by J. V. Jones
“Here we are,” said Nabber, hoping to distract Baralis’ thoughts away from the lookout. “Maybor is waiting for you inside.”
Baralis nodded once. “I know.”
Inside he went. Poorly rendered tallow gave off smoke that stung his eyes. He was all senses, a being purely of perception: if there was danger he would search it out. Even before his eyes grew accustomed to the smoke he had eliminated sorcery as a threat. He was the only one in the room with power beyond flesh. The knowledge brought confidence in its wake. No matter what happened now, he would be able to deal with it.
Baralis looked around the room. Thirty pairs of eyes were gazing upon him. The floor was awash with slowly souring ale: the tavern reeked of it. Maybor was sitting at a lower level in front of the fire, and Baralis didn’t spot him at first. Silhouetted against the light, Maybor stood up and beckoned him forth. Baralis crossed the room and stepped down into the enclosed space of the fire-well. Two other men sat there: old men who drew in their chairs when Baralis entered their domain. Unlike the rest of the tavern floor, which was raised off the ground and paved, the floor in the fire-well consisted purely of packed-down earth. It was even wetter than above, and the old men sat cross-legged, one foot apiece resting in the pool of ale.
“Aah, Baralis,” said Maybor, with an expansive sweep of his arm. “I’m so pleased you could come.”
“Cut to the meat, Maybor,” hissed Baralis.
“As charming as ever, I see.” Maybor sat down. When Baralis made no motion to sit, he said, “Stay where you are and you give me no choice but to shout my news all over the tavern.”
“News!” Baralis’ voice was scathing. “The petty intelligences of a fugitive on the run do not count as news to me.”
Maybor was not in the least affected by this tirade. Calmly he drummed his fingertips against the wood. “If you didn’t come here to listen to what I have to say, then I am forced to conclude that you came to see my handsome face, instead.”
“As ugly as your face is, Maybor, it still might be the greatest of your charms.”
Maybor beamed. “I’m glad you think so, as I’m hoping to pass my features down in the blood.”
Baralis felt the skin on his cheeks flush. He had a sudden, overpowering sensation of foreboding. As his stomach constricted, the world shifted and refocused. The Brimming Bucket turned from tavern to snake pit. Maybor changed from drunken fool to fiend. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, my dear Baralis, that in less than seven months time I shall be a grandfather. Melliandra is with child and—”
“No!”
“Oh, yes. The child is the duke’s. The marriage was consummated.”
“You are lying.”
“Why, Baralis, you’re trembling. I thought you would be pleased.”
Baralis, annoyed at showing weakness, drew breath before moving close to Maybor. “Your daughter is a whore who has rutted with every man who crossed her path. Don’t expect either me or the good people of Bren to believe a single word of what you say.”
Maybor reached out and grabbed Baralis’ robe close to the throat. “My daughter was a virgin when she married the duke.”
Baralis was aware that the noise in the tavern had died down. He was also aware that two well-built men had moved from their position at the bar to the top stair leading down to the fire-well. The only movement was from a sick-looking cat padding through the ale toward the fire.
“I wouldn’t be so sure that Melliandra was a virgin if I were you, Maybor,” Baralis said slowly. “She certainly showed me a few new tricks when I had her.”
Baralis saw the knife flash. By the time it raked against his cheek, a drawing was on his lips. He let it build on his tongue while he pulled away from the table. The two men behind had moved to the second stair. Maybor remained seated; he seemed content to have drawn blood.
“Your lies will not win in the end, Baralis,” he said. “Melliandra’s son will have Bren to himself.”
Baralis didn’t even acknowledge the words. He stepped upon the first stair of the fire-well, and then let the sorcery out. Beneath his palms the air shimmered. It crackled with a blue light: a charged streak of lightning aimed straight at the beer-covered floor. With his back to the room only Maybor, the two old men, and the cat saw it flash. Baralis spun round as the ale began to sizzle.
