by J. V. Jones
Nabber had the distinct feeling that this man before him was seldom mistaken about anything. “That’s me, what do you want?”
“Privacy.”
Up until that point, Nabber thought that Bodger and Grift were incapable of fast movement; they seemed to exist in a lazy, semi-drunken haze where their bottoms never left their chairs. Borc, was he wrong! At the word privacy they scooted out of the chapel so fast they could have won a race.
The man in black waited until the door was firmly closed, and then moved toward the altar. Coming to rest in front of the central panel, which marked the entrance to the secret passageway, he spun round and said, “You are a friend of the knight’s, are you not?”
Lord Baralis was no longer in the shadows, yet the darkness clung to him like a fragrance. It was difficult for Nabber to tell exactly what he looked like—except for his eyes. They glittered with the cold light of a predator.
“And if I am?”
“Don’t mince words with me, boy, for it will be to your disadvantage if you do.” Lord Baralis seemed to check himself; he rubbed his hands together and stepped forward a little. “However, it will be to your advantage to answer me promptly and with the truth.”
Nabber caught a whiff of the sweet smell of loot. “The knight and I are old friends. Go back a long way, we do.”
“Aah.” Lord Baralis issued a smile as smooth as his voice. “You’re a sensible boy, I see.”
“The most sensible in Rorn.”
“Is that where you met the knight—Rorn?”
Nabber rubbed his chin. “Just about how advantageous would it be for me to tell you that?” He couldn’t see that disclosing the information would do Tawl any harm. So why not make a little loot? It was nobody’s secret.
“Answer all my questions today and I will give you ten golds.”
“Done! If you have the money about your person.”
Lord Baralis reached inside his robe and brought out a velvet purse. Without pausing to measure coinage, he offered it out for Nabber to take. “This should be sufficient.”
Nabber took the purse. His first instinct was to count the loot, but he remembered the way Swift handled himself in similar situations, and so he quietly slipped the purse into his tunic. Of course the minute Swift was alone he’d tally the money with the skill of a professional lender. And if he found it wanting, he would quickly dispatch a man to break the offender’s fingers. Somehow Nabber doubted if he’d be doing the same with Lord Baralis.
“So, how long have you known the knight?”
“Long enough to call him a friend.” Nabber thought Lord Baralis would take him to task on the vagueness of his answer, but he let it pass.
“Has he been looking for the boy since you met him?”
“Way before then.” Only after he spoke did Nabber begin to wonder how Lord Baralis knew about Tawl’s quest.
“Did you ever go with him to meet the wiseman, Bevlin?” After each question Lord Baralis moved a few steps closer. He was now only an arm’s length away from Nabber. His breath smelled sharp and sweet.
The purse in Nabber’s tunic began to feel heavy, like a burden. “I met Bevlin once. Nice man he was, cured me of the northern shivers.”
“Where is his house?”
“Less than three weeks ride east of here.”
“Do you know if he had any relatives or acquaintances who would currently be in possession of his belongings?” Lord Baralis’ eyes narrowed. “I know he’s dead, of course.”
The purse now became hot as well as heavy. “Can’t help you there, my friend.”
“Do you think there’s a chance his possessions might still be in his house?”
Nabber had buried Bevlin. He’d dug a shallow grave and then dragged the wiseman’s body out of the cottage to the plot that lay under the sill. He scrubbed the blood from the floor, dampened the fire, threw out all the goods that were perishable, let the hens free from the coop and the pig free from the sty, sealed all the shutters, and locked and bolted the door. “Yes,” he said. “There’s a chance Bevlin’s things are still where he left them.” Nabber thought for a moment and then added, “Why do you want to know?”
“He and I were involved in the same type of scholarly research. We shared a passion for crawling insects. Bevlin had an unrivaled collection of books on the subject, and I worry that if they were to fall into the wrong hands they might be treated badly.” Lord Baralis made a small, self-deprecating gesture. “Only experts like myself would fully appreciate their value.” He looked Nabber straight in the eye. “Now, can you remember exactly how to get to his house?”
