by J. V. Jones
“No, Mother.” Tarissa stepped forward and shook her head. “I’m going to see to Jack.”
The two women looked at each other. After a moment Magra shrugged. “Do whatever you have to.” She turned and walked toward the larder.
“Jack,” said Tarissa softly. “Are you all right? You’re covered in blood.” She raised her hand nervously, afraid to touch him, yet wanting to all the same.
“I’m fine.” Jack stepped away from her. He was confused and tired, drained of all strength and emotion.
“We were so worried about you,” said Tarissa quickly. Her eyes were bright with tears. “Rovas has been staking out the garrison. When you didn’t turn up that night I didn’t know what to think. I couldn’t sleep or eat.”
“You should be on the stage, Tarissa.”
“What do you mean?”
Jack spoke quietly; he was too exhausted for anger. “You know very well what I mean. The tunnel was blocked. You and Rovas sent me running into a dirt wall.”
Tarissa’s mouth fell open. “But Jack—”
“No,” he raised his hand, “I don’t want to hear any more lies.”
“I’m not lying.” Tarissa’s spirit was returning. Her cheeks were red and blotched. “Every day since you left we’ve been out looking for you. As soon as I learned you were captured, I begged Rovas to try and rescue you.”
“Didn’t do it though, did he?” Jack’s voice was sharp.
“No. It was too risky. We were going to leave it until the day they took you for questioning.”
Jack shook his head. “Look, Tarissa, I don’t care what you say. Rovas wanted me dead. He sent me into the garrison knowing the tunnel was blocked.” He hung his head down; looking at Tarissa only confused him further. He didn’t know what to believe.
“I didn’t know the tunnel was blocked.” There was an edge to her voice now. “I waited all night for you. It was morning before I left the tunnel entrance.”
In the background Magra tended to Rovas. The smuggler was regaining consciousness. His coughing and spluttering was a sign to Jack to move on. He hadn’t achieved anything by coming here. It had been a mistake. Better to go now and never return.
Jack glanced around the room looking for his knife. He spotted it lying underneath the table. Bending down to retrieve it, he said softly, “I know you lied about Melli being killed. I need to know what became of her.” Hearing Tarissa’s sudden intake of breath, he braced himself for another lie.
“I’m sorry, Jack,” she said, her small pink lips quivering. “The whole thing was set in motion before we even knew you. After that it was too late.”
“Set in motion,” repeated Jack, anger flaring fast. “You mean when you and Rovas deliberately set out to lure me into acting as your personal assassin.”
“It wasn’t like that.” Large tears rolled down Tarissa’s cheeks.
His hand enclosed around the knife’s hilt and he stood up. “I don’t care anymore. Just tell me what happened to Melli.”
Tarissa wiped her face. “She was sold to a flesh-trader called Fiscel. He took her east toward Bren.”
“Was that where he was going to sell her?”
“I don’t know. He might have headed south once he crossed the mountains.”
“That’s all you know?”
“Yes.”
Jack looked into the hazel of her eyes. He was sure she was speaking the truth. “Put some supplies in a bag for me: food, water, clothing, you know the sort of thing.”
“You’re not going?” Tarissa looked horrified. “You’re wet and you’re bleeding. You can’t go.”
“Watch me.” Jack made his voice harsh—he was afraid of giving in to her. Stepping over the door, he made his way outside into the cool night air.
Tarissa followed him. “Take me with you,” she said.
Jack shook his head. “No.”
She grabbed hold of his hand. “Please, Jack. Please. I’m sorry about the lies. I never wanted to hurt you. I tried to tell you about Melli that day by the pool.”
“It’s too late, Tarissa.” He pulled his hand free. “Get back inside. Don’t bother with the supplies.”
She fell down to her knees and clutched at his britches. “Jack, don’t leave me. Please, I beg you.” Her voice was high, almost hysterical. “Take me with you. There’s nothing for me here. I hate Rovas.”
“Stop lying, Tarissa.” Gently he pried her fingers away from the fabric. The temptation to bend down and take her into his arms was so great that he had to turn his back on her.
