by J. V. Jones
Just then he heard an unratlike noise: scraping. Something was being scraped across the floor in the cellar to the right. “Who’s there?” demanded Maybor. His voice did not reveal his fear.
More scraping. Followed by a barely audible whisper: “Lord Maybor, is that you?”
Maybor hurried in the direction of the voice, cutting across the large cellar, through to the smaller one and then under a low arch to the storeroom. Grift was lying on the floor. There was a single candle by his side. Blood was soaking through the bandage round his stomach. His lips were pale and cracked.
The first thing he said was, “Is Bodger with you?”
Maybor shook his head. “He was taken with Melliandra.”
Grift began coughing. Softly at first, then hacking uncontrollably, his whole body shaking.
Maybor fished in his tunic and pulled out his flask. There were only a few drops of brandy left. He knelt down and supported Grift’s back while he drank it. The man was in bad need of medical attention. Food and water probably wouldn’t go amiss, either. Maybor wondered how he had managed to go unnoticed by the guards.
“Have you got a spare candle?” he asked, when Grift had calmed down. Grift indicated a supply on a high shelf. Maybor took one and lit it. “I’ll be back in a moment,” he said.
He made his way to his own little room. The place had been ransacked; his clothes were gone, the bedding had been torn, and several barrels were split at the seams. Everything was soaked in wine. Maybor bent down and lifted the soaking rushes from his pallet. The box wasn’t there. Scrambling, Maybor turned the pallet on its side. His gold was gone! He couldn’t believe it. Falling to his hands and knees, he searched every corner of the room. By the time he had finished his clothes were soaked right through.
The guards had taken his gold. All two hundred pieces of it. He had nothing left. Sitting back in the pool of sour wine, Maybor made a decision.
He took the candle and went back to Grift. The guard was lying exactly where he left him. “Can you walk?” he asked.
Grift’s response was to struggle to his feet. He got halfway up, then his legs began to buckle. Maybor came forward to steady him.
“Do you know the way out of the city?”
“Aye, but it’s quite a way. I don’t think I’ll be able to make it.”
“You’ll make it all right. Even if I have to carry you.” Maybor hauled Grift up all the way. “Come on, lean on me now.”
Grift took a lurching step forward. “But we could get caught or shot at.”
“I don’t care if we get bombarded with headless corpses,” said Maybor. “We’re leaving this city tonight.”
Nabber’s thighs were sore, his back was aching, and his feet had gone numb. Everyone was tense. The slightest sound stopped them in their tracks, and every quickly shifting shadow drew knives. Tawl walked with his shortbow in his hand, his knuckles white and strained against the wood. Jack rode six paces behind him, eyes darting from side to side, fingers resting on the hilt of his sword.
It was impossible to tell how many hours had passed since the shooting. Lots of them, was Nabber’s best guess. Yet it was still very dark, and whenever he spied the stars between shifting banks of clouds their positions hadn’t changed. Time passed slowly for the guilty.
Nabber glanced over at Tawl. The knight was staring straight ahead, intent on keeping to the trail. He hadn’t spoken since they’d upped camp, just silently led the way. Taken by a sudden impulse, Nabber coughed loudly, pretending to clear his throat. Tawl’s head whipped round in his direction. “Nabber, what’s the matter?” he whispered. “Are you all right?”
Feeling even more guilty than ever, Nabber nodded. He had just wanted to look at Tawl’s face, that was all. He knew by coughing he would attract Tawl’s attention, but he hadn’t counted on his concern. He thought Tawl would tell him off for making a noise when he should be quiet. Nabber slumped down in his saddle. That was the knight’s problem: he was just too trusting.
“Tawl, let’s swap over,” said Jack. “I’ll lead the horses now. You need a break.”
Tawl had been leading the horses on foot since they left the camp. There was no moonlight to light their way and the horses were skittish, so the knight had walked while Jack and Nabber rode.
“I think we’ll stop for a while,” Tawl said. “We haven’t eaten anything all night, and Nabber sounds as if he needs a drink.”
Nabber was surprised at Tawl’s decision—he hadn’t thought they would be getting any rest tonight, not after the shooting—but he wasn’t about to argue. He was beginning to feel a desperate need to exchange a few words with the knight.
