The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  “Keep me locked up here too long,” she said, “and you run the risk that I might escape.” There was little jest in her words. Somehow, from a moment of pure elation, things had rapidly slid backward into doubt. Why did he insist on keeping her away from his court? And why did he want to marry her so quickly? She believed that he loved her, but he seemed too calculating a man to be swept away by adolescent eagerness. Indeed, the manner in which he was pacing around the room whilst thinking out loud gave the impression he was planning a military campaign, not a wedding.

  “I promise you won’t have to wait much longer,” he said, coming toward her for what she knew would be a farewell kiss.

  “Tell me something before you go,” she said. “Will the fact that I’m from the kingdoms have any effect on the marriage between your daughter and Kylock?”

  The duke gave her a long, appraising look. “The marriage will go ahead as planned.”

  That was not what she asked, and he knew it. Before she could challenge him further, he was opening the door. “I must go. I have a meeting to attend. Tomorrow I will arrange to have Bailor take you to the treasury and you can choose a ring.” He bowed formally and then left the room.

  Melli fell backward onto the rug. The meeting had left her dissatisfied. She suspected that she had been expertly manipulated, yet she couldn’t put her finger on exactly how. After all, the duke had forgiven her for all her lies and obviously did not care whether she was a noblewoman or a bastard. Taking a deep breath, she stood up. She was probably reading too much into everything. The duke loved her, he wanted to marry her, and if he had to wed her sooner for political reasons, then that was hardly an unforgivable sin. She could not blame him for acting like the leader he was.

  Crossing over to the bed, she felt something warm and sticky trickle down the back of her arm. Reaching up to touch it, she knew what it was before she saw it: blood. She had cut herself on a sliver of glass.

  • • •

  Baralis knew it was unwise to take even a half measure of his painkilling drug, but he took it all the same. He had a meeting with the duke—his first in several weeks—and he needed to be clear-headed. Of late the scar ringing his chest had troubled him greatly, and he had now reached the point where pain clouded judgment every bit as much as drugs.

  The bitter taste suited both his palate and his mood, and he swallowed the powder dry. Things were not going well. The duke had been avoiding him for too long, canceling meetings, running off to his hunting lodge in the mountains, and declining all requests for an audience. Delay tactics. The man did not want to be pinned down on a date for the wedding of Kylock and Catherine. Now, with events coming to a head in Halcus, and Kylock busy striking side deals with the knighthood, it looked likely that the duke might back out of the match altogether. Or at least try to.

  Baralis idly stroked the fur of Maybor’s dog. She was his creature now. She lay by his feet luxuriating in the warmth of the fire, snoring faintly and smelling of her last meal. Crope liked to spoil her, giving her the tenderest sweetmeats and the bloodiest livers, warming them first between his hands until they were the temperature of living flesh. Baralis smiled to himself. He might control the dog’s will, but her heart and her stomach belonged to Crope.

  He knew it was time to leave—the duke would not like to be kept waiting—but he felt disinclined to rush to His Grace’s summons like a paid lackey, or an overzealous merchant. It was time the duke realized that the king’s chancellor was not a man to be toyed with. Besides, he felt weary to the bone. He had just come from talking to the duke’s handler, and at first the man had been unwilling to admit that he had read the message which came tied to the bird. The compulsion which followed, whilst successfully loosening the handler’s tongue, had drained Baralis of all his strength.

  It was worth it, though. He now knew exactly what Kylock was up to with Tyren. The only problem was that so did the duke. That was what made Baralis nervous: the summons to the meeting had come only hours after the eagle had landed.

  An ensorcelled bird was like a woman who wore too much fragrance: her arrival could be sensed before she was seen, and her presence lingered long after she was gone. Baralis knew the moment the eagle touched down in the palace dovecote. He waited an hour to allow time for the message to be passed on, and then he paid the handler a visit. Normally he wouldn’t bother with such petty investigations, but ever since the day in the courtyard, when he had experienced an extreme sensation of foreboding, he was reluctant to let even the smallest incident go unquestioned.