“Please, Jack,” she said, kneeling forward on the wet ground. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“I can never trust you again, Tarissa. Never.” He cursed his voice for breaking. He couldn’t look back now—if he did she might see the tears in his eyes. He began to walk away.
“Where are you going?” she cried. Her voice sounded small and frightened.
“East,” he said softly.
The wind picked up, brushing his hair into his face and carrying the sound of Tarissa’s sobbing straight to his ears. He didn’t stop. He carried on walking, step after step taking him further away from the woman he loved.
Thirty
It was a beautiful morning in Bren. The rain that had dogged the city for seven full days had finally stopped and everything—the sky, the streets, the buildings, and even the people—was brighter because of it. The sun shone gold, giving out the first real warmth of the year, and the fragrance of mountain flowers was carried on the breeze. Women dressed more boldly than they had in months, walking the streets with hips that held messages in their sway. Men leaned out of windows to watch them pass, puffing out their chests and whistling like songbirds. Spring had come to the city by the lake, late as usual, but glorious nonetheless.
Madame Thornypurse ordered the maid to open the shutters. As a rule she didn’t like fresh air—it caused the rat oil to evaporate faster—but it was spring, and as a businesswoman and a lady of the world, it was her job to make the proper seasonal adjustments. Men’s fancies turned to lust in spring, and nothing, absolutely nothing, was as good at attracting that fancy as a house full of whores.
Just this week she had taken on three new girls, each and every one of them good and plump, with bellies as round as cheeses and thighs as wide as milk churns. Not a beauty amongst them. That didn’t matter; crooked teeth, a few pockmarks, and a sallow complexion could either be hidden, disguised, or overlooked. A pancake for a bottom, however, was a flaw far too serious to ignore. Men needed a good handful down there.
“Sister, dear,” came a voice from behind, “might I offer a humble suggestion?”
Madame Thornypurse turned to face her sister, Mistress Greal. Two weeks ago, about the time her beloved Corsella went missing, Mistress Greal had arrived from the kingdoms. Sadly, she had lost her looks. Two of her front teeth were missing, and her left wrist was curiously misshapen. Ringed with broken bones, it looked as if she were wearing a strange, primitive bracelet. Madame Thornypurse would have liked to question Mistress Greal about the mishaps and her reasons for leaving Duvitt, but she was a little afraid of her older sister and so tactfully held her tongue.
“Yes, dearest sister. I treasure your advice as if it were Tyro gold.”
“Get those lazy good for nothing girls off their buttocks and make them stand by the windows. At the moment the only thing they’re liable to catch is a cold.”
Madame Thornypurse nodded. Her sister’s suggestion was, rather annoyingly, a good one. She clapped her hands. “Girls! Girls! Go to the windows and call to every man who passes.”
“And pull your dresses down low, so they can see your wares,” added Mistress Greal sharply.
The girls moaned and scowled and adjusted their ruffles downward. They went over to the windows, casting resentful glances toward Mistress Greal as they settled themselves against the sills. Madame Thornypurse had noticed that none of the girls liked her sister very much, but they always obeyed her.<
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“May I be so bold as to make another suggestion, sister dear?”
“Certainly, dearest sister.”
Mistress Greal came forward and laid her good hand upon her sister’s arm. “We need to invest in a great beauty.”
“We do?” Madame Thornypurse admired her sister greatly, yet she couldn’t help feeling a touch of peevishness. It seemed that Mistress Greal was intent on running her business. In just over two weeks she had taken over the ordering of food and drink, started supervising the maids, and now, it seemed, she dared to challenge her choice of girls!
“Yes, sister dear. The last girls you acquired are all a little, how should I put it . . . ?” Mistress Greal’s thin nose went into the air like a dairyman sniffing for mold. “Ugly.”
“Ugly?” Madame Thornypurse spat out the word.
Mistress Greal’s good hand squeezed like a vise. “Don’t take on, sister dear. I meant no offense. They’ll all as plump as sausages and I’m sure you got them cheap, but we need one girl, just one, whose beauty is so compelling that tales of it travel throughout the city. The beauty of that one girl will draw men here by the dozens.”