Insects? He looked the sort. “Yes.”
“Draw me a map,” Lord Baralis’ voice was as thick and tempting as honey, “and I will make it worth your while. Accompany my servant on the journey and I will make you a rich man.”
Tempting though the offer was, Nabber had no intention of agreeing to it. Not only did he feel honor-bound to wait for Tawl’s return, but more importantly, a long journey meant the one thing he hated most in the world: horses. No one was going to get him on one of those ugly, bad-tempered, flea-ridden things unless it was a matter of life and death. There was a problem with accepting the first offer, though: he couldn’t write, let alone draw a map. “I could tell you exactly how to get there, but I’ll do no drawing—my hand, you know, injured it in a boating accident.”
“Hmm.” Lord Baralis spread the sound over two skeptical syllables. “Very well. Tell me now and I will have your payment delivered to you within the hour.”
Nabber didn’t feel it would be a wise move to question the man’s integrity. The loot would come. He had an instinct about such things. He took a deep breath. “Well, you ride east as far as . . .”
• • •
Tarissa was laughing at him. Her jaw was wide, her curls were bouncing, and her head rocked back and forth. So long and hard she laughed that the strings of her bodice gave way and her breasts spilled out over the fabric. A rough hand reached out and tucked them back in, the fingers lingering long over the milky white flesh.
Rovas! he screamed. Rovas!
“Ssh, lad. Ssh. Everything’s all right now.”
Jack found himself looking up into the smooth, round face of Mrs. Wadwell.
“It was a bad dream, that’s all. No need to worry.”
Her voice had a calming effect upon him, and the line between sleeping and waking drew itself anew. His muscles relaxed and he slumped back down against the sheet. It was wet with sweat.
Mrs. Wadwell stood up and busied herself around the room, opening shutters, stoking the fire, and pouring some broth into a bowl. “Sit up, lad,” she said, “and drink this.” She handed him the bowl and didn’t blink until the spoon was at his lips. “That’s a good lad.”
The last thing Jack thought he wanted was broth, but as soon as the spicy liquid met his tongue, he was overcome with a ravenous hunger. He had hardly eaten in a week, and it was as if his body was determined to secure some nourishment despite his brain’s reluctance. Mrs. Wadwell nodded approvingly and fetched him some more food: another bowl of broth, a full crusty loaf, a wedge of cheese that would have stopped open a door, and a cold roast chicken that looked like it had been hit by one.
“I pressed it whilst it roasted,” said Mrs. Wadwell, seeing Jack eyeing the flat chicken suspiciously. “If you squash a bird in the oven with decent size weights, it forces the juices into the meat. Turns right tender, it does.”
“Aye, lad, no one roasts a bird like my wife.” Dilburt came toward the bed, the smile on his face bright with undisguised pride. He patted Mrs. Wadwell affectionately on her bottom. “You won’t find a finer woman anywhere.”
“You soft old coot,” she replied, winking at Jack. “Go and cut me some wood. If the fire burns any lower, I won’t be able to warm the chickens let alone roast them.”
Dilburt obediently left the cottage. Mrs. Wadwell straightened Jack’s bed, made sure all the food was within re
ach, and then followed her husband outside, muttering something about not chopping the green ones.
Jack wasted no time; he tore into the food the moment the door banged shut. It was the most delicious meal he had eaten in his entire life. The bread was chewy and tasted of nuts, the cheese was cream-heavy and bright with herbs, and the flat chicken was so tender it fell off the bone. With each bite the memory of eels and their gravy receded into the distance.
The memory of last night was not so easy to eat away. The more full his belly became, the more freedom his thoughts seemed to have to soar where they pleased. Everything came back to him in terrifying detail: the fire, the sparks, the creaking of timbers, and the low rumble of moving earth. The screams were the worst thing. The terrified screams of people burning, or choking, or just plain afraid. Suddenly the room filled with the sound of their screams. It was a visible force, whipping the air round like a whirlwind. The food turned to ashes in his mouth and he brought his hands up to his ears, desperate to stop the sound.
