The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  “That’s the best I can do,” he said, gathering either side of her gown and bringing them together. “I’ll leave you now and send in your maid to help you dress. Wear a loose wool skirt and under no circumstances put on a corset. I’ll be coming back later with a breastplate. I’ll make sure it’s well padded around the sides.”

  “Armor?” Melli was genuinely shocked.

  Tawl nodded. “Your life is in danger. There are those who would stop at nothing to prevent the duke from getting married again.”

  Feeling rather stupid, she asked why. Prepared for a typically condescending male answer, where the facts were laid out in simplistic terms that females could easily understand, she was surprised at his forthrightness.

  “The timing for one thing. Catherine and Kylock are due to be married soon, and both parties think that their wedding will be the most important event of the decade.” Tawl cleaned the grease from his fingers with the remains of the bandage. “I don’t think either of them are going to be very pleased at being upstaged by you and the duke. In fact, most of the population of the Four Kingdoms are going to be mad as hell. At the moment they believe their king is marrying the sole heir to Bren.”

  “My marriage won’t affect Catherine’s status.”

  “It will if you have a child, and it’s a boy.”

  Melli felt a nervous flutter in her stomach. What had she gotten herself into? She was marrying a man she barely knew and who, in turn, knew nothing of her. Grabbing at the seams of her nightdress, she twisted the fabric between her fingers. He didn’t know she was Maybor’s daughter. How would the news affect him? Would he be angry at being deceived, or pleased that she was, after all, well bred and well dowered? Her social position seemed to mean little to him. Indeed, that was one of the things that most attracted her to him: the fact that he judged a woman by her character, and not her family or wealth. And then there was his power. She couldn’t imagine herself with a man who was not her equal. She needed someone strong, someone others would look up to.

  The duke was the most powerful man in the north. Single-handed, he had turned a city into a kingdom. It would only be a matter of time before he named himself a king. Melli released her grip on her nightgown. Her hands were damp with sweat. Perhaps her father would get his wish after all: she might one day be a queen.

  The strange thing was, the title itself didn’t interest her. What was the use of being a queen if all one did was wear fine clothes and a crown? No, she wanted real power, the kind the duke had promised her. She wanted to be able to make decisions and influence events, to be a partner, not a possession. There was too much of Maybor in her to play the role of a passive spouse. The duke sensed this about her, and more than accept it, he welcomed it. He wanted her by his side both in bed and the council chamber. He could have a thousand beautiful, submissive women, but he had chosen her instead. And that, more than anything else, was the reason she had agreed to marry him.

  She knew nothing about him, didn’t even know his age, and now it seemed, after listening to what Tawl said, she couldn’t even be sure of his motives. Was he marrying her to have a child? Surely not; there were many women at his court who would be more suitable mothers to a potential heir than herself. The duke believed she was illegitimate, and that was hardly the sort of legacy he would want to pass down to his son. Melli shook her head from side to side; she didn’t believe it. Even his gifts—the knife, the scabbard, and the hawk—spoke of a man who was thinking of adventure and excitement, not domestic bliss.

  Tawl brought her back to the present. “I will return within the hour, my lady,” he said gently, seeming to sense that her thoughts had taken her far away.

  She nodded. “So be it.”

  He bowed, his golden hair almost sweeping the floor as his back broadened to a curve. Turning from her, he left the room without a sound.

  Melli took a deep breath the moment the door was closed. So she would be with the duke this evening in Bren. She had left the city as a servant and would return as its mistress. It seemed too unbelievable an irony to be dismissed as mere chance.

  A log on the fire suddenly flared up, casting sparks and flames from the hearth. “Where I come from we call people like her thieves. Their fates are so strong they bend others into their service. And what they can’t bend they steal.” Alysha’s words rose up with the smoke. Had the flesh-trader’s assistant been right all those weeks ago? Was it her fate to be married to the duke? And if it was, had everything she’d done and everyone she had come in contact with led her to this? The Halcus captain, Fiscel, Bailor, perhaps even Jack and her father: had she used them all to bring herself to this point?

