by J. V. Jones
The herbalist waved his arm dismissively. “If I had needed someone to look after me in my dotage, Jack, I would have picked someone a lot comelier than you.”
Jack nodded in acknowledgment of the reprimand. “I’m sorry, Stillfox. I don’t know what’s got into me. I’m just so tired of failing all the time.”
Stillfox pulled a second chair close to the fire, bidding Jack to sit. He brought a blanket and laid it over Jack’s bare shoulders. Finally, when he had settled himself in his seat, he spoke. “I won’t lie to you, Jack. Things have not been going well with your training. I think part of the problem is that you’re just plain too old. You should have been taught earlier, when your mind was still open and your thought process not so . . . ” the herbalist searched for the right word “ . . . rigid.”
“But I only felt the power for the first time a year ago.” A year ago, it hardly seemed possible. His life had been so chaotic for so long now that it was hard to believe there had ever been a time when things had been normal. He didn’t even know what normal meant anymore.
“You might have only been aware of this power during the last year, but it has been with you all your life.” Stillfox leant forward. “Sorcery doesn’t come to anyone in a burst of blinding light. It’s real, visceral, as ingrained as instinct and as compelling as a beating heart. You were born with it, Jack, and someone should have taken pains to discover it sooner. If they had, you wouldn’t be here today: a fugitive hiding in a foreign land, leaving nothing but destruction in your wake.”
Harsh words, but true enough. “Is it too late, then? Is there nothing I can do?”
Stillfox sighed heavily. “You must keep trying, you have no choice. Power will keep building up inside you, and unless you learn to either focus or curb it, it will ultimately destroy you.”
“But there are risks even in learning. The glass—”
“Everything is a risk, Jack. Everything.” The herbalist’s voice had lost all of its country accent. “Walk to market and there’s a risk you will be robbed, run over, or stabbed. Marry a girl and there’s a risk she’ll die in childbirth. Believe in a god and there’s a risk you’ll find nothing but darkness on the other side.”
“Trust someone and there’s a risk they might betray you,” said Jack softly, almost to himself.
“Jack, your power is very great. So great it frightens me. The few times when you have managed to focus successfully left me speechless. You have been given a gift, and it would be a terrible tragedy if you never learned to master it.”
Jack eased his chair back from the fire. The heat was burning his already tender arms. “Perhaps if I move on to live creatures, not inanimate objects, I—”
“There is even worse danger there,” interrupted Stillfox. “Animals can and will fight back. Speed is of the essence in such drawings. You must master the technique of entering before we go any further.” The herbalist gave Jack a searching look and then stood up. “Now, I think it’s time you had some rest. You’ve had quite a shock and those burns do not look good. A little lacus will help.”
Jack was glad of the change of subject. He’d had enough of sorcery for one day. Possibly enough to last a lifetime. He didn’t bother to wish he was normal: wishing was something he’d given up long ago.
Baralis rubbed idly at his fingers. It was summer now, but still they pained him. It was the all-pervasive dampness that did it. Tomorrow he would see Catherine about changing his quarters; he was tired of living like a mosquito suspended above the lake.
On his desk lay the various maps and charts. Once the duke’s, they were now his. Maps and so many other things: a whole library of ancient books, rooms filled with antiquities and arcane devices, cellars full of secrets, and strong rooms full of gold. The duke’s palace was a huge unopened treasure chest, and the duke’s death had given him the key.
Oh, but he had so little time, though. Hardly a moment to himself since the funeral. There was so much to do, and so much to be done. Just managing Catherine alone took a quarter of his day. She was child—demanding, prone to temper tantrums, constantly craving attention—and he was part father, part nursemaid, part suitor. She would summon him to her chambers at all hours of the day, and he never knew what he would find once he got there: tears, anger, or joy. When there wasn’t a problem she would invent one, and she was never satisfied until she had exerted her will over him in some small way. It was all a game to Catherine, and it suited Baralis to let her think that he was just another piece on the board.