“But a single girl can only service four men in one night.”
“Aha! There you have it.” Mistress Greal’s crooked finger poked against the flesh of her sister’s arm. “Most of the men will have to settle for the other girls instead.”
“But won’t they just leave?”
“Not after two glasses of my Duvitt special brew, they won’t.” Mistress Greal smiled thinly, lips pressed together to hide her stretch of toothless gum. “Once men have had a few, one woman begins to look much like another. We’ll snuff out most of the candles, block off the chimney to increase the smoke, and serve them the strong stuff. They won’t be able to see their hands in front of their faces, let alone tell the difference between a filly and a mare.” Mistress Greal was triumphant. “The secret, sister dear, is to get them here in the first place.”
Madame Thornypurse tried to find flaws in her sister’s reasoning, but came up blank. “It does sound rather profitable.”
“It’s the oldest business practice in the Known Lands, sister dear: bait and switch.”
“Bait and switch?”
Mistress Greal nodded. “In your own small way you were doing it before Corsella went missing. My niece was quite beautiful enough to attract men from far and wide.”
Madame Thornypurse was torn between indignation over the phrase your own small way and pride at having her beloved daughter complimented. Pride won. “She takes after me, you know. Everyone says so.”
“Beauty runs in our family, sister dear.” Mistress Greal’s hand rose to her bony breast. “It breaks my heart that I haven’t been able to see my precious niece. Do the bailiffs have any idea what has become of her?”
Madame Thornypurse sighed heavily. “No, they say she will turn up sooner or later. I pray to Borc each night to keep her safe.”
“Sister dear, come and lie down,” said Mistress Greal. “I can see you’re upset. I’ll have the maid send in a drop of brandy.”
“You loved Corsella, didn’t you, dearest sister? You sent her all those gifts: the necklaces, the bracelets . . .”
“She was like a daughter to me, sister dear. When you were ill with the pox that time, I looked after her as if she were my own.” Mistress Greal pulled herself up to her full height. “If any man has harmed as much as a hair on her head, I swear I will see him in hell for it.”
On hearing her sister’s words, Madame Thornypurse felt a warm glow in her heart. Mistress Greal might be many things—overbearing, bossy, and shrill to name but a few—but she was, above all, a woman of her word.
A sudden distraction caused both women to turn toward the windows. The girls were shouting and cheering. One of them, a sweet-looking girl with a harelip, turned around. “We’ve got one, madame. He’s on his way in right now.”
Madame Thornypurse rubbed her hands together. “And so early in the day, too.” She nodded graciously to her sister. “Wise as ever, Mistress Greal.”
Mistress Greal inclined her head like a queen. “You know me, Madame Thornypurse: anything to improve business.”
Both women went to the door. Due to Madame Thornypurse’s sore foot, Mistress Greal got there first. She swung open the door. A man, lean and travel-weary, waited on the other side. “Good morning, kind sir,” she said. “Are you looking for a little comfort?”
“That, some decent food, and a bed for the night, if you’ve got one.” The man spat out a wad of snatch and ground it into the step with the heel of his boot.
“Come in, come in,” said Madame Thornypurse, pushing her sister out of the way. “Hot food, a warm bed, and the comeliest girls in Bren await you.”
“After you’ve put down a small deposit first, of course,” added Mistress Greal.
The man pulled out his purse and pressed a gold coin into her palm. “Now, woman,” he said, “run along and fetch me some ale.”
Mistress Greal had little choice but to do his bidding. Off she went, her skirts swishing violently in protest.
Madame Thornypurse turned toward the man; she linked her arm around his and smiled coquettishly—she at least had all her front teeth. Leading him into the room, she said, “So, handsome sir, what do they call you at home?”
“Traff. They call me Traff.” The man was busy eyeing up the girls.
“And what line of work are you in, Traff?” Madame Thornypurse beckoned over her two best: Dolly and Moxie. The girls came quickly, giggling and jiggling, just as they’d been taught.
