The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  “It is the war that brings me here, Your Eminence.”

  “Aah, a meeting of the minds.” Tavalisk was genial. “How very fortuitous. Tell me your news.” He grabbed another thigh from the platter, dipped it into the pepper dish, and set about tearing flesh from the bone.

  “Well, Your Eminence, nine Annis generals are set to meet with their Highwall equivalents in three days time.”

  “And like a romantic couple they hope to set a date, eh, Gamil?”

  “Yes, Your Eminence. They mean to discuss invasion plans.”

  “Hmm . . . ” Tavalisk toyed with the remains of the duck. “When do you think they’ll head for Bren?”

  “It’s hard to say, Your Eminence. I think it’s wise to assume they won’t do anything until the wedding has taken place. After all, their grievances are with Kylock, not Bren.”

  “That will take us into high summer, then. If they have any sense they will make their move while the wedding bed is still warm.”

  “They may move into position before then, Your Eminence. It could take the Wall nearly two weeks to bring its foot soldiers and siege engines through the passes. If they were to wait until the wedding, the delay might prove crucial.”

  Tavalisk dislodged the wishbone on the duck. He always liked to pull both ends himself—that way he was sure to receive all the luck. Oddly enough, this one snapped right down the middle. “Can’t be done, Gamil. You must send a fast messenger out to represent the southern cities in the talks.”

  “But, Your Eminence, Annis and Highwall won’t listen to us.”

  “Of course they will, Gamil. Who do you think is financing the damn war for them in the first place? The northern cities might be strong and well-peopled, but they are woefully short on cash. Why, Annis couldn’t even finance a pleasant mountain hike, let alone a full-blown siege.” Tavalisk threw the offending pieces of wishbone on the fire: something about their matching length and symmetry sent shivers down his spine. “At the end of the day, Gamil, they will listen to us because they have no choice.”

  “What message would Your Eminence have me convey?”

  “In no shape or form should Annis or Highwall make a move against Bren—and that includes taking up positions—until the marriage has been legally consummated.”

  “May I be permitted to know Your Eminence’s reasons for this?”

  “Gamil, if I were to throw you into a pond you would surely sink straight to the bottom.”

  “Why, Your Eminence?”

  “Because you’re about as dense as a piece of lead!” Tavalisk snorted with good humor. He always enjoyed pointing out how much cleverer he was than anyone else. “Really, Gamil. Don’t you see? If Annis and Highwall make any move before the wedding is legally fixed, then there’s a chance the whole thing might fall through. Do you really think the good people of Bren are going to cheer their favorite daughter down the aisle when an army, the size of which has not been seen in over a century, is poised in the passes ready to invade?” The archbishop finished his speech with a chorus of disappointed tut-tutting.

  “But surely if an army were in place, and the wedding was canceled, then all our problems would be solved?”

  “The only time our problems will be solved, Gamil, is when Tyren and the knighthood have been sent crying back to Valdis, and when that demon Baralis lies cold in his grave. Neither of which is likely to happen, I hasten to add, unless the whole northern crisis comes firmly to a head.”

  “But—”

  “Say that word once more, Gamil, and I swear I will have you excommunicated on the spot!” The archbishop brandished the bare drumstick like a weapon. “Think, man. Think. Just suppose the wedding didn’t go ahead, where would that leave us?” Tavalisk didn’t wait for an answer. “It would leave us with Kylock still ruling a third of the north, and very liable, with the knights’ help, to conquer more. Baralis would still be behind it all, scheming and maneuvering, and Tyren—Borc rot his greasy little soul—would eventually be set to gain control of the Church in the north. The only thing the wedding changes is the time scale. The marriage of Catherine and Kylock will only serve to accelerate events that have already been set in motion.”

  Gamil looked suitably contrite. “I see Your Eminence’s point.”

  “There was never any question that you wouldn’t,” said the archbishop, flashing his aide a distinctly cool glance. “Now. What I need you to do, Gamil, is scribe a persuasive letter to the duke of Highwall. Tell him that the south still stands beside him, and more money is on the way, and so forth. Then inform him, in no uncertain terms, that we will completely withdraw our resources if he moves so much as a single soldier eastward before the marriage is in place.”

