by J. V. Jones
“Where is the entrance?”
Nabber came padding up behind him. “Middle panel behind the altar.”
Tawl was there before the words left Nabber’s lips. He tore the panel from the wall. Complete darkness met his eyes. He went forward anyway—a candle would only slow him down. There was a single staircase leading upward. Tawl took the steps four at a time. Minutes later, the staircase came to an abrupt end.
Unable to see anything, Tawl felt the obstruction: wood. Probably some sort of door. Backing away for an instant, he slammed his shoulder into the panel. It cracked, sending splinters stabbing into his flesh. He hardly felt them. Again he brought his weight down. There was something heavy on the other side. He started kicking at the wood. Light began to steal in through the breaks in the door. Tawl made out the shape of a large desk. Someone had dragged it in front of the entrance.
His ear picked up the sound of a woman screaming. Melli! Gathering all the strength in his body, Tawl crashed into the door. The desk shifted back a hand’s length. It was enough. He broke through the door and slipped into the space between the entrance and the desk. There was no screaming now. Grabbing hold of the desktop, he pushed it back, sending it thudding to the floor. Behind him he heard Nabber scrambling through the remains of the door.
“Stay where you are,” he warned. The noise stopped instantly.
Tawl was in a small room. A body lay in a pool of blood beside the desk. A guard: his throat had been slit. Tawl had no time for the dead. He looked around. He wasn’t familiar with the duke’s chambers, but he’d seen enough to know that they were large, with many rooms. Taking a deep breath, he drew his blade, then made his way toward the door. He passed into a room he was familiar with: the duke’s study. The large doors at the opposite side of the room marked the only entrance to the chambers. Or what he’d thought was the only entrance. The duke had been a fool not to tell him about the secret passageway.
Spinning around, Tawl turned to face the second door. It had to lead to the bedchamber. It was closed. He stepped lightly toward it. The screaming had stopped, which meant Melli was either injured, dead, or silenced by the assassin. Tawl guessed that the assassin knew he was in the chamber; the break-in had made a lot of noise. He proceeded cautiously.
He reached the door and pushed gently against it with his foot. As it swung back he stepped back against the wall, out of sight.
“Stay where you are,” came a voice from inside. “Or I’ll cut her open.”
Her open? That meant the duke might already be dead. Tawl heard the sound of footsteps and the rustle of silk.
“Back away,” said the voice. “I’m coming through and I’ve got the girl.”
Slowly Tawl shifted away from the door. As he moved back, he knocked against a bureau. Reaching out a hand to prevent it falling over, Tawl’s fingers brushed over a candlestick. Instinctively he grabbed hold of it, keeping it hidden behind his back.
Melli emerged first through the door. Tawl took a sharp intake of breath. Her face, neck, and chest were sprayed with blood. Her hair was tangled; there were dark stains on her dress. She stepped forward just enough for Tawl to see the knife at her back.
“Throw down your blade,” said the one holding the knife. “Now!”
Tawl bent low. He sent the blade skittering forward. It landed at Melli’s feet. She looked at him for one brief moment. Her eyes were bright with tears. She was shaking, terrified. Tawl nodded at her. She stepped forward and with her came the assassin. Turning his head, he spotted Tawl. “Get back,” he screamed.
Behind his back, Tawl altered his grip on the candlestick. Just as he began to step away, out shot his arm. He flung the candlestick straight at the man’s face. Tawl leapt after it. Landing right at Melli’s side, he pushed her out of the way, sending her careening forward. “Go!” he cried.
Even as the syllable left his lips, he felt the knife in his side. Pain exploded in his body. Anger flared with it. He swung around and punched the assassin in the jaw. The blade was up again, but his fist was faster. Elbow followed fist and the assassin was forced back against the door frame. Tawl felt hot blood running down his thigh. He grabbed hold of the man’s wrist. His left arm pitted against the man’s right. It was deadlock. The assassin’s grip held firm.
