by J. V. Jones
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
Tavalisk shot a suspicious glance at his aide; he did not like the tone of Gamil’s voice. “You may go now. Make sure the messages are sent promptly.” The archbishop waited until Gamil was at the door before he added, “Ah, about the fish . . . ”
“Would you like me to take it away, Your Eminence?”
“No, Gamil. I’ve taken quite a liking to the feisty little creature, but its water is rather dirty, and I’d be grateful if you’d clean it.”
“You must leave Bren today,” said Maybor, trying but not quite succeeding to keep his voice low. “Every minute you stay is another minute that Melliandra is in danger.”
“Melliandra’s reputation is of the utmost importance, Tawl,” Cravin said, his tone smoother and more calculating than Maybor’s. “She now carries Bren’s only living heir, and for her to be associated with a suspected murderer is nothing short of disastrous. There are many lords in the city who would help us back her claim, yet none will come forward if you are by her side. All of Bren thinks you murdered Catherine, and whilst that may be untrue, I’m sure you’ll agree that the evidence certainly looks damning.” Cravin took a step closer to Tawl, putting his elegantly manicured hand on his arm. “Stay and you bring Melliandra down with you.”
Tawl pulled away. Cravin had a reptile’s touch. He turned his back on both men and walked toward the fire.
They were downstairs in the hideout, Cravin’s townhouse, and for the first time since they had been staying here, the owner had decided to pay them a visit. Lord Cravin had arrived an hour earlier and had spent most of that time in private conference with Maybor. About fifteen minutes ago they had called him down.
Even before the call came, Tawl knew what they would say. Catherine had been dead for five days now, and on the dawn of the second day, he had been proclaimed her murderer. A cup with his mark carved upon it had been found at her bedside. There was poison in it, the same poison that was found on Catherine’s lips. There was also a servant who, when tortured, had confessed to taking gold from a man who looked like the duke’s champion in return for placing the cup and the poisoned wine in Catherine’s chamber. Fifty pieces of gold had even been found in the servant’s room.
Tawl balled his hands into fists. Cravin was right—it did look damning.
Someone had done a very good job of making it seem as if he’d murdered Catherine. It was different than the duke’s murder, where no one really knew what had happened. Yes, accusations had been thrown at him, but despite all of Baralis’ efforts, no one could say with conviction that he had done it. There was only suspicion, nothing more. But this . . . Tawl shook his head. Baralis had outdone himself this time.
“Tawl, today Kylock’s forces are sweeping southeast of the city. Tomorrow, they will be here.” Maybor was trying to speak quietly, so there would be no chance of Melli overhearing the conversation. “There’s little chance they’ll miss us this time.”
“Yes,” agreed Cravin. “The search is door to door, room to room. By midday tomorrow they will have reached this street.” He lowered his voice to the level of a threat. “We cannot risk Melliandra being caught.”
Not in a house owned by you, thought Tawl. He didn’t say it, though. Instead he said, “Even if I were to leave, the search would still continue.”
Cravin was ready for him. “You are right. It is not enough for you to leave, you must also be seen to leave. Only then will Kylock call off the search.”
Tawl suddenly felt very tired. He leaned forward, supporting his weight on the mantel. The heat from the fire had lost its power to warm him. He was cold, colder than he could ever remember being before. The thought of leaving Melli chilled his very soul. She was all there was in the world for him. Even if he had never taken an oath, he would still be here at her side. He lived to keep her safe, yet now it looked as if the very protection he gave her was just one more danger.
Maybor came and stood beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, Tawl saw him exchange a glance with Cravin. “Look, Tawl,” he said. “I know you’ve done a lot for all of us, and we all thank you for it, but now it’s time for you to go. Unless you leave tonight, Melliandra will fall into Baralis’ hands.” Maybor shook his head slowly. “And no oath in the world will be able to save her then.”
