The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  “No, Melli,” interrupted Maybor. “The boy’s right. We don’t stand a chance with the guards after us.”

  Crack! More splintering.

  “Have you got somewhere to go?” asked Jack.

  Maybor nodded. “Lord Cravin keeps a storage cellar not far from here—under a butcher’s shop I think.” He told Jack the address. “We’ll meet you there.”

  Crack! The whole door jerked forward. The hinges were beginning to give.

  “Go!” cried Jack, nerves frayed by the constant battering. “I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes.

  Grift laid a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t do anything foolish, lad.”

  Melli, Maybor, and Bodger raced down the stairs and to the kitchens, Melli pausing once to mouth the words, Take care.

  Jack was relieved when Melli was gone. At least she stood a chance of escaping now.

  Jack’s relief was short-lived, as another jolting blow came against the door. The first of the hinges gave way. The timbers began to crack and separate. Then, straightaway, another blow followed. The second hinge caved. The whole door fell back, the plank giving way ahead of it.

  Jack glanced toward the kitchen—the others had been gone less than a minute. He had to give them time.

  The door collapsed backward in a cloud of dust and splinters. Jack drew his blade and stepped forward. Two men with halberds came to meet him, stepping over the remains of the door. They wore the colors of the Royal Guard. There were more men behind; Jack couldn’t tell how many. He had to make sure they all came after him: Melli needed time to escape.

  Halberds jabbed at his gut. Jack could not stop the two men from moving forward. A knife was no match for a halberd in length, and he was forced to back away from them. Jack’s thoughts were with Melli. He wanted to go after her, make sure there were no guards round the back. She wouldn’t be able to defend herself. She was pregnant!

  The guards coming through the door angered him: they were preventing him from going to Melli’s side. As he dodged their thrusts, stepping ever backward, a familiar tension began to build within Jack. It was fueled by the thought of Melli being captured, hurt, abused. Tight bands of pressure clasped against skull, his stomach began to contract. He didn’t fight it. Instead he let it build, encouraging, shaping, working on the very air itself.

  The entry hall was full of guards now. Jack took one final step back, and found himself against a wall.

  One blade against seven men with halberds—he wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Jack deliberately pushed his thoughts on to Melli, her plight, her safety: anger rose more easily that way. And anger was what he wanted: it was the only thing that would provide a spark.

  The guards moved forward warily. Even with his thoughts in another place, Jack still took defensive actions with his blade, aiming deep, circular thrusts at the men.

  Jack’s mind was on the air immediately in front of him. He perceived its loose-knitted nature; he felt it dance.

  Someone swung a halberd at his face. Jack dodged—with the wall behind him there was nothing else he could do. Split seconds were all that he had.

  He concentrated on the air, gathering it close, thickening. It fought, then beguiled him. Jack ignored both. He felt a spike jab into his arm, then the axlike blade of a halberd ran across his shoulder. Wildly, he swung his knife. Desperate, scared, back against the wall, Jack willed the air into a ball. At that instant his stomach contracted sharply. He tasted metal on his tongue. The pressure in his head was unbearable. In his mind Melli ran through the streets chased by guards.

  The air became heavy like oil. It roiled in upon itself as it contracted. The guards began to back away. It was impossible to breathe. Jack felt the sorcery on his tongue. He held it in till he could take no more, and then pushed it toward the thickening air.

  The air blasted forward, hitting the guards full on. Three men slammed into the front wall. Another hit the doorframe, and another shot through the doorway. Jack was pinned against the wall by the sheer force of the backlash. The noise was deafening, painful. Jack’s ears ached. He still couldn’t breathe. The sickening crack of breaking bones tore through the air. If anyone had breath to scream, Jack didn’t hear them.

  Then, just as quickly as it started, the chaos ended. The air shimmered, then stilled. Scraps of fabric, hair, dust, and skin came floating to the floor. Jack took a deep, gulping breath. His body, released from the push of the backlash, slumped forward, and he had to grab onto the nearest timber to stop himself from falling to his knees.