An idea flashed through Tawl’s mind. A second later he eased up his grip on the knife. The assassin smiled, thinking he’d got the better of him. The smile was Tawl’s cue. Drawing back his head, he whipped it forward, butting the assassin squarely in the nose with his forehead. Bone cracked. Blood flared. The man screamed. Tawl slammed the assassin’s wrist into the door frame, forcing him to drop the knife. Ignoring the reeling in his head, Tawl punched the man’s face again—right on the broken nose, sending splinters of bone flying back toward his brain. The assassin swayed, losing his footing. Tawl let him fall, using the time to snatch the knife from the floor.
By the time the assassin reached the ground he was dead, his own blade in his heart.
Tawl slumped against the door frame. Melli came rushing forward. “I told you to go,” he said between ragged breaths.
She pushed past him, stepped over the assassin’s body, and rushed through to the bedchamber. Turning around, Tawl saw her kneel by the body of the duke. He pressed his fist into the knife wound in his side and came to kneel beside her. Like the guard, the duke’s throat had been cut.
“He’s dead,” he whispered, putting his arm around Melli’s shoulder. “It was a clean blow.”
Giant tears ran down Melli’s cheeks. She didn’t turn to look at him. She didn’t say a word.
“Come with me,” he said softly. “You can’t stay here.” Already his mind was racing ahead. Melli was in great danger. They would have to leave the palace tonight, before the body was discovered. He did not want to risk her being implicated in the murder; better by far for her to be safely away.
“He was waiting in the bedchamber for us.” Her voice was devoid of emotion. “He just jumped out and . . .”
“Ssh.” Tawl took hold of her hand. “Come with me. You’re not safe here.” He pulled, but she would not move. Her other hand was clasped around the duke’s. She brought it to her lips and kissed each finger one by one. Gently she took them into her mouth and sucked upon the tips.
Tawl looked up to see Nabber standing in the doorway. “Get Lord Maybor,” he mouthed to the boy. Melli was in shock; she needed someone familiar to help her round. Nabber scurried off. Tawl stood up and went over to the bed. Lilies and rose petals were strewn over the covers. The marriage had not been consummated—so legally it wasn’t even a marriage. Melli would have no rights, everything would go to Catherine. Kylock would have Bren after all.
Grabbing hold of the top cover, he pulled it from the bed. Petals went flying into the air. Tawl crossed back to Melli and placed the blanket over her shoulders. She was sucking on the duke’s thumb and didn’t even acknowledge the gesture. Tawl brushed the hair from her face; it was sticky with blood. The bodice of her dress was wet with tears. There was nothing he could do to help her.
Feeling useless, Tawl left the room. He was impatient. He didn’t know how much time they had. He doubted if any of the fighting or screaming had been overheard by the guards; they were one floor down, on the other side of two separate sets of doors. But the one who sent the assassin might raise the alarm. It was probably Baralis, acting with Catherine’s help. In all likelihood the duke’s daughter would have known about the secret passage. Tawl tore a strip from his tunic and bound it tightly around his side, stopping the flow of blood. If Catherine was somehow involved with the murder, then Melli was in even worse danger. Catherine hated her with a vengeance. She would have Melli imprisoned or executed. She was duchess of Bren now, she could do what she liked.
“Where is she?” It was Maybor, striding into the room with Nabber at his tail. “Where is Melliandra?”
“She is in the bedchamber with the duke,” said Tawl, putting a restraining arm upon the lor
d. “Be gentle with her.”
Maybor nodded. “I will.”
Tawl and Nabber watched as Maybor stepped into the bedchamber. Tawl put his arm out and rubbed the pocket’s hair. “You did well, Nabber. I’m proud of you.”
Nabber looked grave. “No, Tawl. It was you who did the good stuff. I was just the messenger.”
Tawl shook his head slowly. “I failed, Nabber. I failed again.”
Maybor appeared in the doorway. Melli was at his side, leaning heavily against him. Her eyes were focused upon some distant point.
“Come on,” said Tawl. “Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?” asked Maybor.
“We need to get Melli—” Tawl corrected himself “—Melliandra out of the palace. Her life is in danger if she stays here. Catherine will come after her once the news is out.”