  “Very well, Your Eminence. Is there anything more?”

  “Just one more thing, Gamil. Would you mind going down to the market district and buying me a fish?”

  “What sort of fish, Your Eminence?”

  “One in a bowl, Gamil. Ever since my cat had that unfortunate accident with the tapestry, I’ve been missing having a friendly creature around. I fancy a fish this time.”

  “As you wish.” Gamil bowed and made his way toward the door. Just as he stepped from the room, the archbishop called out:

  “Oh, and Gamil, I’m sure you will want to pay for it yourself. The Feast of Borc’s First Miracle is coming up, and I feel a fish would be an appropriate gift, don’t you?” Tavalisk smiled sweetly. “No cheap one, mind.”

  Tawl sat in the sun-drenched windowseat and whittled at a piece of wood. The cushion, which had rested invitingly atop the stone, lay discarded on the floor. Comfort was something that he just couldn’t get used to.

  Every so often, when a splinter of wood fell to the floor or his knife sliced into a knot, Tawl would look up through the open window and search for any sign of Nabber in the street below. The boy had been gone four days now and Tawl was worried sick about him. Oh, he knew why the boy had gone missing—he was keeping a low profile after what had happened at the Brimming Bucket the other afternoon—but bad deeds done with dubious intentions were Nabber’s trademark, and Tawl could neither curse him or condemn him. He’d done much worse himself.

  Maybor had returned to the hideout in early evening the day before last. The man was a little shaken and confused and had finally admitted that he had a meeting with Baralis, and that Nabber had acted as go-between. Maybor was unrepentant. He railed on most indignantly about his right, as an expectant grandfather, to inform anyone he wished of Melli’s delicate condition. When Tawl questioned him about the details of the meeting, Maybor was unusually reticent; a blank look came over his face, and he mumbled something to the effect that he wasn’t about to be questioned like a prisoner in the stocks. Tawl suspected the great lord simply couldn’t remember. Which could only mean one thing: sorcery.

  Tawl shook his head, quickly glanced down to the street, and resumed his whittling. Maybor had no idea how lucky he was. He had been a fly who thought that just because the spider was out of its web, somehow it was rendered less deadly.

  Two days back Tawl had gone down to the Brimming Bucket to find out for himself what had gone down. The patrons, besides being blind-drunk to the last man, were united in their confusion about the events of the day before. A mysterious black-robed figure had shot lightning onto the floor, said one man. Another disagreed with him entirely, stating that the very ale on the floorboards had begun to sizzle of its own accord. One thing they all seemed to know, however, was the fact that Melliandra claimed to be with child by the duke.

  The word was out now. All the city knew that Melli was pregnant. Just this morning, Cravin had visited the townhouse, bearing tales of people’s reactions. “Most say Melliandra is a brazen liar and a whore,” he had said. “But given time I should be able to whip up some support.”

  Tawl felt like murdering Maybor. With one single act of bravado, the man had endangered not only his own life, but his daughter’s, too. Now that her pregnancy was common knowl
edge, Melli was more vulnerable than ever. At this very minute Baralis would be having the city searched door to door. Posters offering rewards for details about Melli’s whereabouts could be found on every street corner. The net was closing fast, and Maybor’s little rendezvous had ensured that Baralis would pull it in all the way.

  “I’ve got the pies, Tawl,” came a voice from the bottom of the stairs. “Should I take one to the lady?”

  “Make sure she gets the finest, Bodger,” Tawl replied. “And test the milk before she drinks any—it must be fresh and cool.”

  “Grift’s already done that, Tawl. Ain’t nobody like him for telling when the milk has turned. He has the nose of a dairyman and the hands of a milkmaid.”

  Groaning, Tawl said, “Just take it to her, Bodger.”

  “It’s as good as done, Tawl. Grift always says that . . . ” The words padded into the distance along with the footsteps.

