The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  Just then he heard a soft whisper carried on the wind. Jack froze in mid-scrape. A second whisper chased after the first: a man’s voice beckoning. Looking ahead, Jack tried to make out the details in the shadow. A row of high bushes cut straight across his line of view. Strange, the bushes led directly to the wall. A man’s head appeared above the leaf tops, then another, and another. Where were they coming from? As far as Jack could make out, the bushes sloped away from the city and then curved into darkness down the hillside.

  Very slowly Jack placed his foot on the ground. There were no twigs or dry leaves to give him away. He began to creep toward the bushes. More heads bobbed over the top, all heading for the wall. As he drew near, Jack could feel his heart banging against his chest. Saliva had all but abandoned his mouth, leaving it as rough as a dog’s snout.

  Suddenly a hand slapped over Jack’s mouth. Pudgy, moist, and broad, it cut off the air to his lungs. Jack whipped around, elbow out like a club. The man the hand belonged to was massive; rolls of fat quivered in the moonlight. Just before Jack slammed his elbow into him, he let out a mighty roar:

  “Miller!”

  The word was a battle cry, and even as its caller went down, a score of men rallied to the cause. The bushes opened up and an army of fat men dressed in baker’s white came out brandishing sticks and knives. Jack knew when he was outnumbered. He raised his hands in submission.

  The man on the ground made a quick recovery, flesh trembling as he pulled himself up. His army drew close, no longer running but with weapons still held before them. Jack felt the return of the pudgy hand.

  The white-aproned men formed a half circle around him. “He looks like no miller I know,” said one of their number.

  “Aye, Barmer, but you know millers—sneaky through and through.” This comment, made by the fattest of the group, elicited several grunts of approval.

  The pudgy-handed one spoke up from behind. “Do we give him a chance to speak, or club him where he stands?”

  “Club him!” cried the fattest.

  “Search him first for gold,” cried Barmer.

  The hand that was pressed against Jack’s mouth smelled strongly of yeast. “Well,” said its owner, “I think we should question him anyway. Suspend his vitals over a hot griddle and we’ll soon learn what the millers are up to.” The word millers was spoken with an enemy’s contempt.

  Jack was beginning to realize what he had chanced upon. Snapping back his jaw, he jerked it quickly forward and bit the pudgy-handed man squarely on the thumb. Free from the man’s grip for an instant, Jack cried, “I’m not a miller! I’m one of you. I’m a baker.”

  Three

  It seemed a lot darker in Bren tonight than any other night Nabber could remember. Not that he was scared of the dark, of course. It was just a little worrying, that was all. Swift had once said, “Some nights just aren’t right for pocketing,” and this was most definitely one of those.

  Nabber was weaving his way through the south side of the city, about a league east of Cravin’s townhouse. He’d been skirting around the hideout all day, hoping to muster enough courage to face Tawl. He knew the knight would give him a lashing, the worst kind, too—a verbal one. After all he deserved it, sending Bodger and Grift round with the password, getting Lord Maybor nearly killed. Why, all he needed to do to top it all off would be to bring the duke’s blackhelms to the door!

  Nabber spat in self-disgust. Swift would have revoked his pocketing privileges and cast him out on the street for less.

  Oh, he knew he had to go back—and in fact had pocketed more than enough gold to ensure a welcome return—but the thought of seeing disapproval or, even worse, disappointment, on Tawl’s noble face kept his feet from making their move. He still kept an eye on the hideout, though. Just to make sure that everyone was safe and no guards had turned up to take Tawl and Melli away. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if that had happened in his absence. Scratching his chin to aid reflection, Nabber carefully considered such an occurrence. Well, he might be able to live with himself after all—but he’d be sorely ashamed.

  Slap! Thump! Tap!

  For the first time Nabber’s brain registered what his ears already knew: someone had stepped from the alleyway and was following him. Someone with a bad leg and a stick. To test the man out, Nabber made a point of crossing the cobbled road.

  Slap! Thump! Tap!

  The man followed suit. Now, looking like a penniless, scrawny lowlife as he did, Nabber didn’t think old Bad Leg’s intention was to rob him. Which left only two other possibilities: Bad Leg was either a tunic-lifter, or one of Baralis’ spies. Either way, Nabber knew it was time to move on.

