by J. V. Jones
Yes, thought Baralis, he would have to be careful what he said to Catherine. The girl could not be relied upon.
“It is not your father who I am interested in, it is his wife. Once they are wed, Melliandra will not leave his side. The duke’s weak points will become hers.”
“I want that woman dead.” There was no hesitation in Catherine’s voice now. “Her and her precious protector, the duke’s champion.”
Baralis came and sat beside her. He took her hand in his. “Have no fear, my sweet Catherine, I will take care of both of them for you.”
“And my father?”
“I have no quarrel with him,” lied Baralis. “He will be left well alone.”
Relief flashed across Catherine’s face. She worked quickly to conceal it. “Once that woman is out of the way, Father will come to his senses.”
She was wrong, very wrong. If only Melliandra were murdered, the duke could go on and wed another woman, have another child, and Catherine’s inheritance would be threatened once more. Baralis could not allow that to happen. What was Catherine’s would soon be Kylock’s. And what was Kylock’s was his.
“Go now, my sweet Catherine. I will arrange everything.” He pulled her up off the bed. “You need not concern yourself with the details.”
“Will you do the deed yourself?” she asked as he guided her toward the door.
“No. I have someone in mind who will do it for me.” Baralis rested his hand on the door latch. A certain mercenary named Traff would do the deed.
“And will you use the secret passage?”
Baralis brought his finger to his lips. Catherine was asking too many questions. Opening the door, he checked that no one was in sight. Just before he let her go, he placed a kiss upon her lips. Catherine leaned forward to meet him. He pulled away before the kiss had a chance to become anything further. “Trust me,” he whispered, just before he closed the door.
Thirty-four
Jack was dreaming about Melli again. Somehow she had stolen into his old recurring dream about the city with high battlements. She was trapped behind the walls, unable to escape. In the distance he heard a noise: a shouting, angry mob. Only when the noise grew louder did he realize it was not part of his dream. He opened his eyes. He was in a small storeroom that had been hastily adapted for sleep. There were no windows, so it was dark. Panicking slightly, Jack stood up. His head brushed against something—drying herbs from the smell of them. Back bent to avoid them, he made his way toward the door.
Stillfox was leaning out of a window. As soon as he heard Jack enter the room, he drew back the shutters. “Gave me quite a shock there, lad,” he said, patting the area of his chest where his heart lay.
“I’m sorry. I came to find out what the noise was.”
“Helch has just surrendered to Kylock. He gave them little choice. He burned the entire city. Only the castle remains intact. All of Annis is up in arms about it. People have taken to the streets in protest . . .”
Stillfox carried on, but Jack was no longer listening. He stood very still as the world went black around him. This time he didn’t fight it. Kylock had taken Helch. The war had just begun.
• • •
Baralis glided through the streets of Bren, his feet barely touching the filth. It was early morning, and the rising sun cast his shadow long before him. As he approached Brotheling Street, he slowed his pace. He spied an old man rummaging amidst the refuse in an open drain. He would do.
“You,” he said, approaching the man. “Which of these brothels is kept by a woman with no front teeth?” To ensure his question was answered promptly, Baralis drew the slightest of compulsions around his words. Time was of the essence today.
The old man opened a mouth ringed with sores. “Madame Thornypurse has a sister with no front teeth. Her place is the red-shuttered building to the left.” The man looked confused, as if he barely comprehended what he was saying, or why.
Baralis inclined his head to the man. He contemplated throwing him a coin in payment, then thought better of it. Why waste money paying for something that had already been freely given? He turned on his heel and headed toward the building which the old man had described.
He knocked loudly upon the door. A few moments later a woman answered. Seeing him, the ridiculous creature made a great show of primping her hair and smoothing down her dress. “Yes, handsome sir, can I help you?”
She had all her teeth, though crooked and yellow as they were, they did her no favors. “Who am I speaking to?” he demanded.
The woman curtsied like a blushing maiden. “Madame Thornypurse, proprietor of this fine establishment.”