  Melli made no move to stamp out the sparks on the rug. She knew not one of them would catch.

  It she was to believe what Tawl said, then her marriage to the duke would have a profound effect on the future of the north.

  “My lady,” came a voice. It was her maid, Nessa. “Are you all right? You look a little pale.”

  Melli was glad of the interruption; her thoughts were taking her to a dangerous place, one where the landscape was preordained and where people were little more than accessories of fate.

  She made an effort to be bright. “I’m fine, Nessa. Don’t just stand there gawking, hurry up and help me dress. I’m leaving for Bren in less than an hour.”

  The maid came forward and began to brush out her hair. “Why miss, you’re shaking like a leaf. Are you worried about the journey?”

  Melli shook her head. She sat back a little and tried to relax. It wasn’t the journey to Bren she was worried about—no harm would come to her, she was sure of that—it was what she would have to do once she got there. The duke must be told who she was. The lie about her being illegitimate had gone on for too long. He had to know the truth. The stakes were higher than she had thought: politics, power, succession, and even war were all caught up in the match. Melli sighed heavily. It was time the duke learned that his future wife was the daughter of the richest and most influential lord in the kingdoms.

  • • •

  Jack lay flat on the ground. His legs and stomach were mired deep in the mud. It had been drizzling steadily for the last hour and he was soaked from head to foot. He barely registered the cold and the rain. He was watching Rovas’ cottage.

  The heavy clouds had forced the night’s hand, making it come earlier than spring usually allowed. Lanterns had been lit in the cottage; Jack could see their warm glow escaping through knotholes in the shutters. The fire was burning well, too, as hearty puffs of smoke came bellowing from the chimney. All in all it was a heartwarming sight. A cozy home where ivy formed a living frame around the door and where the whitewash shone a welcome for its master.

  Jack spat out a mouthful of bile. He swung his head around and scanned the road to the left. Still no sign of Rovas.

  How long he’d been lying here was hard to tell; certainly long enough for midday to turn to dusk. After he’d left the waterfall, he had come straight here. The nearer he got, the lower he stooped, until in the end he was crawling on all fours like a dog. He didn’t want them to see him. Through all his dealings with the three in the cottage, they had been the ones with all the advantages. It was they who trapped and manipulated. They who watched and monitored him like an insect under glass. Now it was time he had the upper hand.

  There was power to be gained by being an observer. Jack felt the thrill of the spy as he lay and watched the cottage from the darkness; it gave him a feeling of control. Things would move at his pace, when he was good and ready. When Rovas had returned from market, and when everyone was in their place. The element of surprise would be his.

  Jack’s ears caught the sound of something rattling in the distance. After a few moments, Rovas’ cart lurched into view. The man himself sat on top of it, a heavy cloth pulled over his back to keep out the rain. Even before he had jumped down from his seat, the door opened. Jack caught his breath. It was Tarissa.

  For hours he had kn
own that she was in the cottage. Once or twice, before the shutters had been closed, he had spotted her silhouette against the oilcloth. Yet seeing her now, in the flesh, was still a shock. Close enough to see unfamiliar lines of worry on her face, yet not so close he could hear her speak, she took the cloth from Rovas’ back and then let him through. As the door closed behind them, Jack saw her hand steal up to test the temperature of his forehead. The sight of that small intimate gesture, so casually offered and accepted, caused the last vestiges of softness to harden within Jack’s heart. They were in league with each other, there was no doubt about it. The two of them had plotted everything out right from the start. Tarissa had just pretended to love him, just as she had pretended to hate Rovas.

  Jack scrambled to his feet. His legs had been so long without weight that they buckled under him and he fell back down to the ground. “Damn!” he hissed. He was sick of being weak, angry at his body for failing him, tired of existing in a world where he had to run or hide. Rovas had a lot to answer for.

  This time when he stood, his legs stayed firm. As he walked toward the cottage they became firmer. Firm enough to kick down the door.

  Crack!

  Pain shot down his side and through his shoulder. The door hinges splintered and gave way. He heard Tarissa and Magra scream. A second kick and the door fell inward. The first person he saw was Rovas. He had a carving knife in his hand. Behind him were the two women.