  He was weak, dazed. His body seemed heavier than he remembered it.

  Before him lay the results of his drawing. The hallway looked as if it had been hit by a tornado. Chunks of wood and carpet lay scattered about the doorframe. The door itself had been ripped apart. Some of the men were groaning, rubbing blood from their faces, or testing their broken limbs by attempting to stand. Some made no noise; the effort of moving their heads from the floor, or their arms from beneath their bodies, consumed what little strength they had left. Some didn’t move at all.

  Jack turned away. He had seen enough. Looking down at his hand, he saw that through all of it he had still kept his grip on his blade. Rovas would have been proud. Jack managed a grim smile. It was time to catch up with Melli.

  If he was away from a city for too long, Nabber began to suffer withdrawal pains. City life was in his blood. He fed off the excitement on the streets: the tension of choosing a mark, the thrill of the lift, and the pleasure of a move well taken. There was nothing else like it. The city was full of wonders: fragrant rubbish piles that needed investigating, wads of coinage crying out to be circulated, and dodgy-looking characters spoiling for a fight. Everywhere people were cutting deals, exchanging goods, and selling services. Business was being done.

  Being a man of business himself, it was the commerce that Nabber missed the most. Why, out here in the fields, the only deals to be struck were with field mice and farmers! A man might as well curl up in the wheat and sleep until harvest.

  Not that curling up in these fields would be a good idea. Not unless you fancied being baked to a crisp along with the kernels. Nabber shook his head slowly as he focused his gaze toward the stream of black smoke gathering on the horizon. Kylock was burning the fields.

  All morning Nabber had passed company upon company of soldiers, all carrying torches and wooden casks. Nabber didn’t know about such things, but he was sure the casks were filled with just the sort of thing to make the fields burn faster. Probably kerosene, he concluded—either that or rat oil.

  Whatever it was, it was doing a fine job. The smell of burning dominated the early afternoon air, flakes of burnt matter sailed with the breeze, and the column of thick smoke drew nearer by the minute. All the crops that weren’t ready for harvest were being burned.

  Now, normally Nabber would have liked to stay around and see the burning for himself firsthand, but he found himself uncharacteristically sobered by the torching. Somehow it made the war seem real and inevitable. Yes, there had been talk of it for weeks—even months—but it hadn’t appeared real to Nabber until now. The burning field represented the reality of war: the heedless destruction, the wasted resources, and the sheer madness of it all.

  The soldiers with the torches were happy, festive, glad to be doing something rather than passively waiting for the enemy. The farmers and village folk were in a frenzy, some attacking the soldiers with their pitchforks and clubs, others busy harvesting what they could, whilst a few sat by the roadside and wept.

  For the most part, Nabber tried to steer well clear of it all. He picked quiet lanes lined with summer crops that had already been harvested and sleepy little hamlets that dealt in livestock not grain. Still, nothing could stop his gaze from wandering to the black smoke on the horizon and his small shoulders shuddering when he thought of what was to come.

  Everyone was on the move. The main roads were packed with people heading into Bren. They were seeking protection f
rom Highwall’s army behind the city walls. Whole families with laden mules and livestock walked beside monks from monasteries with carts full of wine and millers with sacks full of grain, rolling their millstones before them. Soldiers, knights, and mercenaries barged through the crowds, spurs drawing blood, their warhorses baring yellowing teeth. Young women, livestock, produce, and horses were regularly snatched from the throng. Anything the troops fancied they took. Old women screamed as their spring lambs were loaded onto wagons and their household belongings trampled to kindling in the fray. Chickens’ necks snapped as soldiers twisted them, and children wailed as their mothers were dragged away.

  Nabber didn’t like any of it. He’d never experienced war before and was quite certain he would rather do without it now.

  Yet, he thought, stretching the word as long as the treacherous notion that sparked it, there was money to be made during war. Bags full of it. There was black-marketing, hoarding, confiscations, extortion, and profiteering to name but a few. Which, at the end of the day, was why he really needed to be in the city: opportunity beckoned him from Bren’s fair streets, and here he was, stuck in the country, unable to heed its call.