“You’re right,” said Maybor heavily. He pulled a piece of paper from his tunic. “I know of a place we can go.” He handed it to Tawl.
Written upon it was an address. “Whose house is this?” Tawl asked.
“Lord Cravin’s. It’s on the south side of the city. He said I could use it if I ever had need.”
“We’ll head there, then.” Tawl turned to Nabber. “Do you know any way we can get out of here without being spotted?” He wasn’t at all surprised when the pocket nodded.
“Yes. By the entrance to the passage, on the opposite side of the stairs, there’s a hole we can squeeze through. Once we’re on the other side, I can have us out of this place in no time. The whole place is riddled with tunnels. Course some of them are a bit smelly, and old Lord Maybor here is going to have a hard time fitting through the gap.” Nabber gave Maybor an appraising glance. “Reckon we’ll have to make it bigger for him.”
“Enough, Nabber.” Tawl’s voice was hard. “We’ll manage. Now come on.” He led the small party through the duke’s chamber and then down the staircase. As Nabber predicted, the gap was too small for Maybor. Tawl took the hilt of his knife and chipped away at the stone piece by piece. Once through the ventilation hole, Nabber guided them out of the palace and into the darkness of the city.
It was a cold and moonless night in Bren. There were neither stars nor people to bear witness to their passing. The wind howled from the surface of the Great Lake, and as the four sped through the streets to safety, it seemed to push them on their way.
Thirty-six
Baralis sat at his new desk in his new apartments and smiled. Two weeks the old duke had been dead now. Two exquisitely perfect weeks.
Everything had worked out beautifully, better than he could have ever hoped. The duke was cold in his grave; Traff was dead, and so could tell no tales, or name no names; Melliandra had fled the palace—the marriage obviously not consummated, so not only was there no possibility of an heir, but she had no legal claim on the duke’s estate either; and lastly, Maybor had gone with her. After all these months he’d finally succeeded in ridding himself of the vain and meddlesome lord. Fate was surely his partner for the dance.
As he thought, Baralis cut the string surrounding a bundle of books. Just this morning the courier had arrived from Bevlin’s cottage, and resting on the desk before him lay the first of many deliveries. If he was lucky he might discover why the wiseman had sent the knight on a quest. If he was unlucky he simply received a few more books to add to his library. Baralis slipped off the leather wrapping and glanced at what lay beneath: some interesting books, indeed.
The knight and his little party were still somewhere in the city. On Baralis’ instructions all the gates were being monitored closely, so he would know if they left. He had promised Larn that much. Tomorrow he intended to persuade the newly bereaved Catherine to mount a door-to-door search of the city. He doubted if they would be found that way, but it looked good nonetheless. The duchess should be seen to be actively pursuing her father’s murderers. Or at least those suspected of it.
Oh, the theories abounded as to who had murdered the duke: a rogue assassin working alone; an old lover of Melliandra who couldn’t bear to see her wed; Tawl, the duke’s own champion on a mission from Valdis; and of course the lady herself, Maybor’s daughter, who never really loved the duke, just craved his power and wealth. Traff’s body had been found: the knife the duke had been killed with embedded deep within his heart. At this point in time the city of Bren didn’t know whether to call the mysterious dead man a murderer or a hero. Baralis’ lips shaped a slow smile. It really was most delicious.
The fact that Tawl and Melliandra had fled the murder scene added impetus to the rumors of their guilt. Innocent people stay and face their accusers; it is the guilty who need to hide. A commonly held misconception it may be, but one it was never wise to go against. Everyone in Bren was looking to blame the murder of their beloved duke on someone, and what better candidates than the two runaways, a traitorous knight and a foreign whore?
Baralis began to idly flick through Bevlin’s books. Dealing with Catherine had been his greatest challenge. The morning after the murder she had come to him. Furious, confused, tears streaking down her beautiful face, she had demanded to know why her father had been killed. He had been expecting her. The wine he gave her was drugged. Nothing much: a mere relaxant with a little something extra added to ensure her pliability. The potion was a fitting accompaniment to his words. He told Catherine his account of the evening. He explained that when the assassin burst into the room ready to slit Melliandra’s scrawny little throat, he found the duke already dead, and Melli abed with the duke’s champion. Tawl and the assassin had fought, and the assassin had sadly lost.
