The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  No. It was for the best that he didn’t go back. He would only be placing Stillfox in danger. And even though the man may have hidden the truth about Melli from him, he hardly deserved to be branded a traitor. Jack didn’t know what the penalty for harboring a notorious war criminal would be, but he could guess it would involve torture, then death.

  Jack began to walk up the narrow mountain path. Even though he knew he was doing the right thing by not returning to say farewell to Stillfox, he couldn’t help but feel bad. The herbalist would assume that he had taken off in a fit of anger vowing never to return. Well, that was what life was all about, wasn’t it? A series of misunderstandings, half-truths, and regrets?

  Jack drew his lips into a thin line that might have passed for a smile in candlelight. Sometimes, just sometimes, one was given the chance to silence the softly scathing voices of regret.

  For months before he had found out the truth about Melli, he had tortured himself with thoughts of what had happened to her in the chicken coop. If only he hadn’t left her. If only he had fought harder to get away from Rovas. If only it had been he the Halcus caught instead of her. Now he had been given a second chance. Melli was in danger and this time he would be there when she needed him.

  Stillfox had kept the information about Melli’s plight from him, knowing full well he would want to go to her. Perhaps the herbalist would guess his reasons for not returning after all. He was not a stupid man.

  The moon appeared from behind the clouds and the last of the daylight faded away. An old woman he’d spoken to this morning said there were two roads to Bren. The Duke’s Highway was wide and cut into the rock where it could, only narrowing to accommodate the pass. Soldiers and messengers and merchants walked its mighty length, so the old woman said. But if he was looking for a quieter way to Bren—a way that could only be traveled in summer and early autumn, a way that was narrow and winding and might add ten extra leagues to his journey—then the Old Goat Trail would do. Only spies and goatherders walked the trail, she said. Jack had given her a wedge of cheese for her trouble, and with lips as dry as paper she had kissed him on his cheek.

  He had seen only one goatherder all day. The man had given him a suspicious look and Jack guessed that he thought he was a spy. Feeling a little mischievous, Jack had openly taken a head count of the herder’s goats as seriously as if they were enemy soldiers. Rather sheepishly for a man who spent his time herding goats, the herder had approached him.

  “Are you counting numbers for Annis or Bren?” he asked.

  “Neither,” replied Jack, quickly realizing that there was a chance for gain here. “I count only for the Wall.”

  The goatherder acted as if this information merely confirmed a prior suspicion. He nodded knowingly and sucked in his cheeks. “Highwall,” he said. “Aye.” He looked at his goats, looked at Jack, looked at a distant point on the horizon, took a deep breath, and then spoke. “What will it take to cut those numbers by half?”

  Jack was ready with his request. He motioned toward the herder’s coarse wool cloak. “Do you keep a second cloak for feastday best?”

  The herder, who smelled of goat dung, goat cheese, and goats, brought his hand up to his face and scratched his chin. “So you’d settle for my best cloak?” he said, his voice a peculiar mixture of surprise and relief.

  “No. I want the one you’re wearing now.”

  “This old thing’s stiff with goat dung,” said the herder.

  Jack clamped his teeth together to stop himself from laughing outright. After a moment he said, “It will do.” Anything was better than freezing to death on the dark side of a mountain. Summer it might well be, but once night came seasons would have little meaning. Dressed as he was at the moment, in a light tunic and undershirt, he wouldn’t stand a chance. Jack was tempted to have the man’s boots as well, and would have taken them if it wasn’t for the fact that the herder’s feet were most definitely not a match for his own.

  The herder handed over his coat. “How many goats do I have now?” he asked.

  Jack had counted two scores. “Owning only a handful like you do, you’re hardly worth a mention in my report.” He took the cloak from the man. It didn’t smell as bad as he thought.

  The man nodded his approval. “My wife will thank you for taking that thing off my hands. She’s been trying to make me get rid of it for years now.”

  “Tell her she has the Wall to thank, not me.” Jack bowed to the herder and took his leave, purloined cloak firmly in hand.