  Something was not going to plan. Every stretch of scarred flesh on his body pulled and tingled a warning. The only thing he knew for certain was that a girl was involved. Larn had told him that much. His own vision had confirmed who it was. Baralis began to massage his pained hands. He could think of no reason why the dark and lovely Melliandra would be a threat to him. She was a disgraced runaway, nothing more. It made no sense.

  Even without a prophecy on his back, he knew that events did not bode well. Kylock was bringing the Halcus to their knees. That one simple fact was sending shock waves to the four corners of the Known Lands. All eyes were turned to the north and there was now no mistaking what they saw: an empire in the making. There was little doubt in Baralis’ mind that the duke was currently planning ways to limit Bren’s involvement. After reading Kylock’s letter of this morning, his need was more pressing than ever.

  Baralis stood up. The dog went to follow him, but he waved her back down. Things would have been different if only Kylock had waited to show his teeth. The boy was turning out to be a military genius—winning a war that had long gone stagnant—but he had acted too soon. The marriage should have been consummated before as much as a single soldier crossed the River Nestor. If he had been in the kingdoms, not stuck here in Bren waiting upon a duke conspicuous by his absence, he could have controlled the pace and order of events. The new king might have talent on the battlefield, but he was too young and inexperienced for the subtleties of politics.

  As Baralis made his way along the tall stone corridors to the duke’s chambers, his step was heavy. He could not guess why the Hawk had called the meeting, but he was shrewd enough to know that the man was up to no good.

  He was greeted by a guard who was expecting him. Shown through to a private staircase, he climbed up the short flight of stairs toward a heavy bronze door.

  The door swung open. “Ah, Lord Baralis. I was wondering what had become of you.” The duke beckoned him in. “I thought perhaps my messenger had failed to find you.”

  Baralis made no attempt to fill the ensuing silence with excuses. Let His Grace think whatever he wanted.

  The duke was standing in the middle of a large reception room. He beckoned Baralis to sit.

  “I will stand, if you don’t mind, Your Grace.”

  The duke shrugged. “As you please.” He walked over to the window and pulled back the metal shutters. “It is a fine day, is it not, Lord Baralis?”

  “Yes. If you speak purely of the weather.” Baralis strolled over to the duke’s desk. It was covered with maps and charts. He recognized the shape of the kingdoms amongst them.

  “I speak of all things, Lord Baralis.” The duke was smiling, his eyes skimming the lake. “Everything is fine today.”

  Baralis did not like the way the man sounded. “Perhaps you should tell me what you’re so pleased about, Your Grace. I for one see nothing to inspire such satisfaction.”

  “You’re a little sour for a man who is about to receive good news.”

  “Most things turn sour when they have been kept waiting too long.”

  The Hawk spun around. “Then I shall make you wait no longer. You know why I have summoned you here?”

  “I know why you have failed to summon me before now.”

  “I admit I have been somewhat slow in setting a firm date for my daughter’s marriage, but I intend to rectify that, here, today.” The duke stepped forward. “Tell me, Lord Baralis, does
two months hence seem fair warning to you?”

  This was the last thing Baralis had expected. He had come to the meeting with the belief that the duke would delay him further, either that or attempt to back out of the match completely. He hid his surprise. “Two months will take us into summer. That appears to be satisfactory. I will, of course, require written proof of your intent.” Baralis expected the duke to balk at his request, but the man merely nodded.

  “You will have it within a week. I will set my scribes scribing and my lawyers lawyering. Do you need anything else?”

  Suspicion replaced surprise. The duke was being too accommodating. “Might I ask Your Grace what has brought on his sudden urge to name the day?”

  “Certainly, Lord Baralis. Catherine came to me yesterday and begged me to set a date.” The duke smiled smoothly. “What father can refuse a daughter’s plea?”

  He was lying, Baralis was sure of it. “How strange she never thought to plead before now.”

  “Come now, Baralis. I would have thought you’ve had enough experience with women to know that the one thing they are is unpredictable.” The duke was looking rather pleased with himself.