  In fact, if he hadn’t been on a mission from a beautiful high-born lady, he would never have left in the first place. Well, perhaps that wasn’t entirely true—in his heart he did want to find Tawl—but why was it that good deeds always conflicted with commerce? Why couldn’t he do something good and earn money from it?

  Nabber spat, smoothed back his hair, hitched up his britches, and turned away from the smoke and burning crops. He couldn’t afford to waste any more time dawdling around, wishing he was back in the city one moment, feeling guilty the next. It just wasn’t productive. His mission was to find Tawl and give him Bevlin’s letter, and that was what he had to concentrate on. It was about time he used his head.

  Since he left Bren yesterday, he had spent his time visiting all the nearby towns and villagers, looking for any sign that the knight had passed through. Not surprisingly, there were no signs. Tawl would be keeping a low profile wherever he was; he wouldn’t want to risk being picked up by the authorities. Tawl would be somewhere near—he wouldn’t want to be too far away from Lady Melliandra—but he would be somewhere discreet. Might be a barn, or a tumbled-down cottage, or even a chicken coop. With everyone leaving their homes for the city there were a thousand places to hide.

  Thinking about Tawl out in the country on his own, Nabber couldn’t help but be glad that he hadn’t yet told the knight about the meeting between Baralis and Tyren. Things were difficult enough for Tawl at the moment without adding to his problems. Oh, he had meant to tell Tawl about the meeting, but the night he returned to the townhouse he had been too tired, and then the day after that it was the Feast of Borc’s First Miracle, and there was no way he could tell the knight about Tyren’s treachery on that most sacred of days. Tawl had spent most of the day at the window, staring south in the direction of Valdis.

  Nabber sighed. He knew he would have to tell Tawl the truth at some point, but the longer it went on the more difficult it became.

  Well, one thing was sure, he wasn’t going to mention the meeting to Tawl when he found him. Delivering Bevlin’s letter was the thing that counted now, giving Tawl reason to return to his quest.

  That settled, Nabber felt a lot better. Now all he had to do was figure out where Tawl could possibly be. Putting his hand on his chin, Nabber concentrated as hard as he could. Swift, who was always tracking down someone for the purpose of revenge, retribution, or murder, had once said, “A rat might leave a sinking ship, but it will always make its home amongst the wreckage. Men are no different—given a choice, they’ll always pick the familiar over the unknown.” So, supposing what Swift said was true—and up till this point Nabber had absolutely no reason to doubt the man’s wisdom—then that meant Tawl would go somewhere he’d already been. Somewhere not far away.

  Nabber was now gripping his chin so tightly, the blood had stopped flowing to his lips. This thinking lark was a lot harder than it looked.

  Then, suddenly, like a gift from the gods, the answer came to him. The duke’s hunting lodge! Of course, why hadn’t it occurred to him sooner? Tawl would go there: he knew the place, he’d first met Melli there, it wasn’t far from the city, and now with the duke’s death and the war and everything, it would probably be deserted.

  Nabber was so excited with his brainwave that he actually jumped in the air and clicked his heels. A second later he had composed himself again: excitement was one thing that it didn’t do to overindulge in.

  Having assumed his former nonchalance, Nabber began to walk northward. He knew the lodge was somewhere northwest of the city, about six hours ride by horseback, but that was all. The rest he would have to find out as he went along. Nabber shrugged to himself. That sort of thing was never a problem for him. And who knew? If he was lucky, he just might hitch a ride along the way.

  The day was drawing to a close. Clouds with their backs to the sun were black in the darkening sky. Already a breeze worthy of the night was blowing down from the mountains. It was cold at the base of the mighty peaks, cold enough for a fire and a winter cloak. Cold enough to chill Tawl to the bone.

  He sat on grass that had not been clipped for at least a month and gained shelter from the wind behind a wall belonging to a building that had been unoccupied for just as long. He was outside the duke’s hunting lodge, biding his time in the foothills of the Great Divide.