One of the old men screamed first. Then everyone began to scream—one voice indistinguishable from another. The smell of hops was carried on the warm ripple of air that hit Baralis’ back. The two men who had moved from the bar made no attempt to stop him. Baralis felt the familiar wave of weakness. People rushed past him toward the fire-well, shock on their faces, eyes cast downward to avoid his gaze. He had to get away from here, to get back to the palace. There was one thing he must do, however. Weary though he was, he formed a second drawing as he walked across the room.
A compulsion weaved its way through the air, fine as sea spray yet wide enough to cover thirty people. It settled like dust and was drawn into the lungs like a fragrance. The very air itself became a message, and it was quickly translated by the blood. After Baralis left, no one would remember his passing. He would be a mysterious man in black, nothing more. Every person in the tavern would give a different description of him and no two tellings would be the same. He could not risk his identity becoming known.
By the time he reached the door, he could barely walk. Outside he stumbled, legs buckling under him, heart racing ahead. A man with a mule loaded with cabbages stood in the street watching him.
“Take me to the palace,” he murmured. “And I will make you a rich man.” Even then, when nothing seemed left, he squeezed forth enough to put a compulsion behind the words. It nearly killed him.
The last thing Baralis saw before he fell into darkness were two baskets full of cabbages being thrown onto the road.
Maybor wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened. In the small area of the fire-well all hell had been let loose, yet he had remained untouched by it. The two old men lay slumped against their table, hair on end, feet and ankles blackened as if burned. The cat lay dead on the ale-washed floor. Its paws were still smoking. All around him people were fussing and panicking and muttering about a man in black. It was time to get out of here. Swinging his feet from the footstool to the floor, Maybor stood up and pushed his way toward the door.
Two
Jack was beginning to hate herbs—particularly the smelly ones.
He was waiting in the darkened storeroom, barely moving, barely breathing, while Stillfox dealt with his unexpected visitor on the other side of the door. Bunches of mint and rosemary hung above Jack’s head, tangling in his hair and tempting him to sneeze. He’d been here for quite a while now, and his left leg was beginning to cramp. He couldn’t risk stretching it out, though, so with teeth firmly gritted, his mind searched out diversions.
Frallit used to say that the best way to stop cramp was to strike the offending limb with a good-sized plank of wood. Jack had once been the unlucky recipient of this “cure” and had quickly learned never to claim cramp in Frallit’s hearing again. Jack smiled at the memory. They were good days.
Or were they? The smile left his face: could he honestly say he’d been happy at Castle Harvell? He had a bed to sleep in every night, food to eat, and a measure of security about his future, but was he happy? People whispered behind his back, naming him a bastard and his mother a whore. As a mere apprentice he was treated badly by everyone around him, and Frallit was not the kindly father-figure that his memory seemed intent on creating. He was nothing more than a sadistic vengeful bully. And Jack bore the scars to prove it.
No, Castle Harvell wasn’t some wonderful peaceful haven where worries and heartache simply didn’t exist. It was filled with people who allowed him no freedom, who beat the will from his mind and drained the strength from his body. And he should never have allowed himself to look back at it through a romantic haze of longing. The past was all it was good for.
>
Jack was strangely exhilarated by these thoughts; there was power in them. Why hadn’t he seen all this before?
Then, from the kitchen, he heard a word that stopped all thoughts dead:
“Melliandra.”
Jack was sure the name was hers—he heard it often enough in his dreams. Without moving as much as a finger’s breadth, Jack trained every sense and focused every cell upon the wood-paneled door separating him from Stillfox and his uninvited guest.
Stillfox was speaking: “Who can say what Catherine will do to—” The scrape of iron poker against grate cut off the end of the sentence.
Jack cursed all things metal.
“Well, I wouldn’t like to be in her shoes,” said the stranger.
Did he mean Catherine or Melli?
“Ah, well,” Stillfox said, “we have our own troubles to worry about. I hear our generals travel to the Wall today . . . ”
Jack got the feeling that Stillfox was deliberately changing the subject.
