by J. V. Jones
“Well, after what happened to King Hirayus, he’s all but done it.”
Bodger shook his head slowly. “Terrible thing that, Grift. The peace tent is supposed to be sacred ground.”
“Nothing’s sacred to Kylock, Bodger.”
As Bodger lifted his head to nod in agreement, he spotted a familiar figure in the crowd ahead. “Hey, Grift, isn’t that young Nabber over there?” Bodger didn’t wait for Grift’s reply. He dashed straight ahead, shouting loudly, “Nabber! Nabber! Over here!”
Nabber looked around. He was on an important mission and was under direct orders not to loiter, but loitering was in his soul and the sound of his own voice was music to his ears. At once he recognized the distinctly mismatched forms of Bodger and Grift. They looked wet, miserable, down on their luck and, most alarmingly to Nabber, sober as a pair of bailiffs. What was the world coming to?
Bodger ran toward him, a huge grin spreading across his face. “How are you, my friend? It’s good to see you. Me and Grift were worried sick about you after the night—”
“The night we parted ways,” interrupted Grift, flashing Bodger a cautionary glance.
Nabber gently disengaged himself from Bodger’s spiderlike grip. He brushed down his tunic and smoothed back his hair. “Always a pleasure, gentlemen,” he said with a small bow.
“Are you still coping with your loss?” asked Bodger in a peculiar meaningful whisper.
“Loss? What loss was that?”
“Your dearly departed mother, of course. You used to spend all your time in the chapel praying for her soul.”
Nabber’s whole demeanor changed: his shoulders dropped, his back arched, his lips extended to a pout. “It still grieves me every day, Bodger,” he murmured tragically. The sight of Bodger and Grift’s sympathetic nodding made Nabber feel bad. Swift would not have approved of him taking his mother’s name in vain. Pockets were notoriously sentimental when it came to their mothers. Why, Swift himself had loved his own mother so much that he had named one of his most famous moves after her: the Diddley Delve. A thoroughly sneaky and ingenious move that could deprive any man of valuables he’d concealed about his vitals. Apparently nothing had been safe from Ma Diddley. Nabber hadn’t yet aspired to the dizzy heights of the Diddley Delve, and in fact wasn’t quite sure he ever wanted to.
Feeling a little guilty about stringing the two guards along, and feeling a lot guilty about them being out on the streets with no prospects—after all, he was partly responsible for it—prompted Nabber to make them an offer. “If you are looking for shelter, some hot food, and a chance to protect a certain high-born lady, then I know just the place you can go.” As he spoke, Nabber shook his head slowly. No doubt about it, there’d be trouble with Tawl for this. Guilt would be the death of him.
“What place?” asked Grift, suddenly interested. It was telling that he never asked what lady.
Nabber crooked his finger and drew both guards close. In his lowest and most furtive whisper, Nabber gave out the address of the hideaway. “Knock three times on the door, and when someone comes tell them you’re there to deliver the snails. Say Nabber sent you.” There, it was done now. Tawl would have to take the two guards in—either that, or murder them. Moving quickly along from that particular unsettling thought, Nabber said, “Anyway, I must be going. I have a message to deliver to the palace.”
He was just about to step away when Grift caught at his arm. “You’re a fool if you go to the palace, Nabber,” he said. “If you’re caught by Baralis, Borc alone can save you.”
Nabber freed himself from the guard’s grip, smoothed down the fabric of his sleeve, and tipped a bow. “Thanks for the advice, Grift. I’ll bear it in mind. See you later.” With that he was off, losing himself in the crowd as only a pocket could.
He didn’t look back. It was getting late and Maybor would be anxiously awaiting his return. Nabber shrugged to himself. He could put it down to the rain: a street full of watery sewage on the move could slow a man down quite considerably.
It really was quite a pity he was on a mission, as by far the best time for pocketing was during rain showers. People jostling into each other, cloaks held above their heads, eyes down—it was perfect. A man could round up a lot of coinage in the rain. Maybe he could put in a little pocketin’ later, after the note was delivered. It would certainly be a good idea to keep out of Tawl’s way. The knight would be mad as hell about Bodger and Grift turning up on the doorstep, and even madder about the note.
