by J. V. Jones
Only this morning Cherry had returned from the duke’s palace. As well as a broken arm, she had three small burn marks on her right shoulder. The girl swore she fell down the stairs and went crashing into a table bearing lit candles. Mistress Greal thought otherwise. She knew from experience that some men had a liking for inflicting pain upon women, and she had a feeling that King Kylock was just such a man.
Normally Mistress Greal would turn a blind eye to such practices, particularly for someone who paid as well as the king did, but her greatest business asset was now out of commission for at least a week. Cherry could work with a broken arm—might even add to her mystique—but the bruises and burns would have to be healed before she could appear in public once more. It really was most inconvenient. Especially when there was a rich man willing to pay double for her favors.
“Point the fine gentleman out to me, sister dear.”
Up came Madame Thornypurse’s finger like a divining rod pointing for gold. “He’s over there,” she said. “The one in the scarlet with his back to us.”
Mistress Greal’s eyes had already outpaced her sister’s finger. She had seen the scarlet, recognized it as the finest silk, and was about to step toward the man when he turned his head to the light.
Mistress Greal stopped dead in her tracks. The air turned to dust in her lungs. All the smoke in the world was not enough to conceal the identity of the man in scarlet. She saw his face every night in her dreams. Mistress Greal brought her thumb up to her lips and pressed gently against the yielding softness. Softness where once there had been teeth.
“What’s the matter, dearest sister? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
With great effort Mistress Greal took control of herself. She smiled her own peculiar smile, pressing her lips together and forcing them into a thin line. “No, sister dear,” she said. “I’ve just seen something much more profitable than a ghost.”
Madame Thornypurse trembled like a blushing maiden. “What, dearest sister? What?”
“The second most wanted man in all of Bren,” whispered Mistress Greal, more to herself than her sister. Who would have guessed that Lord Maybor would end up here of all places? Her smile widened. There was vengeance and profit to be extracted here: the two most satisfying things in the Greal universe.
It would be a good way to ingratiate herself with Lord Baralis, too. Oh, she knew she had something on the great lord—she alone in all of Bren knew he had conspired to assassinate the duke—but the truth was she was a little afraid to use her knowledge. People who messed with Lord Baralis had a nasty habit of ending up dead. If he could murder a duke, and very possibly a duchess as well, then he certainly wouldn’t think twice about murdering someone who was trying to blackmail him. It was far better to get to know Lord Baralis first and see just how generous he could be. Blackmail could come later. In her experience secrets like the one she held always grew more potent over time. With the money she was going to make by turning Maybor and his tart of a daughter in, she could well afford to wait.
“You,” she said to her sister, “must keep that man occupied until I return.”
“But—”
Mistress Greal’s hand was already up. “I don’t care what you do. Have the girls dance naked, for all I care. Just make sure that old bastard doesn’t leave.”
Madame Thornypurse looked shocked. The habit of obeying her elder sister’s every word was so well entrenched by now, however, that she duly nodded her head. “You won’t be too long, dearest sister?”
Mistress Greal had already pulled on her cloak. “No, sister dear. I’ll be back before you know it.
Baralis had just finished his first sending to Skaythe. The man had left the city five days back and was currently heading south, hoping at some point to run into Tawl. Although Baralis had suspected for some time that the knight was no longer in the area, up until this morning he hadn’t known for sure. Now, thanks to those busy little seers at Larn, he not only knew where Tawl was heading, but he also knew the route he would take. Down along the peninsula past Ness, Toolay, and Rorn.
The powers that be at Larn had contacted Baralis in his sleep. It was telling that they waited until early morning to contact him—they had hoped to glean his secrets from his dreams. Baralis smiled to himself. It would take more than the seers of Larn to fathom the dark maze of his unconscious mind.