  The two chapel guards had turned up on the doorstep the other day, looking decidedly sheepish and reeling off Nabber’s secret entry phrase. Tawl had no choice—as Nabber was well aware—but to take them in. They were a risk; they knew the address of the hideout. The only other alternative would have been to kill them—and he hadn’t felt like murder that day. Despite everything Tawl couldn’t help but smile. Those two guards were quite a pair.

  And Melli owed them her life.

  He only wished the duke had a similar debt.

  Tawl stabbed at the windowframe with his knife. Why was he destined always to fail? Why did he fail those he was sworn to protect? Again and again the knife came down. Why, whenever he felt as if he was getting ahead, did something always happen to pull him back? The knife hovered in the air an instant, then Tawl let it fall to his lap. Now was not the time for self-reproach. Melli was here, and keeping her safe was what counted. His oath as the duke’s champion was to protect the duke and his heirs. The duke might be dead, but his widow and his unborn child were still served by that oath and Tawl was bound to guard them with his life. The whole of Bren had heard him swear it.

  A quick look out the window—still no sign of Nabber.

  They needed to leave the city. Baralis was tracking them, and Nabber and Maybor with their secret meetings and nighttime forays were practically asking to be caught. Of course, they both thought they were as clever as could be. But Baralis was cleverer by far. It would only be a matter of time before they were caught. Unless they got clean away.

  Sighing heavily, Tawl took up his piece of wood and began to whittle once more. His hands seemed intent on making something, but they hadn’t yet informed his brain what it was.

  There were two problems with leaving the city. First, every gate, every road, every dip in the wall was being watched by enough guards to take a fort. Baralis knew they would try to leave at some point, and he was taking no chances. The passes were being monitored, the walls were patrolled by archers, even the lake boasted a ring of troops around its shore. There was going to be no easy way out. Secondly, even if there were an easy way out, Melli might be too sick to take it.

  The pregnancy was not going well. Melli was losing weight. She was now so thin that it tore at Tawl’s heart to look at her. For two weeks after the duke’s death, she had simply refused to eat. She was in shock, unable to eat, talk, or even cry. Then slowly she began to come round, taking bread with her milk, washing her face and hair, and even smiling at Nabber’s antics. Thinking back on it now, Tawl guessed that Melli began to look after herself about the same time she began to suspect she was pregnant. Still, even now, when her appetite had all but returned, she could barely keep her food down. No sooner had she eaten something then it could be seen, as Nabber put it, “returning like an ugly sister.”

  Everyone spoiled her. Nothing was too good, or too much trouble. Pies were baked fresh each day, Maybor had purchased a hen so she would have newly laid eggs, and Nabber brought her flowers and fruit. Despite all this attention, however, Melli’s health was not improving.

  Tawl had lost loved ones. He knew what it was to grieve. Daily he wrestled with the soul-destroying what ifs. Melli had watched an assassin cut her husband’s throat, and she would have to deal with her own set of regrets. What if she had entered the bedchamber first? What if she had only screamed louder? What if she had never married the duke at all?

  No, Tawl shook his head softly, it was hardly strange that Melli was not well. That she got through each day was miracle enough.

  Tawl checked the street as a matter of course. No Nabber, no strangers, no guards.

  What was he going to do about Melli? Should he place her unborn child at risk by taking her from the city? Or should he place the child’s health first and stay put? If they left the city, there would be many days of hard traveling, mountains to cross, soldiers to evade; they would have to live rough and be light on their feet in case they were chased. If they stayed in Bren they risked capture, but at least Melli’s pregnancy would run smoothly.

  Tawl looked down at his hands, and saw for the first time what he was sculpting: it was a child’s doll.

  Was his first loyalty to Melli or the baby?

  Jack’s feet felt as if they had been run over by a loaded cart. The rest of his body wasn’t doing too well, either—particularly the glass burns. Stillfox certainly knew how to turn an ointment into a weapon. For two days now his arms and chest had been throbbing, but over the past four hours his feet had stolen the show.