  Borc! but he was glad of it now, though. With the appearance of the moon, summer seemed to have given up completely. The very same breeze that had been blowing against him all day had decided to turn nasty and was worrying away at his bones. Jack began to slow his pace, pausing every few steps to check to either side of the path. It was about time to find somewhere to sleep for the night.

  He had, thanks to the Baking Master’s Guild, enough food to last him for a few days, and if he ran out, well, he could always con another unsuspecting goatherder out of his cheese. Jack smiled at the thought of the herder going home, cloakless, to his wife. He’d obviously learnt more from Rovas than just how to defend himself. Some of Rovas’ cunning must have rubbed off along the way.

  A cluster of rocks caught Jack’s eye: it was about as good as he was going to get tonight. He left the path and headed toward them. The wind whipped down from the mountain and this time it brought rain for the ride. A few specks splashed against Jack’s face, then a few more, and before he knew it he was in the middle of a squall. He raced for the rocks, cloak pulled tight about his chest.

  The rocks formed a rim around a dip. It promised great protection from the wind, but in the rain was little but a bowl waiting to be filled. Jack looked up at the sky. The moon was still visible behind shifting banks of clouds, which meant the rain would probably be light. He decided to risk the rocky dip. A few young saplings were growing to the left of the rocks, and Jack took his knife to them. He hacked an armful of branches and laid them in the space between the rocks. Now he wouldn’t have to lie on the wet ground. He collected a few more branches for good measure, and then settled into his den, spreading the extra branches out on top of him. Not bad really, he thought as he snuggled down amidst the fragrant summer leaves.

  Jack immediately began to feel sleepy: it had been a long two days. The old woman had said it would take over a week to get to Bren by the Old Goat Trail. Well, it might take a while, and his feet might never forgive him, but one way or another he would make it to Melli’s side. With that comforting thought on his mind, Jack fell into a dreamless sleep. Raindrops pattered softly for a while and then gradually faded away.

  Five

  Melli counted the weeks backward to her wedding day. Eleven. Could it really be that many? That made her nearly three months pregnant. Her hands stole to her belly as she tested for any sign of swelling. Nothing. Well, perhaps a slight thickening around her waist.

  Just this morning Nabber had returned from a foray bearing several new dresses for her to wear. Melli was rather alarmed at the size of them: they were as large and billowing as priest’s cassocks. Not to mention the fact that they were all various shades of red. Following her beating in Duvitt, Melli had developed a strong dislike for the color. Now, having been married in red, she despised it even more. Nabber, however, loved red, and everything he brought her—purses, flowers, ribbons—was either scarlet, ruby, or crimson. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that she would have preferred blue instead.

  Everyone was always so kind to her. Bodger and Grift would force fancies and sweetmeats on her like a pair of maiden aunts, Nabber brought her gifts like an overardent suitor, and Maybor checked in on her by the hour like a nursemaid. Tawl was different, though. He alone allowed her breathing space. Oh, he was always there, on the other side of the door sitting in his windowseat, but he never intruded upon her thoughts or her time.

  Every so often she would hear his footsteps just outside the
door, and she knew he was listening for her. There was no right word to describe the way those footsteps made her feel: secure, certainly, but something more as well. Something much more. Tawl would lay down his life for her, Melli knew as surely as she knew her own name. Yet that was only part of it. Tawl spent his days on guard outside her door and his nights sleeping propped up against it. Loyalty kept him there, but it was love that made him tiptoe up to the wood and listen for the sound of her tears.

  And it was this unassuming unspoken love that kept her going from day to day.

  Once, almost two weeks back now, Tawl had left the hideout without telling her. Melli had come out of her room to ask him something, and when she found he wasn’t there, her heart started to pound. Tawl was always there. He had sworn never to leave her side, and for one terrible moment, she thought he had abandoned his oath. No one knew where he’d gone. Nabber wasn’t around, either. Melli started to panic: without Tawl she was vulnerable, alone in a world that wanted her dead. Then he had come back. The front door opened and in he came, and instantly he saw all on her face.