  “When exactly did you become so indulgent over women?”

  The acid-toned question had a marked effect on the duke. His smile petered to a thin line and his brows came down to meet his nose. He cut abruptly across the room. “I have more important things to do with my time than trade barbs with you, Lord Baralis. I have said my piece, now make your arrangements.”

  Baralis was not so easily dismissed. “When can I make the official announcement?”

  “I will make the official announcement, Lord Baralis. The Feast of First Sowing is in four nights time; I shall do it then.”

  “That will leave me no time to consult with the king.”

  “I can always put it off, if you wish.”

  Baralis did not like this one little bit, but as the duke was well aware, an announcement without royal clearance was better than no announcement at all. “That will not be necessary. First Sowing is fine.”

  “I thought that would be agreeable to you.” The duke gave Baralis a shrewd look. “You may go now. I trust you will be discreet until I make my decision public.” He turned his back and began to look over the contents of his desk.

  Baralis had no choice but to bow and leave.

  Thirty-one

  Maybor thought he was going mad. He had heard it happened to people who did not eat enough meat, but each month he personally ate enough pork and venison to supply an entire village for a year. So he couldn’t understand it. Now, if it had been fish, it would have been a different matter altogether. Fish was the food of women and priests and he never, ever, ate it unless it was well stuffed with meat.

  The thing that was fueling his fancy was that on two occasions over the past few days he could swear he’d seen his daughter wandering around the palace. Just this morning, less than an hour ago, he had been making his way—discreetly, of course—from a certain lady’s chamber. Hearing footsteps, he’d looked around to see a girl walking in the distance. The sight of the tall slim figure with dark hair falling to her waist set his heart aflutter. It looked like Melliandra. A golden-haired man walked behind her. Forgetting discretion, Maybor followed the two, hoping to catch a glimpse of the girl’s face. They walked down a series of corridors and stairs, and finally disappeared behind a heavy bronze door. The girl never turned around once.

  The moment she disappeared, Maybor began to doubt that she was his daughter at all. Probably just some young noblewoman who happened to share Melliandra’s height and coloring. He tried to dismiss the incident as folly, but it played on his mind. Twice he had seen the mysterious girl and each time he could have sworn she was his daughter. Which, in Maybor’s reckoning, made him either a madman or a fool.

  Melliandra could be anywhere in the north. He had written to his son Kedrac asking him to offer a reward to any man who found her, but so far no one had come forward. Maybor rubbed his jowls. If only he was there himself. He would personally see to it that his daughter was found. If nothing else, he was a man who could make things happen.

  Though only in the kingdoms. And that was, as he saw it, the real reason behind his madness: he was sick of being stuck in a city where he wielded no real power and where no one realized just how wealthy and influential he was. It was enough to drive Borc himself insane! Indeed, if he remembered his scriptures correctly, toward the end Borc was overcome with visions of his long lost family. Perhaps he had stayed too long in Bren, as well!

  “More meat, Prisk,” he called to his manservant. Thinking for a moment, he added, “And bring me some fish, too—a meaty one, mind, not a fishy one.” A man could never be too careful in matters concerning his sanity.

  Prisk, a skinny man with a birthmark the size of a cucumber running across his face, stood his ground and coughed, which was his way of letting his master know that he had something to say to him.

  “What is it, Prisk?” barked Maybor. “Speak. Don’t stand there coughing like a man with the ’tubes.”

  “A message from the duke, my lord. He requests a brief meeting with you in the privacy of his chambers.”

  Maybor rose up and slapped the man in the face. “How dare you not tell me before now?” He turned his back on the stunned servant. “Fetch me my cloak, the red one lined with ermine. And cut me a lemon for my breath.”

  Minutes later, Maybor was striding through the palace looking like a king. Later perhaps, after he had seen the duke, he might pay a visit to his ladyfriend; it would be a shame for such magnificence to go to waste.