“Have you a man named Traff staying here?” Baralis caught the unmistakable odor of dead rats in his nostrils.
The woman’s hand fluttered to her chest. She was just about to speak when a second woman pushed her aside.
“We never divulge the names of our customers,” she said. It was the woman with no front teeth.
Baralis, recognizing an opening for bribery, pulled a gold coin from his cloak. “I have important business to discuss with Traff,” he said, pressing the cool coin into the waiting palm of the woman with no front teeth.
“Come inside, noble sir,” she said. “I will bring Traff to you.”
He was led into a large, untidy room where several young girls lay sleeping on the floor. “Do you have anywhere less public where we can talk?”
“Of course,” said the woman who smelled of dead rats.
“Though it will cost you extra,” added the woman with no front teeth.
Another gold coin changed hands and Baralis was ushered into a small, dimly lit room near the back of the building. There was one window in the room and the shutter was firmly closed.
The door opened and in walked Traff. The mercenary made a point of chewing on his snatch for a moment before spitting it out and speaking. “What do you want, Baralis?” He pulled his hand knife from his belt and began to clean the dirt from under his nails with the blade.
Baralis regarded the mercenary coolly. Traff did not look in a good way. His hair was greasy, his clothes were dirty, and he now boasted a short beard. Flakes of snatch nestled within the bristles. The dirt he cleaned from his fingertips was the color of dried blood. “Been in a fight?”
Traff looked up. “None that I’ve lost.”
The mercenary was as insolent as ever. Baralis decided to get straight to the point. “Have you heard that the duke is to marry Maybor’s daughter?”
Traff flung his knife across the room. It flew past Baralis and landed embedded in the wall. “No one will marry Melli,” he said.
Baralis had a defensive drawing ready upon his lips, but on hearing Traff’s words he breathed it back into his lungs. He didn’t know what caused the mercenary’s anger, but he could use it. “My thoughts exactly, my friend,” murmured Baralis. “I don’t want Melliandra wed, either.”
“Why?” Traff was suddenly more interested.
“Because I want Bren to remain Catherine’s. If Melliandra weds the duke and then gives birth to a male child, Catherine will no longer inherit her father’s title.” The truth suited Baralis for the moment.
“What are you planning to do?”
“I plan to murder the duke.” Baralis took a guess at Traff’s motives. “As for Melliandra, you can do what you want with her.”
Traff licked his lips. “How do you plan to do this?”
Baralis permitted himself a tiny smile of self-congratulation. It seemed as if he’d guessed right: Traff was enamored of Maybor’s daughter. It had probably happened when the mercenary had been sent out to capture her. Baralis began to feel more confident. Fate was once again on his side.
He took a short breath and looked Traff straight in the eye. “I want you to help me. The wedding will take place in private tomorrow. When the couple returns to their chambers after the ceremony, I want you and your knife to pay them a visit. I know of a secret passageway leading from the serv
ants’ chapel to the duke’s quarters. You will use that to gain entry.” Baralis paused briefly as he reshaped his plans to meet with Traff’s needs. The mercenary wanted Melliandra for his own. So, if Traff was going to run away with her, then the newly wed couple must not—under any circumstances—be allowed to consummate the marriage. Baralis could not risk Melliandra popping up a few months later, claiming to be carrying the duke’s child. “You must be waiting for them the moment they return from the chapel.”
Traff gave Baralis a long, hard look. “How do I know I can trust you?”
“You can’t. The only thing you can be certain of is that I will be waiting by the entrance to the passageway to make sure you have done the job. From the kitchens, it will be easy for you and Melliandra to make your escape. I will make all the necessary arrangements.” Baralis stepped forward and rested his hand on Traff’s arm. “I won’t ask what you want with the girl. That’s not my concern.”
Traff drew back from the touch. “Will there be any guards in the duke’s chamber?”
“Just one. I will make sure he receives a little something in his ale to slow him down.” Poisoning guards was easy: no one tasted their food.
“I want five hundred golds in my possession by the end of the day.”