Baralis stood up and walked over to the fire. He was master of the game, his will was the power behind all of Catherine’s moves. The new duchess was just a beginner when it came to the art of manipulation. She might learn fast, though. After all, she was being taught by an expert.
Just how great an expert he was could be judged by the events of the past five weeks. First, he had shifted the blame of the duke’s death onto Tawl, Melli’s protector; second, he had persuaded Catherine to go ahead with the marriage to Kylock; and last, despite Kylock’s heinous act of regicide in Halcus, he had persuaded both the court and the common people of Bren to support the marriage.
Well, more accurately, Catherine had persuaded them. Three days after the news of King Hirayus’ death had reached the city, Catherine had, on his instructions, gathered her court around her. In no uncertain terms she told them that she fully intended to marry King Kylock, and anyone who objected to the match should come forward now and let their misgivings be heard. One man made the mistake of coming forward: Lord Carhill, one-time advisor to the duke and a man whose only daughter was married to a well-to-do lord in Highwall. The minute he stepped from the ranks, he was seized by the ducal guard. He was executed, then and there, before the court. That night his sons were hunted down and beheaded, and the following day his land was seized in the name of the duchess.
The sting was taken from the whole affair by one single calculated act of compassion. Catherine had taken Lord Carhill’s wife into the palace, publicly proclaiming that the poor widow would never want for food nor shelter. This little performance was for the benefit of the people, not the court. Catherine might be firm, they said, but at least she is not without charity. Baralis pursed his lips in distaste. The common folk were easily swayed by such showy acts of mercy.
In fact, public opinion was the least of his problems. Catherine was seen to be a tragic figure: her father murdered, a heavy responsibility newly fallen upon her shoulders, alone in a world drawing perilously close to war. Of course, it helped that she was young and beautiful. Beauty was yet another thing that swayed the common folk.
Baralis shook his head slowly. No, his problems were not with Catherine and the people of Bren. His problem was with Kylock. What would the new king do next? Maybor’s eldest brat, Kedrac, was finishing off Halcus for him, yet would he stop there? Was Annis next in line? And if it was, when did he plan to take it? Baralis only hoped he left it till after the wedding. Bren might support the marriage at the moment, but it was an uneasy, suspicious support, easily shaken by unfavorable news. And never would there be news so unfavorable as Kylock’s overwhelming greed.
There was such a delicate balance to be maintained: Annis and Highwall were now certain to move against Bren. The question was would they leave it until after the wedding, or would they move before? Baralis received daily reports from the two mountain cities, and there was no mistaking their intent: mercenaries, armaments, siege engines, and chemicals were flooding into both cities. Tavalisk was underwriter to them all. The chubby, interfering archbishop was seeing to it that Annis and Highwall had unlimited funds with which to purchase the necessities of war. It seemed the south was willing to pay a high price to keep trouble away from its prosperous shores.
Baralis sighed, not deeply. All would have to be dealt with as it came.
Then there was his second problem: Maybor and his wayward daughter. Where were they? What did they know or guess about the assassination? And what did they plan on
doing next? Would they quietly leave the city, content that they were at least alive? Or would they try and make some claim upon Catherine’s inheritance? Knowing Maybor, it would most likely be the latter of the two; the lord of the Eastlands had never styled himself a shrinking violet.
Just then, Baralis was distracted from his thoughts by the sound of a commotion at his door. A few minutes earlier he had been aware of a knock, but had paid it no heed—Crope was ordered to send everyone away except Catherine. A shrill scream pierced the rain-clear air, and Baralis rushed across to the reception room.
Crope was in the doorway. Huge arms stretched out in front of him; he had a boy dangling by the scruff of his neck. The boy was squirming and kicking with venomous gusto, but Crope had him firmly in hand.
“You kicked Big Tom,” accused the hulking servant.
“Leave it out, Crope. It’s only a rat!” cried the boy. “You should count yourself lucky old Thornypurse hasn’t set eyes upon it. She would have had it squeezed and bottled by now.”