  Remaining as calm as Swift had taught him, he began to walk a little faster. Bad Leg matched him step for mismatched step. He walked real fast for a man with a stick. Nabber’s eyes searched out likely doors and alleyways. He was beginning to feel a little afraid.

  Slap! Thump! Tap!

  Bad Leg was gaining on him. The sound of his lurching footsteps sent a shiver down Nabber’s spine. There was no one on the streets to watch them pass. Straight ahead lay a series of archways where the poultry sellers sold their birds by day. Nabber knew this area well: swan and peacock sellers were famous for their loose coinage. To the right was Duck’s End, a short alleyway that most people believed finished in a dead end. Nabber knew differently. A small drainage tunnel led under the wall. If he hadn’t grown too much in the past three weeks, he should be able to squeeze through it. Old Bad Leg wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Nabber feinted to the left, then waited until the last possible moment before cutting a sharp right.

  Slap! Thump! Tap!

  There was no fooling Bad Leg.

  Duck’s End was a dark spot in an already dark night. A trickle of sweat slid along Nabber’s temple and then down his cheek. It’s just getting a little hot around here, he told himself, wiping his face with his sleeve. Bad Leg was only a shadow behind him now. Nabber picked up his pace. The ground was always wet in alleyways regardless of the rain, and Nabber’s shoes squelched with every step. The dead end loomed close. The drainage tunnel was a black puddle at the bottom corner of the wall. Nabber began to gravitate toward it.

  Slap! Thump! Tap!

  So did Bad Leg.

  Sweat was now running unchecked down Nabber’s cheek. The sound of the man’s footsteps had his nerves on edge. Feet away from the tunnel now, Nabber gave up all semblance of dignity and made a run for it. Water splashed round his ankles, air raced past his face. The violent thumping of his heart drowned out all other noise. A whiff of air rose up from the tunnel: the foul stench meant freedom.

  Feet first? Head first? Nabber had only a split second to decide. Taking a deep breath, he dived for the tunnel.

  The entrance engulfed him, dark and inviting. He slid down into its moist and furtive depths. Hands, head, shoulders, body, legs . . . Feet! Nabber felt something clawing at his feet. Close to panicking, he kicked out wildly. His hands searched the curved wall of the tunnel for something to grip on to. His kick had no effect: Bad Leg’s fingers still grasped at his feet. They felt like talons.

  Then a hand moved up to his ankle. Nabber tried to crawl forward, but Bad Leg pulled him back. The sheer strength of the pull took him by surprise. For some reason Nabber had thought the man would be weak. Scrambling for a handhold, Nabber was dragged from the tunnel. His belly scraped through the mud. His heart was beating so fast it was surely going to burst. The hands moved up to his knees and one sharp tug brought him out into the night.

  Nabber twisted around and came face to face with Bad Leg.

  Dark though it was, he recognized the man’s features. Or at least the look of them.

  Gripping his wrist, the man smiled. “Nabber, isn’t it?” he said. His voice was as thin as wire. He was not out of breath, not even breathing fast. “You might already know me. I’m Skaythe, Blayze’s brother.” He smiled again, twisting Nabber’s wrist behind his back. This time wh
en he spoke, his breath caught the side of Nabber’s face. “We met the night of the fight. I was Blayze’s second.”

  Nabber tried not to breathe in the man’s breath—it smelled like sweet things turned bad. Skaythe was a shorter, wiry, and less handsome version of his brother. His teeth were like Blayze’s only slightly crooked, his eyes were a little narrower, and his lips, unlike his brother’s full and sculpted one’s, were nothing more than a jagged line. He didn’t have Blayze’s flair for fashion, either—his clothes were plain and boasted no frills. He was strong, though. Nabber couldn’t remember ever having felt a grip so powerful.

  “What d’you want with me, then?” said Nabber, trying very hard to inject a measure of defiance into his voice.

  Another twist of his wrist was all it got him. “You know what I want, boy,” hissed Skaythe. “I want Tawl.”

  Nabber tried to pull free, but the grip just got tighter.