  “Jack!” cried Tarissa, lunging forward.

  Rovas elbowed her back. “Stay where you are.”

  Tarissa thumped him hard in the back. The sudden burst of strength caught the smuggler off guard, and she managed to dodge round him. Arms outstretched, she ran toward Jack.

  She looked so frantic he almost gave in to her. But he didn’t. He turned to the side. “Don’t come near me, Tarissa.”

  She came anyway. The same hand, which moments earlier had reached out to touch Rovas, now reached out toward him. “You’re soaked through and hurt.” Turning to Magra, she said, “Mother, put some water to boil.”

  “Don’t bother, Magra,” said Jack. “I won’t be staying long.”

  Tarissa laid her hand upon his arm.

  Jack pulled away. “Tarissa, go outside and take Magra with you.”

  “But Jack—”

  “I said go!”

  The force of his words were so great they made her flinch. He saw her look toward her mother. Magra nodded faintly. Both women made their way to where the door once stood. As Magra stepped past him, she whispered something low, meant for his ears alone, “It’s not what you think, Jack.”

  He heard, but did not acknowledge her with either look or gesture. His eyes were on Rovas. The smuggler was standing comfortably, even cockily, resting one arm against the hearth whilst the other held the blade at his side. Despite his air of nonchalance, Jack noticed his knuckles were white above the hilt.

  Behind him he heard the two women leave the cottage. He waited a moment to give them time to walk away a little and then said, “So, Rovas. What’s your life worth to you?”

  Rovas smiled his old, familiar charming smile. “Lad, I tell you now, my life’s not yours for the taking.”

  “Isn’t it?” Jack was surprised at how cold he sounded. He stepped forward, hands by his side.

  “What you gonna do, lad?” Rovas’ voice was rising to a taunt. “Make me burst into flames?”

  Jack was across the room in one leap. Knife still at his waist, he lunged for Rovas’ throat with bare hands. The smuggler raised a fisted hand from the hearth and smashed it right into Jack’s arrow wound.

  Pain exploded in his chest. Tears filled his eyes. He went reeling backward, arms flailing, searching for something to break his fall. His flank caught the corner of the table. The point stabbed into his kidneys. The extra pain focused his reflexes and he shot his arm around to steady himself against the table edge.

  Even as he righted himself, Jack felt the flare of sorcery in his gut. His skull seemed to contract around his brain, forming a tight band of pressure round his thoughts. No. No, he willed himself. He was going to deal with Rovas alone. Quickly, desperate to do something physical, Jack grabbed at a bowl that was resting on the table. Heavy, filled with cooling chicken broth, he threw it straight into Rovas’ face.

  The smell of chicken and onions filled the air. The broth splashed over Rovas’ chin and shoulders. He brought his arm up to stop the bowl from crashing into his face. It went flying into the hearth, smashing against the stone.

  Jack tasted something salty and metallic in his mouth. It was blood. Sorcery was choking in his throat, and his desire to keep it back was so strong that he had bitten straight through his tongue. He clamped his lips tightly together, afraid of letting even a breath of power out through his mouth.

  Rovas wiped his face on his sleeve. With knife held out in front of him, he stepped forward and then to the side, effectively cutting off the entire area surrounding the hearth. Jack realized what he was doing: he was trying to claim as much of the available space as possible for his own. It was a form of intimidation, designed to make one’s opponent feel cornered. Rovas rocked on the balls of his feet, his legs slightly bent at the knee. “Come on, then, Jack,” he said. “Let’s see if you’re good enough to beat your teacher.”

  Talking was a distraction. Jack didn’t listen. He didn’t speak. He didn’t even breathe.

  He leapt forward and down, slashing at Rovas’ thighs with a blade he was hardly aware that he’d drawn. The smuggler was forced to bend low to guard himself, awkwardly arching his back. Jack felt the rake of Rovas’ knife against his shoulders. He welcomed the feeling. Anything real, any sensation, any action—even pain—was a welcome distraction to sorcery. Jack shot up from his squatting position. Raising his elbow above his head, he caught Rovas hard on the chin. The smuggler countered by trying to knee him in the groin. Jack was all reflexes. He jumped back, just enough to protect his vitals, whilst his knife came up to slash at Rovas’ leg.