“No one’s gonna bottle Big Tom,” said Crope, lifting the boy higher into the air.
“If you don’t put me down this instant, Crope, I’ll personally see to it that old Thornypurse is rubbing Big Tom’s oily remains into her wrinkles before the day is through.”
“Put him down, Crope,” ordered Baralis.
“But master—”
“Down, Crope.” The tone of Baralis’ voice killed all protest instantly and Crope lowered the boy to the ground. “Leave us now,” said Baralis.
Crope flashed Nabber an evil look, muttered something comforting to the large and rat-shaped bulge in his tunic, and then backed away.
Baralis turned to the boy. “So, Nabber, what brings you here? Come to turn your friend the knight in?” He stretched a smile designed only to show the sharpness of tooth. “He’s wanted for murder, you know.”
The boy looked a lot more scared now than he did when he was in Crope’s clutches. He was trying to cover it, though, smoothing down his collar with a nonchalant air, and then raising his fingernails to the light to check for dirt.
Baralis was extremely pleased by this surprise visit. If one waited in one’s web long enough, the prey would always come. “You’ve been wading, I take it?” Baralis indicated the boy’s britches, which were soaked to the knee. “I must say, it’s just the day for it.”
The boy looked most indignant. “What about you, Baralis? Attracted any new crawling insects lately?”
“Come inside,” hissed Baralis, annoyed at himself for stooping to trade insults with a mere boy.
Nabber looked quickly to his left and right. “I’m not sure that I want to.”
“Aah,” Baralis said slowly, in the manner of one about to draw a logical conclusion. “Then you’re afraid.”
“I am not! Let me past.” The boy stomped into the room.
Baralis smiled behind his back.
The boy made a quick survey of the room. Once satisfied that they were alone, he pulled a sheet of sealed and folded paper from his tunic. Before he handed it to Baralis, he said, “I’ll be wanting an answer straightaway.”
Baralis snatched it from him. The bloodred seal was Maybor’s: the swan and the double-edged sword. Like the man himself, it took quite a breaking. Quickly, Baralis read the spidery, uncultivated script. Once finished he turned to the boy. “Why does he want to meet me?”
Nabber shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I’m just the messenger.”
Baralis took a thinking breath. The boy was a liar—and not a bad one at that. “Am I to understand that I am to come with you now?”
“Yes. Here and now. No henchmen, no weapons, no chance to warn the guard.”
“How do I know this is not a trap?”
Nabber smiled sweetly. “Who’s afraid now, Baralis?”
Baralis curbed his desire to strike the boy. “And what if I refuse and send for the guard anyway? I could have your secrets out of you on your very first scream.” As he spoke, Baralis noticed that Nabber was edging, none too discreetly, toward the door.
“Ah well, my friend,” said Nabber, hand upon the latch, “you’d have to catch me first.”
The boy was young and therefore could be excused his stupidity. “Do you really think I would let you out the door?”
The latch was up, but Baralis’ hand was faster. “Nay, boy. Leave it be! I will agree to come with you.” Baralis found himself breathless. There had been a brief instant when he had considered drawing power against the boy, but curiosity overcame caution. He wanted to see Maybor. He wanted to hear what the great lord had to say. Maybor had taken quite a risk sending a boy who could disclose his own whereabouts, and presumably his daughter’s, straight into the heart of the palace. There must be a good reason behind it. Oh, Baralis knew he could seize the boy and scrape the truth right off his plump, youthful tongue, but his love of intrigue had been sparked. There was a game to be played here, and after all, what good was power without the thrill of power games?
“Take me to him,” he said.
Maybor ordered a second mug of ale, then settled back in his chair. He was not exactly drunk, but he was definitely pleasantly potted. It was good to be out. A fine tavern, a blazing fire, and a buxom serving girl to flirt with; why, he hadn’t enjoyed himself so much in a long time. For the past nine weeks he’d been holed up like a squirrel in a jar, and now, having managed to escape for a short while, he was determined to enjoy himself.