“Done.” Baralis moved toward the door. “Crope will see to it. Be waiting on the east side of the palace, close to the servants’ entrance tomorrow at sundown. I will come for you.” Just as he was about to leave, Traff surprised him by asking:
“Is Melli in love with the duke?”
Baralis recognized the glint of obsession in the mercenary’s eye. He was not displeased. “No. Her father is forcing her into it.”
As he had hoped, Traff was pleased with the answer. The mercenary smiled thinly. “I guessed as much. I will be there tomorrow.”
“Good. Do not be late.” Baralis turned and left the room. The woman who smelled of dead rats rushed to greet him, but he shook her off. He found his own way out.
Baralis was in a good mood as he traveled back to the palace. The meeting with Traff had gone better than he could possibly have imagined. The fact that the mercenary was infatuated with Maybor’s daughter made everything easy. Traff had jumped at the chance to murder the duke. Events were moving in his favor once more. Picking up his pace, Baralis rushed across the city. He had much to do today; there was gold to be procured, poison to be made, and guards to be reminded of their obligations.
• • •
Mistress Greal was shin-deep in sewage. She barely smelled it. She was busy extracting a large splinter from her cheek. With her good hand, she gripped at the wooden tip and then pulled as hard as she could. The pain was excruciating. The splinter had gone deep, and as it came out, it brought blood welling to the surface. Mistress Greal counted herself quite fortunate: a finger’s breadth higher and it could have been her eye. She made no attempt to stop the bleeding. What was a little blood compared to what she had just heard?
Pressing her ear against a certain wood shutter had been the cause of her injury. Curiosity was what brought her outside in the first place.
As soon as the dark nobleman came to the door, she knew he was from the Four Kingdoms. When he asked to see the mercenary, her interest was piqued. While her sister went off to fetch Traff, Mistress Greal made her way outside. She waded through the filth at the side of the building to the back wall. Once there she positioned herself close to the window and listened to the conversation between man and mercenary. Her surprise at finding out that the mysterious nobleman was none other than Lord Baralis, king’s chancellor, was quickly overwhelmed by the greater surprise of hearing what he planned to do.
Mistress Greal had been listening at doors, windows, walls, floorboards, and screens all her life. It was amazing what a poor spinster woman could pick up if she had sharp ears and a good nose for intrigue. Mistress Greal had both. As a matter of habit, she routinely eavesdropped on her girls, her customers, her rivals, and most recently her sister, Madame Thornypurse. She’d heard casual gossip, lots of petty arguments, more than a few useful business tips, and many unpleasant remarks about herself. But never once in all the years she’d spent pointing her batlike ears where they had not been invited had she come across anything to match the scale of what she’d just heard.
A plot to assassinate the duke of Bren! It was a blackmailer’s dream. Mistress Greal stood amidst the warm and stinking sewage and contemplated what to do next. Should she act now and prevent the murder from going ahead? Or should she bide her time until the deed was done and only then make her move? Raising her hand to her face, Mistress Greal rubbed a finger across her lips. She felt the all too familiar concavity that marked the absence of teeth. Teeth that had been knocked out by Lord Maybor. The very man who was father of the bride.
Mistress Greal’s small eyes narrowed to slits. She would let the murder go ahead. Lord Maybor would suffer more that way; he would lose both his daughter, and his chance to be related by marriage to the duke. Yes, she would keep her little secret until the harm had been done. Not only was there more satisfaction to be gained that way, but also more money: everyone knew it was more profitable to be a blackmailer than an informant. Feeling rather pleased with herself, Mistress Greal headed back toward the brothel, wading slowly through the filth.
• • •
“There, boy,” said Stillfox, handing him a peculiar wooden cup. “Drink some of the lacus; it will help to bring you round.”
Jack’s world gradually began to expand outward once more. His field of vision, which upon hearing that Helch had surrendered to Kylock had narrowed to a darkened pinpoint, now enlarged enough for him to see the cup and the hand that held it. The drink’s strong but fragrant odor seemed to act like a charm, dispelling the reek of slowly decaying corpses from his nostrils and his thoughts.