He had done this! People were dead because of him. The fault was his and his alone. Tarissa and Rovas had played him for a fool, lying about Melli’s death, lying about the tunnel, lying about how much they cared. Yet rather than take his anger out on them, he had turned it toward innocent people instead.
The screams died away, as if content for a while that he had acknowledged his guilt.
He needed to make sure something like this never happened again. The power within him was too dangerous to be used in anger. It caused him to lash out uncontrollably, making itself his master. He had been right in the Halcus cell to try and force the sorcery to do his bidding, but he had come nowhere near success. He doubted if he could on his own. Who was there to help him, though? Even a powerful man like Baralis was forced to keep his powers hidden. The world condemned sorcery. People who used it were branded as demons and burned at the stake. And after last night he knew why.
Was that all that sorcery was good for? he wondered. Destruction?
Jack swung his feet onto the floor and tested the strength of his legs. Hardly good enough for standing, but he needed to relieve himself badly and he wasn’t about to take a pot to his bed like an invalid. He’d rather fall on his face trying to make it outside. Taking a deep breath, he transferred his weight to his legs, groaning like an old man as he hauled himself up. Nausea fluttered around his belly and he was forced to swallow hard to keep it down. A grim smile stretched his lips. He didn’t fancy seeing the pressed chicken again; it hadn’t looked too appetizing the first time around, no matter how good it had tasted.
Once his legs felt sure enough to take his weight, he risked stepping forward. Muscles in his chest, his abdomen, his behind, and his legs protested violently, and then finding their cries ignored, they set to quivering like eels in jelly. Finding the quivering ignored, they actually shaped up and did his bidding. Jack knew that his muscles were unhappy, but plodded on regardless.
Opening the door, he discovered a bright beautiful day scented with the full promise of spring. Flowers bloomed on either side of the door and flies, lazy after a morning’s work, sunned themselves on the broad green leaves. At the far end of the garden Mr. and Mrs. Wadwell were deep in conversation with a small dark man. As soon as Dilburt saw Jack emerge from the cottage, he practically pushed the man away, diverting his attention by leading him down the muddy lane. Mrs. Wadwell came rushing forward, a plump finger on an even plumper lip. “Inside, lad, inside,” she hissed.
Jack obeyed her immediately. Not content with closing the door, she took the precaution of bolting it. “In bed now, this instant. I’ll bring you a pot if need made you stray.”
Too embarrassed to say anything, Jack merely nodded.
“Now, lad, if anyone should happen to come here, you’re Dilburt’s sick nephew from Todlowly.” Mrs. Wadwell thought for a second. “And the ague has taken your voice.”
So she knew he was from the kingdoms. In that case, he might as well speak freely. “Who was that man in the garden?” he asked.
“A friend of Dilburt’s from the garrison.” Mrs. Wadwell handed him the largest chamberpot he’d ever seen in his life. The sides were painted with waterfalls. “My sister makes them herself,” she said.
He took it from her and placed it on the floor. Relieving himself would have to wait. “Do they know anything more about how the fire started?”
Mrs. Wadwell wasted no words. “A prisoner did it. A man from the kingdoms with chestnut hair and an arrow wound in his chest.”
“I’ll go now,” said Jack.
A heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder. “You’re in no fit state to go anywhere, lad. At least stay another night until you’re strong enough to leave.” Courage gleamed softly in the darkness of her eyes, and the lines of her jaw suggested a formidable depth of determination.
Jack was overwhelmed by her offer. Here he was a stranger, an enemy and a murderer, yet she was prepared to put herself at risk by harboring him. He couldn’t let her. “No, I must go,” he said. “I owe you and Dilburt too much as it is.” He took her hand and kissed it gently. “Though I thank you from my heart for your kindness.”
Mrs. Wadwell snorted dismissively. “Dilburt’s never wrong about anyone. If he says you’re all right, then it’s good enough for me.” She smiled, a little sadly, and ruffled his hair. “Well, if you’re set on going, then you might as well know the worst. The whole county is teeming with soldiers who are looking for you. Every man, woman, and child is on the alert and your description has been circulated far and wide. In a day’s time you won’t be able to show your face within a fifty-league radius of the garrison. A week from now there’ll be nowhere you can hide.”