“You must not forget your oath, Tawl,” said Cravin from behind him. “An oath to protect the duke’s wife, but more importantly, his heirs.” Tawl could feel the man’s breath on the back of his neck. “The unborn child must be protected at all cost.”
“We could all leave tonight,” said Tawl, whipping around to face Cravin. “I could take Melliandra from the city after dark.”
Once again Cravin was ready. “No. She cannot be moved. She is not well, the risk to the baby is too great.”
Maybor waved an arm, stopping Cravin from speaking further. “Just go away for a little while, Tawl,” he said gently. “Just until the uproar over Catherine’s death dies down. Come back later—in a month, say.”
“In less than ten days time the armies of Highwall and Annis will be setting camp outside the city.” Tawl was losing his temper. “War is coming, and Bren will be the battlefield. It’s madness to keep Melli here.”
“No, Tawl,” said Cravin. “What’s madness is you staying here knowing full well that your presence endangers Melliandra. Now, I know you’re no longer a knight, but I thought at least I could rely on your sense of honor.”
“Honor! You know nothing of honor.” Tawl swept all the candles from the mantel. “All you care about are politics and your own precious neck.” Trembling from head to foot, Tawl wanted nothing more than to beat the life from Cravin. “You should be thankful of Valdis’ codes of honor at this moment, Cravin,” he murmured. “For if I hadn’t learnt them well, you’d be a dead man now.”
The two men stared at each other for a minute, then Tawl had the satisfaction of seeing Cravin back away.
Maybor stepped in to fill the gap. His tone was conciliatory. “Tawl, I know you are honorable, and I am relying on you to do what is right. Forget about Lord Cravin and the baby, just think about Melliandra. We can’t allow her to fall into Baralis’ hands.”
Tawl sighed heavily, his anger toward Cravin leaving him as quickly as it came. What Maybor said was right: Baralis must never be allowed to capture Melli. Kylock’s forces would be here tomorrow. Only this morning Nabber had come back from the market with horrible tales of the searches—houses were being burned, people tortured, anything that might lead to Tawl’s capture. The whole city was looking for him.
And then there was Blayze’s brother, Skaythe. The man had accosted Nabber not far from the hideout, and it wouldn’t be long before he tracked them down. From Nabber’s account of the incident, Skaythe sounded like a man bent on revenge. Tawl knew Blayze’s brother wanted to see him dead, so by leaving the city he would eliminate yet another threat. Skaythe would either give up his search altogether, or leave the city in pursuit of him.
“If I were to leave, how would you protect Melliandra in my absence?”
“I will set my own men to watch the district. At the first sign of any danger, I will see to it that she is moved to another place.” Cravin gave Tawl a hostile look. “Once you go, the danger will be greatly reduced. The search parties will be called off and the city will get back to normal. Keeping Melliandra safe shouldn’t be too difficult, then. After all, she’s been here three months without being discovered.”
Much though he hated to admit it, Cravin had a point. Melli was safe here, or she would be as long as tomorrow’s search didn’t go ahead. It was just so hard to think of Melli being here without him. Tawl found himself wishing he’d never taken the duke’s oath. He felt as if he was trapped by it. Melli and the baby would be safer in his absence, and so he was oath-bound to leave them. He knew it was the rational thing to do, but his heart and his soul cried out to stay.
Nine years ago he had left the little cottage by the marsh to go to
Valdis, only to return three years later and find his sisters long dead. It was the defining failure of his life; it guided all his actions and made him who he was. Every day he was forced to struggle with the memory, and every day he realized anew that he could never make it right. It haunted his dreams, his days, his mornings, and his nights. And Tawl knew he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if the same thing happened to Melli. There was only so much guilt a man could bear.
Yet tomorrow Melli might be captured or killed, and it would be his presence that brought Kylock’s minions to the door. The search could not be allowed to continue. If guards broke into the house, Tawl knew he would defend Melli with his life: but that was it, he only had one life, and once that was gone, Melli was on her own.