He had been there! To the Halcus capital. He had stood amidst the carnage that Kylock had created. There, and so many other places, whether in the future or the past, he did not know. He had seen the truth of war. It was not the sum of glorious fights and flashing blades and men bound by honor. It was bloody, dirty, and disorganized. Flies, fever, infection, mud, tainted water, and starvation. Victory came to the most ruthless, not the bravest. Jack had seen the bodies of young children, their mothers raped and mutilated by their sides; he had seen young men bleeding to death from the groin, their manhood and testicles hacked off; he had seen old women wandering aimlessly through a city whose streets were red with blood. Jack had seen enough to know that Kylock was the most ruthless of all.
Yet what difference did it make to him? He had no part in anything.
Feeling weary and confused, Jack brought the cup to his lips. The silvery fluid reached out to meet his tongue. It tasted sharp and pungent, strange and yet familiar in one. He felt its progress as it slipped down his throat and nudged itself into his belly. Once there it grew heavy like a many-course feast.
“Don’t fight it, Jack,” said Stillfox. “It wants to make you sleep.”
“Why?”
“The lacus likes to work on a slumbering body and a still mind.” Stillfox ran his hand over his cleanly shaven chin. His expression was serious. “Drink up lad, you are very weak.”
Jack drained the cup dry. There was something about the liquid that caused it to tingle against his gums. It left a metallic aftertaste in his mouth. “Is there sorcery within the drink?” he asked.
Stillfox nodded, a faint smile gracing his pale lips. “Not my doing, though. We have the nomads of the Great Plains to thank for that.” He stood up and began to busy himself about the cottage, hanging herbs and putting pots on to boil.
Jack yawned. He could still hear the sound of shouting from outside. “How long was I . . .”
“Entranced?” Stillfox looked up; he was pulverizing bark with a pestle. “For the best part of an hour, I would say. You completely withdrew into yourself. Your eyes were open, but they were not seeing what was before them. Your skin became col
d and the color left your cheeks. You were no longer in my home.” The man who was almost, but not quite, old gave Jack a questioning look.
Jack wondered how much to tell him. Who was he? Could he trust him? Since arriving in the herbalist’s cottage the day before, Stillfox had said very little. He had been too busy to talk: tending wounds, making medicines, cooking food, and seeing to his herbs. Jack appreciated the silence. Stillfox had asked no questions, and he was grateful for that. Normally Jack would have trusted the man completely, judging his intentions by the kindness of his actions. Things were different now. His time at Rovas’ cottage had taught him that appearances could be deceptive, and that even a smiling face could be a treacherous one.
“What did you mean when you said you recognized one of your own?” As Jack spoke, he realized how tired he was feeling. The lacus nestled in his belly, slowing his blood and thickening his thoughts. He fought against it, in defiance of Stillfox’s advice.
“I am a sorcerer like you,” said Stillfox.
Jack had quickly learned that the herbalist had two voices: a lilting country voice which he spoke with most of the time, and a strong plain-speaking voice which he only used when the conversation took a serious turn. It was the second voice he spoke with now.
“I am a modest practitioner. Occasionally I enhance the healing properties of my herbs, but not often. Sometimes I communicate with wisemen far away, and once in a while I am forced to draw in self-defense.” Stillfox shrugged. “I am not a powerful man like you.”
Jack felt the quick flare of anger. “I’m not powerful, and I’m not a sorcerer.” He squeezed the wooden cup between his hands, determined to ruin its perfect smoothness.
“Don’t make a liar of yourself, Jack. You know I speak the truth.” Stillfox’s voice had a matching edge of anger. “The longer you insist on denying what you are, the more damage you will do. Look what happened at the garrison. You were out of control. You didn’t have the slightest idea how to stop what you started. Sheer desperation—nothing more—put an end to the destruction.” The herbalist was trembling. “You’re dangerous and it’s time you learned how to control yourself.”