“What do they know about me?”
“Apparently, the prisoner who you shared a cell with told them that you were a plant, sent here by King Kylock on a special mission to infiltrate and destroy the garrison.” Mrs. Wadwell gave him a hard look. “He also said you were a mighty sorcerer who had the elements at your command.”
“Do they believe him?”
“You know folks, never want to believe anything that smacks of sorcery, so they’ve come up with all sorts of theories to explain the fire and the explosions. Still, people talk, and what can’t be said freely in public is whispered soft and long in private.”
Jack opened his mouth to speak.
“Nay, lad,” she said quickly, “I don’t want to know the truth. I look at you and I see a young man who’s ill and confused, nothing more.” She smiled brightly. “Let’s leave it at that, eh?”
A soft tapping at the door stopped Jack from giving his thanks. There was a tense moment whilst Mrs. Wadwell drew back the bolt, but Dilburt stood there alone.
“Did he see the lad?” she asked.
“He did, but I told him what you said and he seemed happy enough.” They exchanged a brief, telling glance, and then Dilburt said, “I’m sorry lad, but I think it’s better that you go. If it was me alone, you could stay here until they knocked down the door. But, the wife . . .” Slowly, he shook his head. “I’d be a broken man if anything should happen to her.”
Jack nodded. “I know, Dilburt. Your wife is the bravest woman in all of Halcus, and I would not see her harmed for the world.” As he spoke, he realized he meant every word he said.
Dilburt came and put his arm around Jack. “You’re a good lad, truly you are. I’m glad I brought you home.”
A noise escaped Mrs. Wadwell’s throat that sounded suspiciously like a sob. From her sleeve she pulled out a handkerchief the size of a small tablecloth and blew into it loudly. Having finished this, she turned to Dilburt. “Well, what are you waiting around for, husband? If the lad’s going, you need to get him some supplies.”
Dilburt smiled ruefully at Jack and then busied himself about the cottage, wrapping cheeses and meats, filling skins with wine, and pulling clothes from a trunk.
Mrs. Wadwell slapped her broad hand on Jack’s forehead. “Still some fever there,
” she pronounced. “I’ll have to give you some medicine.” Pulling a silver flask from her tunic, she urged him to drink, “down to the last drop.”
Jack had only tasted brandy once before in his life. Master Frallit had been given a bottle one Winter’s Eve by the poulterer’s widow—an amorous lady who had her eye on a quick second marriage—and he promptly hid it amidst the flour sacks. Jack found it there the next morning, and by the time that Master Frallit discovered him, half of the brandy was gone. He was so drunk that he never felt the beating. Which was, he now realized, a sign of good medicine. Anything that could numb the sensation of Frallit in full frenzy must be very powerful indeed.
Whilst he drank the brandy, Mrs. Wadwell inspected his various cuts and bruises. Every now and then she would shake her head and make soft clucking noises. She redressed his shoulder wound and rubbed his legs and arms down with the last of the good wine. When she was finished, Dilburt stepped forward with several choices of clothes for him to wear.
Mrs. Wadwell became a military commander, choosing the clothes that would best blend in with the surrounding countryside. Unfortunately, size and fit were not on her mind. The brown tunic she chose was so long that it prompted the appearance of the large scissors—Jack was beginning to realize that everything in the Wadwell home was done on a grand scale—and a good length of fabric was cut from the bottom. The breeches presented a similar problem, but a length of rope so thick it could have docked a ship was quickly tied about his waist to keep them up.
By the time they had finished with him, Jack was loaded up like a packhorse and armed to the teeth. Three knives of deadly sharpness and varying size were concealed about his person, together with a bag full of small caltraps that could bring a charging horse to a halt. The fact that Dilburt had a supply of siege foils in his house did not surprise Jack in the least: the Wadwells were a couple who liked to plan ahead.