They pulled off the trail into the cover of some tall pines. Glistening spiderwebs trailed like nets from the slender trees. An owl cried out in the distance and moths fluttered from branch to branch before settling flat against the bark. The minute Nabber clambered down from his horse, he took his waterskin from his pack, and having checked that no one was looking, he emptied the contents into the grass.
“Tawl,” he hissed, a moment later, “the skin must have sprung a leak. There’s no water left.”
Tawl had clambered up a rock and was looking back in the direction they had just come from. “Jack, have you got any water on you?”
“Only a few drops. We’ll need to get some more.”
“I heard a stream about five minutes ago. It was to the east of the trail, I think.” Nabber tried his best to sound nonchalant.
“You two wait here,” Tawl said, jumping down from the rock. “I’ll be back as soon—”
“No,” said Nabber quickly. “Don’t go. I wanted you to look at my throat. It feels sore.”
Tawl glanced quickly at Nabber.
“I’ll go, then,” Jack said, looking from Nabber to Tawl. He dismounted his horse and started back up the trail. “Be sure to save some of the cheese and drybread for me.”
Tawl waited until Jack was out of sight and then came and stood next to Nabber. “Now that we’re alone, what’s really the matter?” he said. “I heard you draining the water from your skin.”
Even in the dark, the knight’s eyes looked very blue. He didn’t look angry or amused like other men might in similar situations. He simply looked concerned. Suddenly Nabber wasn’t sure he had done the right thing. It was the guilt, of course. It always made him do things that were . . . well . . . just plain strange.
“Nabber,” said Tawl speaking softly, “you can tell me anything. Anything at all.”
The gentleness in Tawl’s voice made everything worse as far as Nabber was concerned. How was he supposed to tell such a trusting and caring man that the one person he revered above all others was rotten to the core?
Nabber sighed. He was going to have to do it all the same. The shooting had changed things, made it harder for him to keep the truth to himself. The instant Jack came rushing through the trees, shouting out that Tawl had been shot at, Nabber knew he’d been wrong to conceal the truth. What if the arrow hadn’t missed? What if Tawl had died here, far away from home and the woman he loved, without ever learning the truth? Nabber didn’t like to think of things like that. Didn’t like to think of Tawl dying—ever. Tawl was his friend, his traveling companion, his partner. He trusted Tawl, and Tawl trusted him.
Only ever since the night when he’d stumbled upon Baralis and Tyren meeting in the south side of Bren, he had kept something from him. Something Nabber was certain that Tawl would want to know.
For weeks now, Nabber had kept the truth in, saying to himself that he just had to find the right time and the right place. Tonight had shown him how tenuous life was. Wait too long and the chance might never come again. Nabber looked up at Tawl. He took a quick breath and said, “You know the night when I nearly got caught by Skaythe?” Tawl nodded and he continued. “Well, I didn’t run straight back to the townhouse like I said. I hung around the south side of the city making sure I wasn’t being followed. That’s when I sort of ran into Baralis again.”
Tawl was immediately tense. “Did he harm you?”
Nabber shook his head. Somehow nothing he said turned out the way he meant it. “No, he didn’t see me. You see, I was in this yard, and there was a horse whose bridle was black. Only it wasn’t black, not all the way. Someone had rubbed soot on it to hide the yellow stripes.”
“Yellow stripes?” Tawl’s voice sounded strained.
“Yes, yellow and black.” Nabber knew he had to continue fast and get the whole story over with before Tawl had a chance to say another word. He dashed ahead. “It was Tyren’s horse, Tawl. He and Baralis came out into the yard. They’d been having a meeting in the building, and they came out so Tyren could collect his horse. They were talking about Helch, about converting its people, and keeping them on their knees until Kylock had dealt with Highwall.” Nabber couldn’t look Tawl in the eye. He stared at the knight’s boots. “Tyren’s a bad man, Tawl. He’s gonna kill anyone who spreads rumors against him—I heard him say it. He wants to get his hands on any other territories Kylock conquers, including the south. He’s after breaking up the Church.”