Nabber felt in his tunic: still there. Dry as an archbishop in a desert, and yet another thing to feel guilty about. The problem was that Tawl didn’t know about the plan. He and Maybor had concocted this between themselves, and Nabber was quite sure that the knight would not like it one little bit. It was a gamble, there were risks—which in fact was why Nabber had agreed to it in the first place: he could never resist a risk—and, at the end of the day, nothing to gain from the whole thing, only a little personal satisfaction on Maybor’s part. Still, Nabber understood the need for personal satisfaction—Swift himself had lived for it. Besides, he liked to be out and about. Being cooped up in the hideaway all day with Tawl, Melli, and Maybor was not his idea of fun. Deals needed to be struck, pockets needed to be lightened, cash needed to circulate, and he was the man to do it.
Before he knew it, Nabber found himself by the storm conduit. Bren had no sewer systems to speak of, but it did have a system of drains and tunnels that prevented the city from becoming waterlogged during the countless storms and rain showers that came down all year round from the mountains. The problem was, as Nabber saw it, that the city lay between the mountains and the lake. Any water that ran off the mountains wanted naturally, as all water did, to join with its larger watery friends, and Bren was stuck right in the middle of the course of least resistance. Hence the network of storm channels and drains that were built to divert the water both around and under the city.
The duke’s palace—or was it the duchess’ palace now?—being situated right on the shore of the Great Lake, was naturally well-supplied with such tunnels. And it was to one of these that Nabber had made his way. Of course he hadn’t counted on the rain. He was going to get very wet, might even catch his death. There was one consolation, though: all the spiders would have drowned. Nabber hated spiders.
A quick look left, a quick look right, no one around for the moment, so off with the grille. With speed and agility that would have brought a tear to Swift’s eye, Nabber swung himself down into the drain channel. His feet landed, splash, in a stream of cold, smelly, and fast-rising water. He quickly shunted up the wall, dragged the grille back in place, and then jumped down into the water. Knee-deep now. He had to get a move on; he didn’t want it reaching his neck. No, sir. No dead spiders down his tunic.
The smell was appalling. The rain brought out the worst in a city, churning up long-dried horse dung and slops, carrying blood from the knacker’s yard, grease from the tallow drums, and bearing a circus full of carcasses along in the swell. By the looks of things, everything had ended up here, down under the palace. Nabber took a last longing look around—there were lots of interesting-looking floaters that were crying out to be investigated—and then entered the full darkness of the tunnels.
This was familiar territory. No one loved the dark as much as pockets. Nabber’s feet found their way with little prompting whilst his eyes searched out lightness in the shade. Up and up he went. Stone staircases wet with slime welcomed him, barrel-ceilings lined with moss echoed his every move, water rushed ahead of him on its way to the lake, and shadows and dead spiders trailed behind.
At last he came to the entrance he needed: the one in the nobles’ quarters. Putting his eye to the breach in the stone, Nabber looked out onto a broad quiet corridor that was lined with old suits of armor. He knew it well. Busy with servants on their way to light fires and warm baths in early morning, it was as still as a chapel by midday. Guards only patrolled here once an hour, and most noblemen were wel
l away by now. Nabber took a deep breath, briefly asked for Swift’s own luck, set in motion the opening mechanism, and then stepped onto the hallowed ground of the palace.
Feeling a peculiar mixture of excitement and fear, the young pocket made his way to Baralis’ quarters. He had a letter to deliver, an answer to be waited upon, and his own skin to be saved at all costs.
“Concentrate, Jack. Concentrate!”
Stillfox’s voice was tiny, immeasurably distant. Outside of time. Still, such was the power of the human voice that Jack found himself obeying it anyway. He had to concentrate. His consciousness plunged to his belly whilst his thoughts focused on the glass.
“Warm it, Jack. Don’t smash it.”
Every muscle tensing, every hair on end, both eyeballs drying for want of a blink, Jack tried to do what Stillfox asked. He sent himself—there was no other word for it, he sent that which made him who he was, what rested in his mind and bounded his thoughts—outside of his body toward the glass. It was terrifying. The terrible vulnerability of forsaking one’s body, combined with the bittersweet lightness of the soul. How could men do this? he wondered. How could Baralis and Stillfox and Borc knows who else ever get used to the shock?