  He had finally made it to Annis. The city lay ahead of him, its gray walls gleaming in the moonlight. The road to either side was lined with houses and taverns, their shutters and lintels painted many shades of blue. People were everywhere, driving cattle home from pasture, bringing unsold goods from market, walking slowly to evening mass, or briskly to well-lit taverns. The wind was cool and smelled of wood smoke. Stars glinted high above the mountains, and somewhere water skipped noisily over a quarry’s worth of rocks.

  The road consisted of crushed stones that crunched with every step. Jack could feel their sharp edges cutting through his shoes. He was nervous. Surely people were staring at him. Yet he looked no different from anyone else. His clothes, which had been provided by Stillfox, were much the same as any man’s. True, his hair was long, but it was tied at the back of his neck with a length of Wadwell rope. Jack’s hand stole up to check it—a gesture he caught himself doing more and more these days—and he found the rope was still in place. Nothing made by the Wadwells was likely to wear out, drop off, or break. In fact, Jack was pretty certain that the rope would have to be buried with him.

  Smiling, Jack looked up. A young girl was staring straight at him. As soon as their glances met she looked away. Jack moved on. He made a point of walking where the light from the houses couldn’t catch him.

  It had been ten weeks since he first met Stillfox and over three months since the garrison burned. Could the Halcus still be looking for him? With the war all but lost and an invasion of Bren planned, did they really have time or resources to search out one man?

  All thoughts vanished from Jack’s head as he reached the outer wall of Annis. The gate was being drawn closed for the night. The portcullis was being lowered, the overhead timbers creaking with the strain. Jack ran toward it.

  “Watch out, boy!” came a gruff warning. “Or the spikes will have your shoulders for mincemeat.”

  Jack took a step back. “I must enter the city tonight.” As he spoke, Jack attempted to mimic Stillfox’s way of speaking—his kingdoms accent would give him away.

  A second man, situated high atop the wall, shouted down. “Slip us a few golds and I’ll hold the gate while you pass.”

  “I don’t have any gold.”

  “Then I don’t have the strength to hold the gate.” The portcullis plunged toward the ground. Jack contemplated making a run for it, decided it wasn’t a good idea, so hissed a few choice curses instead. The spikes fell straight into the waiting pits and the city was closed off for the night.

  “Try us in
the morning, boy,” said the gatekeeper pleasantly. “My strength might have returned by then.”

  Jack smiled up at the man, while calling him a smug devil under his breath. How was he going to get into the city now?

  With nothing else to do and nowhere to go, Jack began to walk around the walls. Made of light gray granite, they had been finely polished and then chiseled with a diamond’s edge. Demons and angels had been carved side by side, the sun shared the sky with the stars, and Borc and the devil walked hand in hand.

  “Annis is a city of intellectuals,” Grift had once said. “They’re not happy unless they’re confusing, confounding, and acting as devil’s advocate.” Jack remembered that Grift’s first wife had come from Annis, so that probably explained a lot.

  The temperature was dropping sharply and the wind from the mountains was picking up speed. Jack knew the wise thing to do would be to turn around and head back to Stillfox’s cottage. Wearing only a light wool tunic and britches, he was not dressed for the night. His limbs were aching and his feet were sore and chafed. The herbalist would take him in, feed him, give him medicine and brandy, and now, after their argument this morning, very probably tell all he wanted to know about Melli.

  Yes, Jack thought, the wise thing would definitely be to go back. Only pride wouldn’t let him. He had left swearing to Stillfox that he would find out the truth on his own, and so by Borc he would! Even if it killed him.

  Annis was turning out to be quite large. The walls towered so high above him and stretched out so far ahead that they disappeared into their own dark shadows, merging into the night. Jack had to constantly watch his step; water pipes, sewer ducts, and rain channels all led away from the wall. Once out of the city, these carefully constructed conduits simply ended in pools of stinking slop. Jack grimaced as he was forced to jump over one. It seemed even intellectuals were capable of embracing the idea of out of sight out of mind.

  An owl called shrill and close. Jack was so startled, he stepped right back into the puddle he’d just safely jumped. “Borc’s blood,” he hissed, scraping the soles of his shoes against a rock. Owls weren’t supposed to live by mountains!