  His mouth was full of blood, his lungs were bursting with spent air, and his belly was bloated with sorcery. Still he didn’t breathe. Keeping everything inside was the only way to retain control.

  The pressure in his head made him wild. Again he leapt forward, desperation his only guide. Rovas was ready this time. He stepped back, Jack saw him reach behind, and a second later something bright and coppery streaked across the space between them.

  In that fraction of an instant, Jack focused his thoughts. Not on Rovas, but on the object he held. He opened his mouth and let a wisp of sorcery out.

  “Aagh!” screamed Rovas. The heavy copper pot dropped out of his hands and onto the floor. It landed—hissing and spluttering—in a pool of chicken broth. Jack caught a glimpse of Rovas’ palm: it was seared like a piece of meat.

  Jack was shaking. He felt the warm trickle of blood down his chin. The power had lost its push and he felt free to breathe once more. There was a part of him that felt triumphant: somehow he had mastered the sorcery, managing to let out just enough to do what was needed.

  Rovas’ left hand lay limply by his side. The knife was in his right. “You’re not a man,” he hissed, drawing circles in the air with his blade, “you’re a freak of nature.”

  Filling his lungs with new air, Jack threw all his weight into his free arm and punched Rovas in the face. The smuggler’s blade caught him as he drew back. Jack was hardly aware of it. He felt strong, powerful, in charge. And it was time to make Rovas pay.

  Jack took over the fight. He knew Rovas’ moves before he made them, anticipated his defenses and countered his attacks. As soon as a weakness was spotted, it was exploited. At the first hint of an advantage, Jack was there nipping it in the bud. He allowed Rovas neither time, nor space, nor opportunity. He was younger, faster, and fitter, and he wore the man down.

  Before he knew it, Rovas was on the floor and Jack’s hands were at his throat. Both knives were long gone. Jack squeezed the red and fleshy neck, his fi
ngers pressing against the windpipe. Rovas’ eyes were wet and bulging, and blood trickled from his nose and temples. As Jack bore down on him, his tongue began to protrude from his lips. A choking noise gurgled at the back of his throat. Jack pressed harder. He could now feel the curve of the windpipe, and forcing it closed was all that mattered. The smuggler’s face began to take on a bluish tinge. The choking noise faded away, replaced by a weak hiss. Jack’s thumbs were knuckle-deep in Rovas’ throat. His mind was playing pictures of the garrison alight with flames, of the escape tunnel ending in a dirt wall, and of Tarissa reaching up to feel the temperature of Rovas’ forehead. Laughter, cruel and taunting, sounded in his ears. His thumbs dug deeper.

  “Stop! Stop!”

  Jack felt someone tugging at his arm. He lashed out blindly. He heard the skitter of pots and pans, followed by a dull thud as someone slammed against the wall. Glancing up, he saw Tarissa lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. Before he had time to react, something hard slammed into his jaw. The force of the blow sent him reeling. He fell sideways, losing his grip on Rovas’ neck. Struggling to his feet, he whipped around and was presented with the sight of Magra brandishing the same copper pot that had been used against him earlier. She had drawn it back for a second blow.

  “Get away from him,” she cried. “Or as Borc is my witness, I swear I will kill you.”

  Jack stepped away from Rovas’ body. His vision was blurred and his jaw felt as if it had been smashed with a hammer. Behind him he heard Tarissa getting to her feet.

  Magra placed the pot on the table. She went over to Rovas and knelt by his side. Putting her ear to his mouth, she listened for the sound of breathing. Her fine features were taut with worry. She looked ten years older than when Jack had seen her last. After a moment, she straightened up. “He’s alive,” she said. Her voice was oddly unemotional. Sighing heavily, she stood up. “Fetch me some water, Tarissa, and a little soured wine.”