They were obviously becoming very worried on their faraway isle. They tried to be their usual aloof selves, but there was an undertone of urgency in their desire to tell all they knew. Larn wanted the knight and the boy killed, and they would go to great lengths to help him do so. Besides telling him what route the two fugitives would be taking, they also bribed him with more intelligence about the war. Apparently Highwall was waiting on the arrival of two thousand mercenaries. The men were fully equipped and paid for, courtesy of the venerable archbishop of Rorn.
Baralis had wasted no time passing the information along to Kylock. After all, war was the king’s specialty.
Politics and loose ends were his.
Smiling, Baralis poured himself a glass of red wine. Skaythe was turning out to be a useful find. He could have hired any number of men to do the tracking, but Skaythe, with his amateur knowledge of sorcery, could be contacted en route. To send a message was difficult, but to receive one was easy. All Skaythe had to do was concentrate and listen without using his ears. Any fool could do that.
Skaythe had received the sending and was now adjusting his route accordingly. Baralis had great faith in the man. He might not be as skilled as Blayze in armed combat, but he was infinitely more cunning.
A sharp rap on the door broke Baralis’ line of thought. Crope was usually away at this time of night, tending to the animals. Baralis stood up. Before he’d crossed the room, the rap came again. Whoever was on the other side was most impatient.
He flung the door open. “Who dares disturb me at this hour?”
A woman stood in the corridor. Her expression was severe and her body had all the charm of a knotted rope. “Someone who can lead you to the biggest whore in all of Bren.”
“And who might that be?” Baralis glanced along the corridor. Who had let this madwoman in the palace?
“Why, Maybor’s daughter, of course.”
“You know where Melliandra is?” Perhaps she wasn’t so mad after all. She had the narrow-eyed look of the greedy, not the insane. “Step inside a moment.” Baralis waved her into his chambers. “Would you care for a glass of wine?”
“Just a little drop to wet my throat.” The woman patted the dry bit.
Baralis poured her a brimming glass. “And who might I have the pleasure of speaking to?”
“Mistress G.” The woman spoke with a minimum of lip movement.
“Well then, Mistress G, perhaps you’d like to tell me where the young murderess is.” Baralis turned his voice into a honeyed trap to catch his fly. “And once you’ve done that we can talk of rewards.”
“I’d rather speak of rewards first, if you don’t mind. In my line of business you soon learn that it’s best to take your payment up front.”
“Go on.”
“Well.” The woman looked around the chamber for inspiration. “There’s cash, of course.”
Baralis nodded. “Of course.”
“Say five hundred golds.”
“And?”
The woman smiled with all the satisfaction of a hangman measuring the drop. “Well, we both know how important finding the Lady Melliandra is. If she makes it to the enemy, then it could lead to civil war.” Mistress G shook her head sadly. “There’s more than a few in Bren who would rather see her child in the palace than Kylock—though the way the king’s cracking down on her supporters, no one dare come out and say it.”
“Speak what you would have.”
The change in Baralis’ voice did not go unnoticed by the woman. She betrayed her first sign of nervousness by taking a deep draught of her wine. For the first time, Baralis noticed th
at her two front teeth were missing.
Having gained a little courage from the drink, the woman looked him straight in the eye. “I would have a position here in the palace. Housekeeper, recordkeeper, cellarer . . . ” As Mistress G waved her arms in illustration, a look of unmistakable malice sharpened her tight, little face. “I could even look after the whore herself.”
Try as he might, Baralis could not keep the smile from pushing against his lips. The woman would make a formidable jailer. “You may have whatever position you wish,” he said. “Now tell me—”
“I must ask for the gold and your word before we go any further,” interrupted Mistress G.
Baralis crossed over to his desk. He quickly drew up a promissory note, signed it, then stamped it with his seal. He handed it to the woman.
She read it slowly. “I’ll still need a deposit.”
“If you don’t tell me where Maybor and his daughter are this instant, you will not leave this palace alive.” Baralis drew very close to the woman. “Now accept what you have, or lose everything.”