  Always chivalrous, the only thing he said was, “I will not leave you again.”

  Even as he spoke, a shiver passed down Melli’s spine, and she knew in her heart that he would.

  Strangely, her premonition had made her stronger. It had focused her thoughts on herself. She had always been strong, yet since the duke’s murder she had somehow stopped relying on herself. Tawl took care of her completely, and she had willingly relinquished control. Ever since the day of Tawl’s absence, she had slowly been claiming it back. Her premonition had told her he would go, and she wanted to be prepared when he did. She had to be strong for her baby.

  Tawl loved her, she had realized that the day she married the duke, and in a way she had used that love. It had given her comfort in a time of chaos. For weeks after the wedding her life had been a bleak and distant dream, and it had been Tawl’s quiet strength that had helped pull her through. His footsteps outside her door, his gentle considerations, and most of all the knowledge that he was in control, had given her peace of mind through the long hours of her grief.

  A gentle tapping came upon the door. “Melli, are you awake?” It was Tawl.

  “Come in. I’m awake, I’m alert, and I’m as sick as a dog.”

  Tawl entered smiling. “Do you need the bowl?”

  The bowl was the bane of Melli’s existence. It followed her around the house, waiting to serve. “No. I don’t feel like I’m going to be sick just yet.”

  Coming to stand beside her, Tawl reached out and took her hand in his. “You know the wedding of Catherine and Kylock is today.”

  Melli nodded. “I know.” She didn’t want to think about it. The marriage was nothing to her.

  “There is a good side to it,” said Tawl softly. “Baralis has been so busy pulling everything together these past ten days that he’s had little time to search for us. The streets have been quiet.”

  “Too quiet for a city whose favorite daughter is married today.”

  Tawl took a quick breath. “You know, we should leave. Just last night Nabber found a sluice gate that leads under the wall. He says there are only two guards within striking distance on the other side. I could easily take them out.”

  “No. I’m not ready to leave. We’re safe for the moment—you said so yourself.” Melli turned her back on him. “I don’t know if I could manage it if we were chased by the guards. I can’t run. I can barely stand up without being sick. The baby’s health is too important to risk. Grift says that once the first three months are up it will be safer to move me.”

  “What about the risks here?” Tawl said, grabbing hold of her shoulders and spinning her round. “They would give up searching for us if they thought we were out of the city—”

  “Would they?” Melli cut in harshly. “Now that my father has blurted out to a tavern full of drunkards that I’m with child, how long do you think it would be before Baralis came after us?”

  “Baralis has no power in Annis or Highwall. We could go there. Leave it too late and the whole of the north will be one huge battlefield.”

  “You go, then,” said Melli, suddenly angry. “Right now they are looking for you, not me. Half the city still believes it was you who murdered the duke.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. She bowed her head. “I’m sorry, Tawl. I don’t know what I’m saying. Pregnancy seems to rob me of my wits.” She wanted to say more, to tell him that the feeling that he would leave her was never far from her thoughts, and that it had pushed the harsh words right out of her mouth.

  Tawl slid his forefinger under her chin and tilted her face up to meet his. “Melli,” he said, his blue eyes looking straight into hers, “I would do anything to keep you safe, and if I thought for a moment that my presence endangered you, then I’d be gone before you took your next breath.”

  His voice was heavy with emotion. Something dark and hurting lay just beneath the surface. Melli realized how little she knew of him. He never spoke about himself or his past. He had left the knighthood, that much she knew, and just last week, on the Feast of Borc’s First Miracle, she had seen how much pain that had caused him. He was a man who’d lost his soul that day. But everything else he kept to himself: his family, his origins, his dreams for the future. Day and night he kept watch outside her door, yet if he ever crossed the threshold it was never to speak of himself.