A week after he’d first come to stay with the herbalist, Jack had told him a shortened version of his life since leaving Castle Harvell. He had been very selective with the details—no one would ever know about Tarissa’s betrayal—but he had confided to Stillfox about Melli. He had told him who she was, how they had met, and how they had come to be separated in Helch.
Even before the story was free from his lips, Stillfox had told him the news. “Maybor’s daughter is to marry the duke of Bren.”
On hearing those words, Jack felt a confusion of emotions: relief that she was safe, wonder at how she had come to end up with the duke and, if he were honest, disappointment that she had finally succumbed to convention and married a man with position and wealth. He was jealous, too. Melli had been his to protect, his dream had been to save her. All gone now. A duchess in a fine palace needed saving from nothing except false flattery.
There had been no word of her since.
Until now. Stillfox’s uninvited guest had brought news of Melli’s marriage and, judging from the few snatches of conversation that Jack had managed to hear, things did not sound good.
Jack willed the stranger to leave. He needed to talk to Stillfox, to find out if Melli was all right. The ointment on his glass burns itched with gleeful intent. The storeroom began to seem impossibly small and confining. Herb dust choked in his throat, and the darkness fueled his fears. The idea that Melli could be in danger worked upon his brain like a poison. The longer he waited, the wilder his thoughts became. Had the duke decided to rid himself of his new bride? Had Baralis somehow discredited Melli? Or had Kylock abducted her in a fit of jealous rage?
At last the kitchen door banged shut. Jack was in the kitchen before the shutters stopped rattling. The light stung his eyes. Stillfox was leaning against the fireplace. He looked a little stiff, as if his position were posed.
“Sorry to keep you in the storeroom for so long, Jack. There’s no getting rid of Garfus.”
“What did he say about Melli?” Jack hardly recognized his own voice. It was cold, commanding.
“Why, Jack, give me a minute to get settled and I’ll tell you all he said.”
“Tell me now.”
Stillfox made time for himself by raking through the ashes then pulling up chair. Finally he spoke. “Nine of Annis’ best generals are heading to Highwall to assist in coordinating the invasion.”
Despite his determination to learn about Melli, Jack couldn’t help but ask, “Invasion of what?”
The herbalist shrugged. “Bren, of course.”
“Why ‘of course’? Why not invade the kingdoms, or try and rout Kylock’s forces on the Halcus field?”
“Because Bren will soon belong to Kylock.”
Jack felt a single tremor pass down his spine. “I thought the duke’s marriage had put an end to that.”
Stillfox tried to backtrack. “Ah well, when he marries Catherine it’s as good as his. And Highwall isn’t the sort of city to split hairs in matters of war.”
He was lying. Self-righteous anger—so briefly tasted earlier while he thought of Castle Harvell—began to build within Jack. Stillfox was keeping something from him. He was playing him for a fool. “What happened between Melli and the duke?”
Stillfox looked nervous. “Jack, I have my reasons for keeping things from you—”
“Reasons! I don’t want to hear your reasons. I want to hear the truth.”
“You’re not ready to run away to Bren yet. Your training has barely started.” Stillfox took a step forward.
Jack stepped toward the door. “You are not my keeper, Stillfox. My life is my own responsibility, and I’ll have no one deciding what is and isn’t right for me to hear.” Jack was trembling. Anger was flowing through him and he made no effort to control it. “Now either tell me what happened to Melli, or as Borc is my witness I will walk out this door and find out for myself.”
Stillfox raised his arm. “Jack, you don’t understand—”
Jack’s hand was on the latch. “No. You’re the one who doesn’t understand, Stillfox. I’ve had a bellyful of lies, they’ve destroyed everything I ever had—I’m sick to the death of them. And today I’ve finally heard one too many.” As Jack spoke he thought of Tarissa, Rovas, and Magra: they were all liars. Even his mother had practiced deceit. Who was worse, he wondered: people who lied outright like Rovas and Tarissa, or people who kept the truth to themselves like his mother and Stillfox?
Jack brought down the latch with his fist. He couldn’t really see the difference.