  As he passed through the great hall, he spotted someone he hadn’t seen for several days: Baralis. The man was walking along with Shark at his side. When he saw Maybor, he changed his course. The dog followed him like a shadow.

  “Good morning, Lord Maybor,” said Baralis, his voice rich with contempt. “Attending a coronation, are we?” His eyes swept across Maybor’s cloak.

  Shark growled right on cue. Maybor could hardly believe that Shark, his Shark, was growling at him. A quick scan around was enough to ensure him that there were too many people present for Baralis to get up to any funny stuff. “What have you done with my dog?” he demanded.

  “My dog, now, I think,” corrected Baralis. He stroked the dog’s ears lovingly. “I have quite a way with animals, you know.”

  Maybor wanted to draw his sword and hack the man’s head off. He had loved that dog! True, he had always been a little afraid of it, but he had grown very fond of it toward the end. And to watch it rubbing up against Baralis’ leg, like a she-cat in heat, was more than he could stand. “You have bewitched it,” he hissed.

  “And you, Lord Maybor,” said Baralis with irritating calmness, “trained it to kill me.”

  “Prove it.”

  Baralis smiled softly. “The fact that the attempt failed is proof enough for me.”

  “You think you’re so clever, don’t you, Baralis? But it won’t be long before you’re sent back to the kingdoms with your tail between your legs. The duke has no intention of marrying his daughter to Kylock.” Maybor was quite sure of what he said; after all, the duke had been dragging his heels over naming a date for weeks. Now, with Kylock rapidly closing in on the Halcus capital, he was less likely to agree to the match than ever.

  Baralis actually laughed. “Oh, Lord Maybor, you are woefully misinformed. Particularly for a man whose title is king’s envoy.” Baralis brought his hand to his chin, as if deep in thought. “But then, you are envoy to a dead king. Lesketh did spend the best part of winter in his grave.”

  Maybor was rapidly losing his temper. He spoke between gritted teeth, spittle escaping with his words. “What is your point, Baralis?”

  “My point, Lord Maybor, is that the duke and I have already decided upon a date for the wedding. If you weren’t so busy training dogs and dressing up like royalty, then you might have discovered that for yourself.”

 
; “How dare you!”

  Baralis swooped close. “No. How dare you, Lord Maybor? Any more attempts on my life like the last one, and I will smite you down where you stand.” He pulled away, eyes flashing with hatred. “And after our last little encounter in this hall, you know that is no idle threat.”

  Both men stood glaring at each other for a moment.

  Baralis finally turned away. Tapping Shark gently on her neck, he said, “Come my precious, let us leave this place. Your old master has things to do—like acquaint himself with current events, for one thing.” He inclined his head to Maybor and then cut a path toward the kitchens. Shark matched him step for step.

  Maybor watched them go. He hated Baralis with a loathing so deep he felt it in his bones and in his blood. The man was a demon.

  Smoothing down his robe, Maybor looked around the hall. No one was close enough to have heard what was said. A young maid with a milk yoke across her shoulders, and a pleasing plumpness about her waist, caught his eye and smiled. He turned away. He had too much on his mind for even the briefest of flirtations. For one thing, he was late for the duke. Though he now felt less inclined to be prompt than he had five minutes ago. If what Baralis had said was true, then he and the duke had decided upon the wedding date and the arrangements without once consulting him. It was an outrage! As king’s envoy he should have been party to all meetings concerning the match. Maybor flew up the stairs. He would have a few choice words to say to His Grace. Madman he might be, but he was nobody’s fool.

  Arriving at the entrance to the duke’s chamber, Maybor was greeted by a plainly dressed guard. The man waved him through to a discreet flight of stairs. Maybor could not help but appreciate the arrangement, as the staircase meant the duke’s chamber was actually on a separate, higher level than the entrance. Good for both security and privacy. When he finally got out of this Borc-forsaken city, he would have something similar built in his Eastlands estate.

  The door at the top was heavy and imposing, and as it was unguarded, Maybor opened it for himself. He found himself in a large reception room. The duke, who had been standing by his desk studying various papers, came forward to meet him.