“Careful, Jack. You’re wavering.”
Part of him wanted to shout out, “Let me waver, then.” Better half in his body than not at all. Instead, Jack concentrated harder. Through the thin, busy particles of air he traveled, to the hard slick surface of the glass. Only when he got there it wasn’t hard. It was slick, but strangely soft: malleable as lead, running like slow honey or a fine summer cheese. He felt the downward push of the glass and began to understand how false and artificial its current state was. It had been shaped unnaturally by man and was quietly fighting its constraints. It would take centuries, perhaps eons, before it reverted back, but it would eventually succeed. Nothing had a memory as long as glass.
Jack knew all this without as much as a single coherent thought. He just knew it, that was all. He also knew, in something more akin to instinct than intellect, that the glass would welcome the warming. It would not fight him. The warming would bring it that much closer to its goal.
Strangely, it was this knowledge that empowered Jack. No longer a man with a whip, he became a man with a key. Gently, so gently, tiptoeing with his mind, he melded with the elements of the glass. Fear skirted periphery-close, but he paid it no heed; nothing mattered—only the join. If Stillfox spoke now, Jack didn’t hear him.
He became aware of the vibration of the glass: strong, unwavering, almost hypnotic. Jack felt himself falling in time with it. How right it felt, how very right.
“Jack! Be careful! You’re losing yourself.” Stillfox’s words carried more weight than speech alone; they were heavy with sorcery. Jack felt the other man’s power. It was repugnant to him. The glass was his, and he would brook no interference. Then suddenly, something was forcing its way between him and the glass, a sliver of thought turned to light. It acted like a wrench, cleaving apart the join. Jack fought it aggressively. He had been rocked into quiescence by the vibration of the glass, and now he was a giant awakened. No longer warm, the glass grew hot. An orange line began to glow around the rim.
“Jack, I command you be gone!”
Jack felt a powerful shearing, saw a bright flash of light, and then he was torn away from the glass. As he sped back to his body, the glass exploded outward, sending chunks of molten glass flying through the air. Even as he settled himself within flesh and blood, the fragments hit him. Scorching, sizzling, cracking like whips, they landed on his chest and on his arms. Jack, dizzy with the shock of returning, shot up from the chair. His tunic was smoldering, the skin burning beneath. Too new in his body to feel pain, Jack could only feel horror. He had to get away from the glass. Pulling at his tunic, he tore it from his shoulders. Gobs of hardening glass tinkled onto the floor.
The moment the pain started, Jack was hit from behind by a wave of coldness. Reflex-quick, he spun round. Stillfox was standing close by; a large empty bucket rested, dripping, in his hand. Water. The herbalist had poured water on him. He took a step forward. “Jack—”
“Leave me alone, Stillfox,” cried Jack, raising his arm in warning. Tired and disorientated, he was shaking from head to foot. “You shouldn’t have interfered. I had it. I was in control.”
Stillfox’s voice rose to a matching anger. “You fool. You were in control of nothing. The glass was controlling you. You nearly lost yourself to it.”
Searing pinpoints of pain goaded Jack into a rage. “I tell you the glass was mine!” He beat his fist against his side.
The herbalist shook his head slowly. He let the bucket drop to the floor. When he spoke, he pronounced his words very carefully. “Make an error in judgment like that again, Jack, and I swear it will be your last. I will not step in and save you a second time. I am nobody’s nursemaid.”
Abruptly, he turned and made his way toward the door. Without looking round he said, “There is ointment in the rag-stoppered jar above the fireplace. See to your burns.” The door banged shut behind him.
Jack immediately slumped into the chair. The anger, which had fired his blood only moments earlier, left his body with his very next breath. He felt hollow without it . . . and ashamed. Bringing his head down toward his knees, Jack rubbed both hands against his face. How could he have been so stupid? Stillfox was right; he had lost control, losing himself to the vibration of the glass. It had been so hard to resist, though: a siren’s song. Jack searched his mind and came up with a few choice baking curses, which he hissed with venom. How was he ever going to learn to master the power inside?