  This morning Tawl had discovered that if he climbed up to the roof of the lodge and turned his gaze southeast, he could see the city of Bren. It really wasn’t far away at all. All day he’d spent on the roof, trying to make out details of streets and landmarks in the sunshine, and then when the light faded, looking at the dark form of the city and imagining where Melli lay within it. Eventually the wind and cold had brought him down. His hands were riddled with splinters from the roof beams and all his limbs were stiff. Still, looking up at the roof now, Tawl knew that at first light tomorrow he’d be up there once more.

  Melli was in his thoughts constantly. Every idea, every image, every movement he made led in some way back to her. Even now, in the fire, he could see her face amidst the flickers of the flame.

  Should he have left her the way he did? With no explanations or farewells? Tawl ran his fingers through his golden hair. Should he have left her at all?

  Tawl turned the rabbit on the spit. One benefit of being on the roof was that down below all manner of creatures gathered unawares. It was easy to throw a stone and bag a meal for the night. The meat smelled delicious, fragrant, and smoky. The fire sizzled with every drip of its fat. There would have been enough for Melli if she were here.

  Standing up, Tawl moved away from the fire. The smell was suddenly abhorrent to him. Why hadn’t he just picked her up and carried her—kicking and screaming—from the city? Why had he listened to Maybor and that slick, maneuvering Lord Cravin? Why? Why? Why?

  Tawl slammed his fist against the wooden wall of the hunting lodge. The pain gave him the answer. Because Melli was safer without him. And that was everything: keeping Melli safe.

  With the quest and the knighthood lost to him, Melli was the one precious thing he had left, and now that she no longer needed him it was hard for him to let her go. Yet in his heart he knew he must. He only wished it didn’t hurt so much to leave.

  He had to let go of his old fears. Just because his sisters had come to harm while he was away didn’t mean that Melli would. It was nearly ten years later, the situation was different, Melli wasn’t a child who couldn’t fend for herself.

  It was so hard to put his fears behind him, though. So very, very, hard.

  Without realizing it, Tawl had stepped back to the fire. He picked up his knife, turning the blade in his hand. Sometimes he’d rather be dead than live with the memory of his failures. Anna, Sara, the baby, Bevlin, his quest, and the knighthood: he’d failed them all. And right now, looking into the bl
eak face of the Great Divide, it didn’t seem as if he’d ever be given the chance to make up for all his mistakes.

  Just then Tawl heard a rustling sound. He whipped around. The noise was coming from the bushes. He shifted the grip on his blade, making ready for an attack. The rustling came again. Tawl stepped back into the deep shadows of the lodge. A figure emerged from the bush. A small figure with sloping shoulders.

  “Nabber?” called Tawl softly.

  “Aye, Tawl. It’s me!” Nabber came forward, stepping into the place where moon and firelight met. “I’ve come to deliver something to you.” He began rooting around in his sack.

  Tawl slipped his knife into his belt. “Is Melli safe? Was the search halted?”

  Nabber continued to root. “Melli’s fine. They halted the search the morning after you left.”

  “I told you to stay by her side.”

  “Aye. And she told me to come”—Nabber pulled something flat and cream-colored out from his pack—“and give you this.” He held it out for Tawl.

  Tawl didn’t move. Nabber held a sealed letter. The parchment shone in the moonlight, flapping gently with the breeze. He knew what it was. He had been offered the letter before. He knew the seal, the folds, the paper. And when he’d last seen it, it was lying in the dirt on a dark and narrow street.

  Tawl’s throat was dry. His heartbeat slowed. “Where did you get this?” he said.

  “The same place where you left it: little street right by the abattoir.” Nabber thrust the letter toward him. “Take it. Melli wants you to open it.”

  Tawl looked at the letter. Bevlin’s letter. He had thought he would never see it again. Hadn’t wanted to see it again. But here it was, being offered to him by a boy who was his only friend. “Nabber,” he said softly, “if I open this it will change everything.”

  “I know. Melli knows, too. I told her about the quest, and Bevlin—”

  “Bevlin?”

  “Don’t worry, Tawl. I told her only what she needed to know.”