With a shaking hand, Mistress G slid the note into her bodice. “Very well, then. Lord Maybor is currently being entertained in my sister’s establishment. Send some men over to follow him home. He’ll lead you straight to Melliandra.”
Baralis’ hand was on the bell rope. “What establishment is this?”
“A little place in the south of the city. I’ll travel back with the men to make sure they find it all right.”
“Very well,” said Baralis. He had already lost interest in the woman—she could lead the chase for all he cared. The seers at Larn were never wrong. Melliandra would soon be his.
Maybor had long since given up trying to remember all the girls’ names. Moxie and Franny came first, but after that the rest of them were just pleasant, scantily clad bodies.
Smoke that would choke a charcoal burner, combined with special brew so strong it could kill one, had left Maybor in a sort of dazed semiconscious state. The only thing he knew for sure was that it was time to be going home, and the woman who smelled of dead rats wouldn’t let him. Every time he walked to the door, she would block his path and push another naked girl his way.
The place was virtually empty now. A few drunken no-hopes lay snoring on the floor, one man was quietly weeping into his ale, and another was singing about his wife. Even the smoke was starting to clear.
Maybor pushed the girls away from him and stood up. The room took a moment to settle beneath his feet. The rat woman loomed into his field of vision.
“Oh sir, don’t go just yet,” she said, gripping his arm. “You haven’t seen Esmi dance.”
Maybor slapped at her fingers. “As Borc is my witness, woman, I am leaving now! And you are not going to stop me.” He lurched toward the door. It opened before he got to it. A woman poked her head round. Or at least he thought she did, for when he focused his gaze, she was gone.
The rat woman, who had been one step behind him, suddenly turned to her girls. “Say goodnight to the fine gentleman,” she prompted.
“Goodnight, handsome,” echoed the girls.
Maybor instinctively knew that now wasn’t a good time to risk a bow, so he waved an arm in acknowledgment, instead. The rat woman let him walk out of the door unchallenged.
Maybor took a deep breath of night air and tried hard to remember the way home. With eyes focused firmly on his feet, he walked to the end of the road. Everything seemed familiar enough and he turned to the left, then made his way across the market square. It was quiet now. The Highwall army had given up their bombardment for the night, and the only sound was the trickle of the water in the fountains and the rustle of his satin tunic as he walked.
All in all it had been an unusual night. He’d learnt a rather disappointing lesson from it: even naked women could get boring after a while. Still, a man needs to get thoroughly, disgustingly drunk once in a while just to stop himself from going to seed. Judging from the quick pitter-patter of his heart, seed would be the last place he’d go tonight.
As he walked through the city, Maybor began to sober up a little. A light breeze blew the smoke from his lungs, and the foul air from the open sewers had a greater reviving action than the finest smelling salts.
With increased lucidity came a certain wariness. His heart wasn’t the only thing that was pitter-pattering. Maybor stopped in midstep and, sure enough, the footfalls stopped, too. Someone was following him. Probably a pickpocket, or a cutthroat attracted by his fine clothes and his drunken stupor. Maybor hurried on. He wasn’t far from the cellar now.
A few more turns, a quick check to the left and right, and Maybor entered the butcher’s courtyard.
Borc! but it was dark. Maybor stumbled into the center, his eyes searching the ground for the flat square that marked the trapdoor. Once he found it, he banged his foot against the wood and hissed, “It’s Maybor! Let me in.” Hearing some movement from below, Maybor grunted with satisfaction. Those lazy beggars were still awake. Just as the trapdoor opened up, Maybor realized he’d left his cloak in the corner of the courtyard. “I’ll be back in just a minute,” he murmured to Bodger down below.
Maybor wasn’t exactly sure which corner of the courtyard he’d left his cloak in. They all looked the same in the dark. As he veered off toward the farthest point in the courtyard, a harsh cry broke the silence of the night:
“Get ’em!”
Swords slithered from sheaths and suddenly the courtyard was full of shadowy forms heading for the trapdoor.