“Jack! Don’t go,” cried the herbalist, rushing forward. “I’ll tell you everything.”
Opening the door, Jack said, “Too late now, Stillfox. I doubt if I’d believe you anyway.” Stepping out into the warm summer rain, he slammed the door behind him. He set a course to meet with the high road. If he was lucky, he’d reach Annis by dusk.
Tavalisk had just come from his counting house where he’d been counting out his money. Such a trip always served to reassure him. Gold was the ultimate feather pillow—whenever one had to fall back on it, one could be sure of a cushioned blow. The archbishop’s stockpile of gold was the nearest thing he had to a family; it was always there to comfort him, it asked no questions and told no lies, and it would never ever die and leave him helpless.
Tavalisk did not remember his real family fondly. His mother might have indeed brought him into the world, but she chose both the place and the circumstance badly.
Born in a beggar’s hospice in Silbur, his earliest memory was watching his mother’s pig die of swine fever. It just lay in the rushes amidst its own filth and willed itself to death. Tavalisk remembered scraping around in the dirt to bring it acorns, but the creature refused to eat them. It simply stayed in its corner and never made a sound. Tavalisk had loved that pig, but when it let itself die, making no effort to save itself, he turned against it. He beat the last breath out of it with a warming brick he’d snatched from the hearth. Even at such a tender age, when he was still breaking his milk teeth, Tavalisk knew that self-preservation and self-promotion were the only things that counted. And the pig, like his mother, had been sorely lacking in both.
Once the pig died, they had no choice but to eat the tainted flesh. He and his mother were the lowest amongst the low, the poorest amongst the poor. The only things they owned were the clothes on their backs, a sackful of turnips, and two tin spoons. They had no knife, so his mother was forced to drag the pig’s carcass to the meat market to be butchered. The butcher had taken everything but the head in payment. Tavalisk could still remember the butcher now, rubbing pig blood into his mustache to make it stiffen whilst offering to take less pork if his mother agreed to bed him. Tavalisk would never forgive her for turning the man down: it would have meant cutlets, not tongue.
Such self-indulgent sacrifice had haunted his early childhood. His mother had taken a position as a church cleaner for no other reason than she didn’t like to live off charity. Tavalisk quickly learned that
priests were more miserly than moneylenders. Generous gifts of food were kept under lock and key, the level of blessed wine was marked against the bottle each night, and every holy sweetmeat was counted after mass.
Oh, but the ceremony was breathtaking, though. Priests were part magician, part actor, part king. They performed miracles, granted forgiveness, and held congregations of thousands in their thrall. They wielded power in this world and the next. Tavalisk watched them from his hideout behind the choir stall. He saw the glamour of it all: the gold and crimson tapestries, the snowy-white wax candles, the jewel-encrusted reliquaries, and the silver-robed choirboys who sang with angels’ voices. It was a world of gaudy enchantments, and Tavalisk vowed he would be part of it.
One year later his mother died and he was thrown out on the street, penniless. His love for the Church, quite understandably, diminished, and it was many years and half a continent later before he felt its lure again. When the call finally came, however, it didn’t take Tavalisk long to realize that in the politically sensitive hierarchy of the Church, there was more than one way to reach the top.
Smiling gently, the archbishop moved across his study to his desk, where a splendid meal awaited him. His remembrances had acted like a fine white wine, honing an edge to his appetite, wetting his tongue for more. But, as with wine, Tavalisk was careful never to overindulge his memories—he wasn’t about to end up a quivering, sentimental fool.
He brought the duck thigh to his lips, and all thoughts of the past vanished as the oil-rich flesh met his tongue. By the time he’d swallowed the meat his mind was firmly in the present.
Gamil chose this moment to knock upon the door.
“Enter, Gamil. Enter,” called Tavalisk, rather pleased that his aide had arrived. There were matters he needed to discuss.
“How is Your Eminence this day?” asked Gamil entering the room.
“Never better, Gamil. The duck is crispy, the wine is tart, and war draws nearer by the hour.”