  “And you’re going to take me to him.”

  Something glinted, catching Nabber’s eye. It was the tip of Skaythe’s stick; molded onto the end of the wood was a spike of darkened steel. Nabber’s heart stopped at the sight of it. The spike came toward his face.

  “Where is he?”

  Nabber wasn’t at all sure if he was pleased when his heart started again, as it seemed to have moved up toward his throat. “I don’t know where Tawl is. I ain’t seen him since the night of the murder.”

  Skaythe drew the spike under Nabber’s chin. Its progress was so smooth that only the warm trickle following it told of its slicing action. Nabber froze.

  “Tell me where Tawl is, or I’ll cut more than just skin next time.”

  Nabber didn’t doubt he was a man of his word. “Tawl’s in the north of the city—hiding out in Old Knackers Lane.”

  The spike came close once more. “Why you in the south, then, boy?”

  Unable to move forward, Nabber slumped back against the man’s side. The action forced Skaythe to readjust his grip on the stick. Nabber used this diversion to raise his right knee and then slam his heel into Skaythe’s bad leg.

  Skaythe stumbled back. Nabber kicked his stick near the base, stopping him from gaining his balance. He didn’t wait around to see if it worked. Gathering all his strength, Nabber sprang for the tunnel. Skaythe sprang after him. Nabber knew what to do this time. Sprinting forward, he brought up his legs and leapt into the tunnel feet first. The cool filth enveloped him. Skaythe grabbed at his hair. Much though Nabber was attached to it, he snapped his head forward and let the locks go.

  Sidling down the tunnel he made his escape. He was missing a fistful of hair, a cupful of blood, and about ten years from the lifespan of his heart. It was time he went home to Tawl.

  Jack had, by means most extraordinary, gained entry into the city of Annis. He was sitting around a large, well-lit, well-burdened banquet table enjoying the somewhat skeptical company of the Baking Master’s Guild.

  “How would you slow down a dough that rises too fast?” asked Barmer, a baker with a huge, bristling mustache and a face as red as the wine he was drinking.

  “You put it in a tub full of water and wait until it rises to the top.” Jack’s answer met with grudging nods of approval. He was getting quite used to the interrogation. For the past hour and a half—ever since he was caught outside the wall and dragged through a cleverly concealed gate into the east side of the city—the members of the baking guild had been throwing him questions to test his claim. It wasn’t enough to say he was a baker, he had to prove it as well.

  “Any miller could know that,” said the only slim baker in the room, a hollow-cheeked man named Nivlet.

  “Let the lad off the hook,” said Eckles, the baker who had first slapped his pudgy hand on Jack outside the city. “It’s obvious he’s one of us.”

  “No, Eckles,” countered Scuppit, a short baker with forearms as broad as hams. “Nivlet’s got a point. That is the sort of thing that a miller might know. Best to ask the lad one more question, just to be safe.”

  “Aye,” mumbled the rest of the bakers in disunion. They were about twenty in number, and were all currently stuffing themselves with a banquet’s worth of food. For the first hour, Jack had looked on as the Baking Master’s Guild discussed guild business such as the rising cost of bread tax, the weight of a penny loaf, and this year’s candidates for apprenticeship.

  Millers were the enemy. The main aim of the Baking Master’s Guild was to outlaw, outwit, and outdo the Milling Master’s Guild. Millers mixed cheap grains in with good, milled flour either too coarsely or too finely, and had an unbreakable monopoly on the price of meal. If you told a baker that a miller had murdered his family and ate them for supper, the baker would nod and say: “Aye, and I bet he saved their bones for his mill.” Millers were notorious for grinding anything that could be ground, and then passing it off as flour.

  Jack had stumbled upon the Baking Master’s Guild’s monthly spying expedition. Eckles, who in addition to being one of the guild chiefs was the only person who believed Jack to be a baker from the start, had told him that once a month, when the Miller’s Guild were busy with their monthly meeting, the Baking Master’s Guild sent spies out to all the mills within a league of the city to check the miller’s stores. The number of grain bags at each mill was carefully counted and recorded, and then, as the month progressed, the baker’s would keep an eye to the amount of flour produced from each individual mill, ensuring that any excess was duly noted. Too much flour meant that foreign substances had been mixed in with the grain.

