighed heavily. “The fact is it won’t make any difference. Kylock will have them killed anyway.”
“How can you be so sure?” Even though she asked the question, Melli already believed what Bailor said was true.
“He did it three days ago in the village of Shorthill, just east of the border. Two hundred women were given in payment to the mercenaries. They raped and then murdered them. Afterward they rounded up all the children in an enclosure and slaughtered them like cattle.”
Melli felt a single shudder pass down her spine. For the first time she understood what she had known all her life: Kylock was evil. In the past she had called him cruel, brooding, and scornful, yet until now the full picture hadn’t been clear. The warning signs were there, though. That was why she ran away from Castle Harvell in the first place; not because her father was making her do something against her will, but because the idea of marrying Kylock was loathsome to her. She’d had a lucky escape. Unlike the women and children of Shorthill.
Unwilling to think about the subject any longer, Melli said the first thing that came into her head. “What does the duke think of it all?”
Bailor brought his chair close and spoke in a low voice. “Well, that’s the strange thing. His Grace looked very worried a few days ago; he wasn’t at all happy about marrying his daughter to a king who looks set to conquer Halcus, but now he seems to have come to terms with it.” Bailor shrugged, clearly puzzled. “When I spoke with him this morning he was almost cheerful. He was even making wedding plans.”
“I don’t understand,” said Melli. “If the marriage goes ahead, then surely Kylock will end up ruling Bren when the duke dies.”
“Well, judging from when I last saw the duke, that’s no longer a concern.” Seeing Melli yawn, Bailor stood. “Well, my dear, I must be on my way. You need to get some rest. I’ll look in on you later.” He made his way to the door. “If I send the physicians to examine you,” he said, dark eyes twinkling merrily, “will you promise not to slap them this time?”
Melli smiled. “I promise.”
• • •
“Master, the Lady Catherine is here to see you.”
Baralis immediately stood up. He brushed down his robe and looked around his room. Everything was acceptable. “Show her in, Crope.”
Two flickers of a candle later in walked Catherine of Bren. Baralis, who had long thought himself immune to beauty, took a sharp intake of breath. She was ravishing; her golden hair more glorious than any crown, her blue eyes more magnificent than any jewel. If he wasn’t mistaken, she had made a special effort to look her best; the dress she wore was too fine by far for the light of day. Good. It was a sign of supplication.
“Well met, my lady,” he said, bowing low. “May I offer you some refreshment? A little wine, perhaps?”
Catherine raised a beautifully arched eyebrow. “And will you be having one yourself, Lord Baralis? Or perhaps you’re like my father—you will take a glass but not a drink.”
Baralis inclined his head slightly and then walked over to the chestnut cabinet. He poured two cups of wine. Before offering the second cup to Catherine, he raised the first to his lips and drained it dry. “I am not your father, my lady.”
Catherine took the second cup from him, her hand brushing against his wrist as she did so. “No, I can see that.”
Baralis felt a little out of control. Catherine’s nearness, together with the thick and heady wine of Bren, combined to make him a little lightheaded. He cautioned himself. Now was not the time to make mistakes. He turned his back on her. “Tell me, my lady. How safe is it to talk near walls?”
“You disappoint me, Lord Baralis. You are more like my father than I thought, for you match him in suspicion.” She drew close to him again.
Her odor was distracting. She smelled like a child. “And you never answered my question,” he said, refilling her cup. This time there was no mistaking the delicate pressure upon his wrist.
“If you mean secret passageways, Lord Baralis, then I’m aware of one or two.”
Baralis concealed his excitement. “I expected as much. Are there any particularly interesting ones?”
“You mean is there one leading to my father’s chamber?”
He was caught off guard by her frankness. Cursing the glass of wine that he had been forced to drink, Baralis said, “Would you tell me if such a passage existed?”
“Yes.” Her blue eyes looked straight into his, and it was defiance that gave them their luster.
He began to realize that Catherine was dangerous. Her lover had been brutally murdered and her father had exalted the man who had done it. Revenge was what she wanted. He needed to know whether she sought it against her father or the knight. It was best to leave the subject of the passageway behind—it existed, there was little doubt about that, but now wasn’t the time to press the matter. Better to let her think he had different priorities.
“Did Blayze know you could perform drawings?”
Catherine flinched at the mention of her lover. “Yes. But he won all his fights on his own. Never once did he ask for my help.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Baralis judged it was time to remind Catherine of her debt. “For you would be dead by now if he had.”
Catherine attempted to challenge his words with a disdainful gaze, but she couldn’t quite keep the fear from her eyes.
Baralis continued, his voice low and alluring. “My lady, sorcery is a dangerous weapon. One should never wield it lightly.”
“Lightly, Lord Baralis!” said Catherine, as quick as a whip. “I never wielded it lightly. Blayze’s life was in danger, I had no choice.”
“You were a fool! If I hadn’t intervened there would be no skin on that pretty chest of yours. I took the impact for you.”
“You look fine to me.”
Baralis grasped the fabric of his robe and ripped it apart. The silk tore like pa
rchment, parting to reveal his chest beneath.
A tiny noise escaped Catherine’s lips and her hand fluttered to her chest. Slowly, she shook her head. “No, no.”
“Yes, my sweet Catherine,” said Baralis, purposely dropping her title. “This is what your drawing did to me.”
His words had the desired effect. Catherine turned as pale as a sheet. She drained her cup and went to sit down on the bed. “I had no idea. No idea at all.”
Baralis drew the silk over his skin, covering the seams where old flesh met new. “Little girls shouldn’t play with fire.”
Catherine was clearly nervous now. Her thumb was in her mouth as she chewed upon the nail. “Will you tell my father?”
This was what he had been waiting for. “No. It will be our little secret.”
“And what do you expect in return?”
“Friendship, my sweet Catherine. Nothing more.” Baralis spoke like a suitor, using his voice to coax and caress. “You and I could do much for each other. We have the same plans and we want the same things. There is nothing we couldn’t do together.” He leaned forward and ran his hand down the perfect smoothness of her cheek. Catherine’s first instinct was to shy away, but after a moment’s hesitation she seemed to accept the touch, even tilting her head forward as he withdrew.
“What do you mean when you say we have the same plans?”
Baralis knew he had her. All he had to do was say what she wanted to hear. “We both want to see the knight dead.” Even as he said it, he realized it had to be so. The drawing that had smashed into him on the night of the fight had told him much about the man who had repelled it. The knight was dangerous; powerful people stood behind him. He was meant to become the duke’s champion. It wasn’t just a lucky win: fate had led the dance. Where she might lead was hard to tell, but she never picked partners lightly. Tomorrow he would know more.
For today, though, his priority was Catherine. She had to leave this chamber firmly on his side. “We should help each other,” he said.