“I will go now,” said Tawl. He had to—for Melli, for the baby, for the oath he’d sworn to the duke. Loyalty took many forms, and the hardest part of all was knowing when to walk away.
Maybor patted him on the back. “It’s for the best, Tawl. Lord Cravin and I will look after Melli.”
“And Nabber,” added Tawl. He put more store in Nabber’s ability to look after Melli than either of the self-serving lords before him.
Maybor nodded. “It will be so.”
Crossing the room, Tawl paused by the door and turned to look at Cravin. “If one hair on Melli’s head is harmed, I swear by Borc I will see you dead for it.”
Closing the door behind him, he raced up the stairs, taking them three at a time. Nabber was waiting for him at the top. Tawl ignored him at first and began stuffing his belongings into a sack. His sword and his knives took up most of the space.
“How did it go with old Cravin and Maybor?” asked Nabber, growing impatient with being overlooked.
Tawl swung around. “Nabber, I am going away for a while—don’t worry, I won’t be far away. Look after Melli for me while I’m gone.”
“But, Tawl—”
“No questions. Just do as I say.” Tawl clasped Nabber’s hand. “I promise I will be back.”
Nabber nodded rather solemnly. “I understand, Tawl.”
He probably did, as well. Taking up his sack, Tawl slung it over his shoulder. “Take care, Nabber. Tell Melli my thoughts will always be with her.”
“Aren’t you gonna say good-bye?” Nabber indicated Melli’s door.
Tawl shook his head. She would only beg him to stay. And once he heard her voice, nothing on earth could make him leave. No, he wouldn’t say good-bye: her safety mattered more than his own personal fears. Melli was different than his sisters—older, wiser, stronger—she would be safe without him. She had to be.
Just before he made his way down the stairs, Tawl crept up to her door. Not a sound came from the other side. Turning away, he raised a hand in parting to Nabber and quietly left the house.
Jack was in the south of the city. Of all the districts that he had walked around, he felt drawn to the south side the most. In the deep purple shadows of twilight, it was a maze of narrow streets and darkened alleys. Taverns, brothels, and bakeshops crowded around tiny squares. The smell of the abattoir and the tanners combined with the smoke from the charcoal burners and the fumes from the dyemakers to create an especially challenging test for the lungs.
Foul air aside, Jack was actually enjoying being in the city. He didn’t have to hide his face here—no one cared about a Halcus war criminal in Bren—and for the first time in his life he felt free to do as he pleased. No Frallit, no Rovas, no Stillfox: he was his own man, and as he walked the streets of Bren, he was beginning to appreciate the joy of it.
It was a good feeling to walk down a darkened alleyway and know that if he was jumped by a robber, a cutthroat, or a pimp he would be able to deal with them. Thanks to Rovas he could handle himself well now. The thought of a surprise attack held no fear for him. As long as he had a blade and a little room to work in, he could deal with most challengers.
He only wished he had a similar confidence in his sorcery. After the incident in the bakers’ lodge in Annis, he knew he could draw sorcery at will, but there was still a part of Jack that was frightened of using it. Even now, he was afraid of doing the wrong thing, of mistiming the drawing, of becoming too involved with whatever he was trying to change, or, worst of all, of drawing too much. He knew he was powerful—what had happened at the garrison had proven that beyond question—but he had had little faith in his ability to control that power. Like a giant picking daisies, he felt too blundering and big-handed to do the job with the delicacy it required.
There was nothing tangible to hold and see: no blade to dodge, no handle to grasp, no blood to judge the blow. It was all in the mind; the attack had to be planned and shaped in the thoughts, and by the time you could taste the metal on your tongue it was all over and done with.