  Each baking master was assigned a specific mill, and when the counting was done they met in the bushes south of the city and smuggled themselves through the wall via the hidden gate. Spying on fellow guilds was considered a thoroughly dishonorable crime punishable by lifetime expulsion from the professional classes. The Baking Master’s Guild were taking quite a risk.

  Jack rather admired their nerve.

  “All right,” said Barmer, swallowing a mouthful of food. “Let’s ask him a tough one.” The baker slipped a sweet roll between his lips to aid the thinking process. “Nice texture, Scuppit,” he remarked to the baker by his side.

  Scuppit bowed his head graciously. “I added a half-measure of clotted cream to the dough.”

  Barmer let the bread roll on his tongue. “Never tasted better, my friend.” He swallowed and then turned his attention back to Jack. “Very well, lad, what sort of buttermilk is best for unfermented bread? Fresh or sour?”

  Jack was beginning to enjoy himself. He liked the bakers; they were a good-humored group who loved their creature comforts and were passionate about their trade. “Sour,” said Jack. “The soda in sour buttermilk will help a flat bread rise.”

  Eckles looked up from his food. “The boy knows his stuff, Barmer.”

  “That he does,” agreed Scuppit.

  “I still don’t trust him,” said Nivlet.

  Barmer waggled a bread roll at Jack. “All right. One last question, lad. If you add more yeast to make the dough rise faster, will you need to add more salt, as well?”

  “No. Too much salt slows down the yeast.” Jack smiled at the company of bakers. “And makes the crust too firm.”

  Barmer stood up, walked over to Jack, and clapped him hard on the back. “Welcome to the guild,” he said. Food permitting, other bakers followed his lead, and Jack was slapped, patted, nudged, and even kissed in congratulation. All came forward except Nivlet, who sat back in his chair, eyeing Jack with open suspicion. After watching the back-slapping for some time, Nivlet left the room.

  “Eat, boy, eat,” said Eckles. “The Baking Master’s Guild never lets a guest go hungry.”

  Jack didn’t need much encouragement. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast—which seemed at least two days back now—and the food in front of him looked a lot more appetizing than anything Stillfox had ever cooked. Glistening baked hams rested beside pies as large as butter churns, cheeses were split open and stuffed with fruit, and fat stri
ngs of crisp-skinned sausages shared bowls with roasted onions. Everywhere there was bread: barmcakes, soda rolls, sweet breads, bloomers, griddlecakes, and loaves. Jack had never seen such a variety. They were glorious to behold; some with hearty crusts, others softly glazed or sprinkled with seeds, many had been slashed before baking to give interest to the tooth, and a few had been formed into shapes as elaborate as could be. All of them were fresh, fragrant, and cooked to perfection.

  As Jack ate, he began to feel guilty about his treatment of Stillfox. The herbalist had been kind to him—teaching, feeding, healing, asking no awkward questions—and he had repaid it all by storming out in a fit of indignant anger. Jack shook his head slowly. Tomorrow he would go back to the cottage; he wouldn’t apologize for his words—for he said only what he truly felt—but he would apologize for his anger and the way in which he left. He owed Stillfox that much.

  With that decision made, Jack poured himself a cup of ale. For ten weeks the herbalist had treated him well, and it didn’t seem right to let one bad incident come between them. Jack downed the thick country beer, relishing its bitter taste. Hadn’t Falk told him all those months ago to accept people for what they are, with all their faults and frailties? Stillfox had accepted him, not blinking an eye about him being a wanted war criminal and a dangerously unstable sorcery user. So, thought Jack, if he had faults, surely he should make allowances for them in others? Yes, Stillfox had kept something from him, but perhaps his motives had been nothing but good.

  Jack’s eyes focused on a far distant point. He no longer saw the baker’s lodge; he saw Rovas’ cottage and Tarissa by the fire. A world of good motives couldn’t justify what she had done to him. And then there was his mother with her half-truths and her desire for death. And back a decade more was his father: a man who had left him before he was born. Both his parents had deserted him, and no amount of excuses could talk their deeds away.