Maybor saw two men coming straight for him. He drew his knife and backed into the deeper shadows of the wall. His hip smashed against something. It was the butcher’s table. Cursing, he made his way around it.
Looking up, he saw a group of armed guards jumping into the cellar. Someone screamed.
The two men were only paces away now, and Maybor slashed out with his knife. One of the two backed away. Grabbing hold of the butcher’s table, Maybor pushed with all his might. It went crashing forward into the second man. Maybor dropped onto the ground. He scrambled around in the dirt until his hand brushed against the softness of his cloak.
The second man was pinned under the butcher’s table. He called to his companion to help him lift it off.
Several men emerged from the trapdoor. One of them was carrying someone. Someone who neither screamed nor struggled. It was so dark Maybor could make out no details, but he guessed it was his daughter. Melliandra would meet the guards with dignity. Maybor’s heart leaped when he saw the figure move. The starlight caught the flare of a skirt. It was Melli, and she was alive and well. Two guards stood on either side of her.
“Trevis! Brunner! Have you got the old goat yet?”
“We’ve got him cornered, cap’n.” A loud crash followed as the first man levered the butcher’s table off the second man’s foot.
Maybor knew he had only split seconds to decide what to do. Melli was caught, and he doubted if he could save her. There were too many men to fight single-handedly. He had to pull his wits about him. For Melli’s sake.
The two guards came closer. They made wary, sweeping actions with their blades. Maybor was deep in the shadows, and he guessed that neither man could see him.
He knew the best thing he could do would be to escape. He’d be no good to Melli caught or dead. If he remembered rightly, there was a service gate halfway between him and the butcher’s kitchen. Maybor grabbed hold of his cloak. He cast it like a net, letting it flare out and catch the air. It glided away into the center of the courtyard. In the quarter-light it looked like a man.
“There he is, Trevis!” cried the first man. “He’s making a run for it.” Both men shot off toward the cloak.
“Father! No!” screamed Melli.
Maybor’s stomach churned when he heard her—she must have recognized his cloak. He hesitated for an instant, then scrambled in the opposite direction from all the commotion, along the wall, toward the gate, making accomplices out of the shadows as he
went. The air was burning in his lungs and he wheezed with every breath. He didn’t need to look back to know that his feint had been discovered. A crossfire of footfalls and calls sounded behind him.
Maybor reached the gate. His hand was shaking so much, he couldn’t draw the bolt.
“He’s there against the wall!” cried someone.
Maybor gripped the bolt with both hands and drew it back. The gate opened outward. He risked one look back.
Melli was causing a minor riot. She was kicking and screaming and trying her damnedest to distract the guards from running after him. Maybor felt his heart would break. She was the bravest daughter a father ever had.
Footsteps charged up behind him and he knew it was time to go. He would not let Melli’s efforts go to waste. He slipped through the gate, slamming it closed as soon as he was through. There was a little more light in the alleyway, and Maybor immediately saw that the entire left wall was stacked with apple crates. Dashing forward, he shouldered his whole body into the end stack of crates. They came tumbling down behind him. Splinters cracked, boxes smashed, and apples went careening to the floor. The gate was opened and two guards came through just in time to be bombarded.
Maybor didn’t have the energy to relish the sight. He turned quickly and ran down the alleyway. Every step was torture. There was a tight band of pain around his chest. His fine tunic was soaked with sweat. Gradually, as he became lost in the great maze of the city, his run slowed to a walk.
Fully sober now, Maybor felt no joy in his escape. His mind kept replaying his last sight of Melli, and the image haunted him until dawn.
Thirteen
We have to assume we’re being followed,” said Tawl. “At all times.”
“You never said a truer word, my friend,” chipped in Nabber. “Swift himself swore he’d been trailed so many times that one day someone would follow him straight into the grave.”
Tawl smiled. He looked quickly at Jack. He wasn’t sure how Jack would take this last statement. There was so much he didn’t know about him.