Two things added weight to his tale: first, the duke’s own physicians had concluded that the knife found in the assassin’s heart was the murder weapon; and secondly, Catherine hated Tawl with a zealous frenzy. She was eager to believe his guilt: he had killed her lover. It did not take much to convince her that he had killed her father as well.
Catherine was now firmly in his court. The new duchess was allowing herself to be guided by him. Each day she would come to him, drink a glass of tainted wine, brush her plump lips against his cheek, and then listen eagerly to his advice. Her decisions were his decisions. Her orders were his orders. He was running Bren now. The marriage to Kylock would go ahead.
Once the official mourning period of forty days and forty nights was over, Catherine would wed Kylock here in the city. Nothing could stop his plans now. Nothing.
Even Kylock himself was playing his part well. Having conquered all of western Halcus, and taken the capital Helch, the young king had actually shown some restraint. Instead of continuing on and attempting to defeat the entire country, Kylock had sued for peace. The whole of the north had heaved a collective sigh of relief at the news. Baralis was well pleased. He could not have asked for better timing; this latest move of Kylock’s had served to pacify Annis and Highwall. The two cities would now be less likely to hinder the joining of Bren and the kingdoms. Both powers had secretly been building up their armies for months and were in the position to raise powerful objections. War was inevitable, but it was far better that it be delayed until everything was in place. Annis and Highwall were still on their guard at the moment, after a few months of peace they would not be quite so alert.
Kylock would undoubtedly fare well in the coming peace talks with the Halcus. After his military success in the capital, he was in a strong position to negotiate and would doubtless come away from the parley with a good slice of enemy territory in his pocket. The Halcus warlords were no fools; they would rather give up a quarter of their domain than risk Kylock claiming all of it in yet another bloody war. The first meeting with the Halcus warlords was to take place this night, in Kylock’s encampment just outside Helch. Baralis began flicking through another of Bevlin’s books. It would be most interesting to see what the morning would bring.
Finding nothing of interest in the book he had just picked up, Baralis moved on to the next one. It was a very old copy of Marod’s Book of Word
s. He very nearly decided not to bother with it at all—every minor clergyman and half-witted scholar in the Known Lands had a copy of Marod—but there was something about the delicate patina on the sheep’s hide cover that caught his eye. The book was not merely old, it was ancient.
As he turned the pages, his excitement began to grow. Clearly discernible beneath the text lay ghosts of words: pale fragments of what had once been written and then later washed away. The paper had been twice used. A thrill of pure joy raced down Baralis’ spine. This was one of the four original Galder copies. It was a well-known fact that Marod had died penniless and that Galder, his servant, unable to buy new paper, had been forced to write over old manuscripts. Baralis began to treat the book with a new respect; it was more valuable than a chest’s worth of jewels.
Holding it up to the light, he began to examine the paper more thoroughly. As he tilted it toward the candle’s flame, something slipped from the book. A marker. Baralis caught the silk ribbon before it fell out all the way. Holding it in his hand, he opened the book on the page it had marked. It was a verse. At first glance he thought he knew it, but as he read on, he realized that the version he was familiar with was subtly different from the one before him:
When men of honor lose sight of their cause
When three bloods are savored in one day
Two houses will meet in wedlock and wealth
And what forms at the join is decay
A man will come with neither father nor mother
But sister as lover
And stay the hand of the plague
The stones will be sundered, the temple will fall
The dark empire’s expansion will end at his call
And only the fool knows the truth
By the time he had finished reading it, Baralis’ heart was thumping like a drum. The verse spoke of the marriage between Catherine and Kylock. It predicted the empire he intended to build and it named a man who could destroy it. Baralis took a deep breath, trying to steady the shaking of his hand and pounding of his heart. It was all here, written on this page. Everything. Three bloods were savored on the night of Kylock’s begetting—he had tasted them. The men of honor were the knights—ever since Tyren had taken over the leadership gold had been their only cause.