The man reached out a hand to squeeze Moxie’s breast: “I’m a mercenary.”
Madame Thornypurse was well pleased. His kind always had cash, or the means to get it. “So, what brings you to our fair city?” She disengaged herself from his arm, freeing it up for Dolly. If she was lucky, he’d pay for both of them.
Traff’s mouth twisted to a bitter smile. “I’ve come to find my betrothed,” he said.
• • •
Tawl knocked softly and then let himself in. Melli was standing in the middle of the room, legs apart, arms out, brandishing her silver blade at an imaginary foe. The instant she saw him she blushed and dropped her arms to her sides.
“You might have knocked,” she said.
“I did. You might have listened.”
Tawl could see her deciding whether to frown or smile. Over the past few days he had learned that Melli’s emotions were always written openly on her face. Fear, joy, pain, anger, and most commonly, indignation, could be seen flashing regularly across her eyes, bending the curve of her lips, and raising the furrows on her brow. Even her skin tone changed. She could never hide a thing.
“Well, knock louder next time,” she said, settling for half a frown.
Tawl bowed in acknowledgment of the reprimand. He came over to her and laid his hands on her shoulders. “When you have a real opponent to wield your blade at, don’t stand so rigidly, bend your knees a little.” He pressed her down to the right position, tilting her back and raising her arms. “This way there’ll be less chance of being thrown off balance.” His hand closed around her fingers as he felt how she held the knife. Gently, he adjusted her grip to the correct position. “Your wrist, on the other hand, should never be bent. Or all the strength in your shoulders and flank will go to waste.” Demonstrating his point, he ran his fingers along the muscles in her side and shoulders. “If you bend your wrist, you break the line, and the only muscle you’ll be left with is your forearm. You try and stab a man like that and at best you’ll strain your wrist, at worst you’ll break it.”
All the time he was speaking, Tawl was acutely aware of Melli’s nearness. She smelled fresh and clean. Her dark hair shone brilliantly and her skin was so smooth it was like touching sun-warmed marble. She had been in the duke’s palace for four days now, and her appearance changed everytime he saw her. She was growing stronger and plumper, the dark circles around her
eyes had disappeared, and there was color in her cheeks. Gone was the thin, pale girl he had first set eyes on. In her place was a woman, strong and vibrant, with a mind and will of her own.
He was beginning to realize what the duke saw in her.
The precautions for the ride had proven unnecessary. Tawl was almost certain that the falconer had spoken to no one before he was confined, and therefore tales of the proposal had no chance to spread. The only danger during the journey had been the incessant rain. The ground quickly became slippery and waterlogged, and the horses had to be prodded into making every step. Fearing for Melli’s health, he had stripped off his outer cloak and wrapped it around her. Looking back sometime later, he had caught a glimpse of her face. She looked ill: skin gray and shiny, lips drawn together in pain. Lifting her from her own horse, he had put her on the back of his. The ride had taken nine hours, where normally it took six, and Melli spent most of it resting against his back, hands clinging around his waist, silent all the way.
The duke had come down to the stables to greet them when they arrived. By this time they had both dismounted, and Melli never mentioned the fact that she had ridden most of the way at Tawl’s back. Neither did he. Tawl saw the way that the duke looked at his bride-to-be, and although the man had encouraged him to become friends with Melli, he doubted if he would be pleased to learn that for nearly half a day they had sat so close to each other that even the rain couldn’t come between them.
For Tawl the journey had been a time to think. Brought up in the marshlands, he loved the rain. He grew up to the sound of it falling. The taste, smell, and touch of it brought back memories older than the woman he rode with. His earliest recollection was lying in his cradle, listening to the slow drip of water as it leaked through the thatch. His mother never bothered having the roof repaired, she said there was never enough money to pay the thatcher, but Tawl suspected she liked to watch the raindrops as much as he. After the rain had stopped was the best of all. His mother would gather all the water from the waiting pots and pans, put it into her best copper pot, add various herbs and spices, and then warm it over a gentle flame. Nothing in his life had ever tasted better than his mother’s rainwater holk.