Still, enjoyment took many forms and the best was yet to come.
The ale arrived, its fine head frothing over the brim. The girl who brought it took great pains to place it carefully on the table. Her bodice was cut modestly enough, but additional cleavage was revealed during the process of the slow bend. Maybor liked women who played coy.
“So, my beauty,” he said to the girl. “Does the tavern-keeper here have strong-arms in the crowd?” He had intended to ask this question of the tavern-keeper himself, but he rather liked appearing mysterious to the young and comely girl.
The girl giggled foolishly. “Oh aye, he does that, sir. You can never be too careful when it comes to the riffraff.”
Maybor ran his fingers down the plump arm of the girl. When he reached her hand, he pressed a single gold coin into the waiting palm. “A man in black will soon be coming here to visit me. Ask the tavern-keeper to set a watch on the door, and if he is escorted by anyone other than a young boy, I would appreciate it if they were held there, until I make my escape.” Maybor allowed his leather pouch to gape open. It was loaded to the drawstring with the duke’s own gold. “I trust this place has another way out?”
Greed improved the girl’s looks, brightening her eyes and bringing a flush to her cheeks. “Oh yes, sir. There’s more than one way to leave the Brimming Bucket.”
Well pleased, Maybor nodded. “I trust I can count on you to let my wishes be known?”
The girl hesitated a moment. “Well, sir, naturally I’d be glad to help such a fine gentleman as yourself, but—”
“You’ll need some extra coinage to ensure the word is well spread.”
“Well, I hate to ask, sir, but you know what men are like. They hate to do anything on just the promise of gold.”
Maybor handed her a fistful of coinage. He knew exactly what men were like. “And when you’ve done that,” he said, “bring me a footstool for my feet. The floor is running with ale, and I want to give my shoes chance to dry.”
As the girl cut across the tavern to its keeper, Maybor’s eyes flicked toward the candle on the sill. Down a notch since he’d last looked. Damn! Where was the boy? What was keeping him? Had Baralis decided to hold him in the palace and torture the truth out of him? Maybor brought the second mug of ale to his lips. Somehow he doubted that. He knew his enemy well, and Baralis would come, not just because he was curious, but also because he was compelled to do so.
Maybor downed a throatful of the golden brew. He wasn’t a superstitious man, indeed, hated any mention of mysti
cs and magic, but he and Baralis were connected in some way: their fates were intertwined. They fed off each other. And it had been a long time for both of them since their last meal.
Nabber wasn’t at all sure that he liked being Baralis’ escort. The man’s presence had a distinct effect on those around him: people scattered like rats in torchlight whenever he walked by. Nabber shook his head grimly—the man would never make a pocket. He had the feet for it, though. He and Baralis had been walking for quarter of an hour now, and not once had Nabber heard a single footfall from his black-robed companion. Swift would die for feet like that.
The rain had stopped the moment Baralis passed under the palace gate. The streets were damp, steaming, fragrant with a variety of rainy smells. As they walked south the district changed: fine stone buildings gave way to precarious wooden structures that leant against each other for support. The fare offered by the street hawkers changed accordingly. Near the palace they had sold fresh lampreys, artichokes, and saffron. Here they sold meat pies, pease pudding, and bread.
As they turned onto the street that boasted the Brimming Bucket, Nabber risked a quick glance sideways. Baralis did not look happy. In fact, he looked rather venomous, his features no more than a pale insignificance when compared to the darkness of his eyes. Nabber sniffed solemnly. He hoped Maybor knew what he was doing.
The Brimming Bucket was lit up in anticipation of the night. Smoke and candlelight escaped from the shutters and the boldly painted sign creaked brightly in the wind. Nabber noticed a man standing by the door; his right hand was resting inside his tunic and, after one quick scope of the two of them, he directed his gaze toward the floor. A lookout, no doubt set to watch by Maybor. Well, he certainly could have been more discreet about it. Nabber doubted very much that the man’s purpose had gone unnoticed by Baralis.