  Melli took a step forward and up came Tawl’s arms, guiding her toward his chest. She rested herself against him, feeling the mighty beat of his heart. She wanted to beg him never to leave regardless of what was best for her and the baby, but something, perhaps pride, perhaps instinct, stopped the thoughts from forming words in her mouth.

  Jack entered the city of Bren late in the afternoon. The Old Goat Trail had taken ten days of solid walking to bring him here. He had been lucky with the weather; a little rain, a pesky wind, and temperature that dropped sharply at night were the worst things he’d had to contend with. Of course, the walking was another matter: his feet now boasted more blisters than an army full of flat-footed soldiers on the move. Or at least they felt like they did.

  His food had given out three days earlier and right about now he was ready for a meal. In fact, even as he walked through Bren’s southwestern gate, Jack was planning exactly how he’d get his hands on some food. No unsuspecting goatherders here, that’s for sure. He would have to rob someone, and after three days of not eating, he wasn’t particularly fussy about who—the first man he saw with a hot pie, most likely.

  The scale of the city took his breath away. There were buildings of stone and brick and timber, two, sometimes three stories high. The streets were wide, and most were either paved or cobbled. Shops and taverns and warehouses crowded side by side, leaning against each other for support, all jostling for recognition with brightly painted signs and carvings above their doors. Above it all towered the wall. It dominated the city, rising high above the buildings and casting its long shadow to the east. Jack had never seen anything like it in his life. Annis’ wall seemed like so many naked stones compared to this.

  Stillfox had said that Annis and Highwall would lay siege to Bren. Jack cast a last admiring glance at the battlements: he would like to see the army that would try to breach these walls.

  Jack began to walk the city in search of food. The place was a lot quieter than he’d imagined. Yes, it was late in the day, so stallholders were upping stakes and shopkeepers were closing shutters, but those people who were on the streets seemed strangely subdued. There were no riotous drunks, no children chasing pigs, no old women gossiping in groups. Even the beggars were quiet.

  Jack approached an aging stallholder who was busy loading his mule with unsold goods. His baskets were filled with apples, not pies, but Jack decided to try him anyway. He had a kind-looking face. “Can I help you with those baskets, sir?” he asked.

  The stallholder looked him up and down. “You’re welcome
to, young man, but only expect the sour ones for your trouble.” He indicated the baskets to be lifted. “From your accent I suppose you’re here for the war. People from all over have been flooding into the city hoping to have a go at Highwall’s army.”

  Jack shook his head. “No. I’m not here for the war.” He began loading the baskets on the mule. They were heavier than he thought, and he wondered how the old man had managed to do the job every night.

  The stallholder seemed to read his thoughts, for he said, “Any other night, young man, and I wouldn’t have needed your help. Business has been terrible slow today. I’ve got so many apples left they just might break my poor mule’s back.”

  Jack was thinking just the same thing. The old man must have someone else deliver the apples in the morning, as the mule did not look up to it. “So you normally sell them all?”

  “Aye, that I do. But not today.” The stallholder spat reflectively. “Never seen a day like it in all my life. It’s like the whole city’s in mourning.”

  Jack felt his stomach twist into a knot. “Why? What’s happened?”

  The stallholder looked at him as if he were mad. “Where’ve you been these past months, boy? Living under a rock? Today is the day that Catherine marries King Kylock.” He looked up into the deep blue sky. “And if I’m not mistaken, the ceremony will be over and done with right about now.”

  Right on cue, a distant bell began to ring. It tolled three solemn notes. Jack’s blood quickened to the sound: it was almost as if the notes were for him alone. He stood, apple basket in hand, unable to move a muscle or take a breath, and listened to the sound of Kylock’s fate. It tolled strong and clear, setting the whole city vibrating in time. The very walls rang with it. Jack felt it in his soul like a message, like a warning, like a blade. Ever since the first morning he’d woken in Stillfox’s cottage and seen a vision of the war, Jack knew Kylock and he were destined to oppose each other. And the ringing of the bell marked the beginning of the match.