The dangers were as real as with swordplay, yet because there were no thrusting blades and no opponent’s skill to gauge, it didn’t seem as threatening. When a man has his knife to your throat, instinct warns you to proceed carefully. With sorcery it was different. The dangers were to the mind as much as the body, and sometimes it was difficult to judge the line between safety and self-destruction. More than once Jack had nearly lost himself to the lure of inanimate objects. It was so easy to fall in time with them, to be influenced by them, and then to forget to pull away. Pulling away was hard. It was like coming to sit by a warm and cozy fire and then forcing yourself outside into the cold.
A thin gust of wind razored down the alleyway and Jack pulled his goatherding cloak close. Coming to a crossroad, he took a turn to the left.
Hard though pulling away was, it wasn’t the hardest part of the drawing. Not for him, anyway. The hardest part was generating the spark: the thing that gave the sorcery its life. Always, right down to the last time he’d drawn sorcery in the bakers’ lodge, he used the image of Tarissa to conjure up the power. It seemed violent emotion was the only way he could make it happen, and perhaps that was the reason why he had never gotten very far with Stillfox’s teaching. It wasn’t easy for him to conjure up false emotion.
Stillfox had tried to show him other ways, telling him over and over again to “focus your thoughts on forming the intent,” but Jack had focused until he was owl-eyed and head-sore and nothing had come. In fact, up until the morning in the bakers’ lodge, he wasn’t even sure if he knew what focus meant.
Reaching the end of the street, Jack chose a second turn at random. Picking a path down the center of the road, he steered well clear of the filth-strewn gutters.
Jack sighed to himself and the newly arrived night. His learning was far from done. In his heart he knew it wasn’t right to use his anger toward Tarissa as a spark. He should have paid more attention to Stillfox, should have tried harder, should have practiced more. One day, thought Jack, he would return and finish what he had started. He owed it to Stillfox and himself.
For the time being, though, that was in the distant future. Finding Melli was what he had to do now.
Five days he’d been in the city, and he was still no closer to discovering where she was. Strangely, Jack wasn’t too worried. He felt sure that something would turn up.
In the meantime all he had to do was find food each day and a doorway to sleep in each night, neither of which was turning out to be difficult. Somewhere along the way he’d even picked up a new pair of shoes—he had an unsuspecting cobbler to thank for those. Not once had he gone hungry, but there’d been more than a few times when he’d been tempted to mug the first man he’d seen with a full skin of ale: so far his skills hadn’t extended as far as acquiring a decent drink. All things considered, though, he wasn’t doing too badly, and he was actually enjoying having to rely on his own resources for a change.
As for tonight, well, it was about time to find a place free from the wind. Jack looked around. Without realizing it, he had made his way to Bren’s southern wall. It loomed high above the rooftops, less than a meadow’s length away. Cutting a path toward it, Jack quickened his pace. It seemed
as good a place as any to find shelter for the night.
Just as he altered his course, Jack heard the sound of footsteps behind him. He looked back and saw a man running up the street. Close on his heels were a group of armed men. The man ran faster than anyone Jack had ever seen. His golden hair streamed behind him, and his chest rose and fell like a waterpump. As he came closer, Jack could see his face; his eyes were bright with fierce intensity, and his mouth was a sculptor’s tale. In his hand he held a beautifully polished sword.
The man passed Jack in an instant, not even seeing him, his sights set firmly ahead. Jack followed his gaze: he was making for the wall.
There was something about the sight of the man, something about his hard and beautiful face and his terrible focused intensity, that affected Jack deeply. His golden hair provoked memories of dreams long past.
Hardly aware of what he was doing, Jack sprang toward the pursuers. He wanted to give the man time to escape: he didn’t know why, perhaps it was the brightness of his blade or the sheer desperation of his plight, but Jack felt in his soul that the man needed his help.
He made a blundering leap into the snarl of armed men. Surprise was the only thing he had on his side. Then men were forced to stop in midstep to deal with this new development. Jack fell facedown on the ground like a drunkard. He did not draw his knife. He felt a blade trained upon his spine and another at the back of his neck. Two of the men carried on running after the golden-haired one.