Ten weeks now he’d been with Stillfox. Ten weeks since the aging herbalist had found him hiding in the bushes on Annis’ west road and taken him in. Ten weeks of instruction and straining and failure. Every attempt to draw power seemed to end in disaster. Stillfox had been patient at first, slowing his pace, whispering words of encouragement and advice, but by now even Stillfox was losing his patience.
Jack rubbed his temples. He was making so little progress. Sometimes it seemed as if he could only draw power when there were real dangers: real-life situations that stirred the rage within. Here in Stillfox’s quiet cottage, nestled in a sleepy village ten leagues short of Annis and a mountain’s girth west of Bren, all the dangers seemed like insignificant ones. There was no one threatening his safety; he wasn’t being hunted, threatened, or conned. The few people he cared about were in no danger, and judging from what Stillfox had told him about the war, it appeared that things were calming down in the north. With nothing and no one to fight for, it was hard for Jack to summon rage and direct it toward a glass, or whatever else the herbalist set before him. These things weren’t important to him—skill alone wasn’t worth fighting for. There had to be some emotional attachment: someone or something to get angry about. For the first month he had been unable to draw forth anything unless he focused his mind on Tarissa.
Tarissa. The pain in Jack’s arms and chest flared to a blaze as her name skimmed across his thoughts. He stood up, kicking the chair behind him. He would not think of her. She was in the past, long gone, as good as dead. He refused to keep her alive in his thoughts. She had lied and betrayed him, and no amount of tears or pleading would ever make it right. Magra, Rovas, Tarissa—those three deserved each other. And he had been so stupid and gullible that he good as deserved them, too.
Jack walked over to the fireplace and picked up the rag-stoppered jar from the mantel. Over the past few months Jack had learned that he needed to be harsh on both Tarissa and himself, it was the only way to put a stop to the pangs of regret. He was a fool and she was a villain, and that was all there was to it. Nothing more.
Taking the rag from the jar, Jack sniffed at the contents. Whatever it was, it smelled bad. Gingerly he dipped a finger downward. The liquid was cold, greasy, and the color of dried blood. Borc only knew what it was! Whenever Stillfox was preparing to use the contents of one of his
jars, he would first dab a droplet on his tongue to test that it was still potent. Jack had no intention of tasting this, though. Let it kill him slowly by invading his wounds rather than poison him swiftly on the spot.
Jack began to dab the ointment on his burns, first his arms and then his chest. The process took a lot longer than he’d thought; not only were his hands shaking wildly, making it difficult to target the areas in question, but a natural squeamishness on Jack’s part didn’t help, either. Yes, it was only stinging, he told himself—and since leaving Castle Harvell he’d endured much worse than a handful of glass burns—but it was the idea of causing himself pain that he wasn’t happy with. The burns were throbbing away quite bearably until he put the ointment on them, then the real torment began. The ointment stung like lye in an open wound. It seemed to get under his skin with a thousand tiny barbs, then claw its way back to the surface. Was this Stillfox’s revenge?
“Jack. Don’t use—” The herbalist burst into the cottage. Seeing Jack with the jar in his hand, he stopped himself in midsentence. He shrugged his shoulders rather sheepishly. “Never mind, it won’t kill you.”
“What will it do, then?”
“It was meant to teach you a lesson.” The herbalist’s voice dropped to something close to a mutter. “Only I think it taught me one, instead: there’s little satisfaction to be gained from acting out of spite.” He looked up from the floor. “Never mind. The ointment may pain you for a few days, but it should do you no harm in the long term.”
Jack was too surprised to speak. He threw an accusatory glance at Stillfox, but really, in the bottom of his heart, he knew he’d deserved it. He had endangered both himself and Stillfox, and when the herbalist had tried to help him, he had fought him off. Jack threw the jar onto the fire. “Let’s call it quits,” he said.
Stillfox smiled, the lines around his eyes and on his cheeks instantly multiplying. Jack noticed for the first time how very old and tired he looked. “Here,” Jack said, pulling the chair near the fire. “Come and sit down, I’ll warm you some holk.”