Nabber wanted to continue talking, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. He risked glancing up at the knight’s face. Tawl’s gaze was focused on a distant point. A muscle pumped in his cheek.
Without looking at Nabber he said, “It’s no secret that Tyren wants to change the face of the Church. Everyone in the knighthood has known that for years. Tyren has always believed that Silbur has had too much influence on the north, and that its priests were becoming soft, forgetting the true word of God.”
Nabber didn’t like the look on Tawl’s face one little bit. He looked dazed, like a sleepwalker or a drunk. “Tawl, I was there. I heard Tyren talking. He didn’t sound like a man concerned with the well-being of Helch’s people. He sounded . . . ” Nabber struggled for the right word “. . . greedy.”
Tawl’s expression hardened. He looked Nabber straight in the eye. “Tyren wouldn’t make an agreement with Baralis without good reason. We don’t know his true motives. He could be luring Baralis into a trap, fooling him into giving Helch over to the knighthood, trying to catch him out. Anything. He could have said all the things he did because he knew they were exactly the sort of things that Baralis wanted to hear.”
“But, Tawl—”
“No, Nabber. You’re wrong.” Tawl went to touch Nabber’s arm, but Nabber pulled away. “I know Tyren. He helped me during a very bad time; saved my soul and my life. He isn’t the sort of man to become involved in . . . in such an agreement without due cause.”
Nabber opened his mouth to say something scathing, but Tawl’s eyes were shining and his brow was creased into many lines. He looked worried and upset. Someone had tried to shoot him earlier and would probably try again. Nabber suddenly felt very tired and about as old as he’d ever felt in his life. Tawl was everything to him, everything, yet here he was upsetting him, telling him that the one man he respected above all others was a rogue. It wasn’t the night for it. He’d been wrong to bring it up now, whilst Tawl was still shaken from the shooting, hurting from parting with Melli, and nervous about the journey ahead. He had enough on his mind without having to deal with the problem of an old friend turning bad.
Tawl looked at Nabber, waiting for a response. Slowly Nabber nodded his head. “Come to think of it, Tawl,” he said. “You’re right. Tyren could have been up to anything in that yard. It was a dark night, I could hardly see a thing, both men were whispering, and I only caught the final minutes of the meeting. Who knows what went on before?”
Tawl looked at Nabber closely while he was speaking. After a moment he reached out his hand again. Nabber didn’t pull away this time, instead letting the knight draw him close to his chest. The knight smelled of good honest things, like sweat, bay leaves, and horses. Unlike Tyren, there was no scented hair oil or slick foreign fragrances to conceal the true smell of the man. Nabber hugged Tawl hard. Although he would never, ever say it, he loved his friend very much.
A minute passed, and then Tawl gently pulled away. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go and meet up with Jack. I’m not happy about him being on the path by himself.”
Sad, tired, but not in the least bit doubtful that he’d done the right thing, Nabber followed Tawl down the trail.
High atop the palace, high above the lake, a woman stands alone in a room that has no angles, only curves: a tower room with a door that is locked and bolted from the outside.
There is no window, but there is an arrow loop that is shaped like a cross. If she stands upon her toes and presses her body to the stone, she can snatch a view of the stars from the night. The stone is cold against her belly, though—cold and hard and damp. And her legs and feet ache if she stands too long.
She doesn’t spend much time looking out.
They do not give her candles at night, so she feels her way to the bench in the dark. Strange, but she has never noticed before just how warm wood can be. Compared to stone it is a living, breathing thing. The wood of the bench is her only comfort, and she wraps her arms around it as if it were a friend.
There are no blankets, so she curls herself up into a ball. The wood can only warm where it touches, so much of her body is chilled. She closes her eyes to shut out their dark and to replace it with some dark of her own. Now she only wishes that she could stop her body from shaking with fear and make it shake with cold, instead.
Even though she knows tomorrow will be just the same, she tries very hard to go to sleep. Her dreams scare her more than her surroundings, and she awakens in the middle of the night. Sitting up, she draws her knees under her chin and pushes her lips together very tightly. She will not cry. She is approaching her fourth month of pregnancy, and she doesn’t want the sound of her crying to be the first thing her baby ever hears.
Fourteen
Jack urged Barley up to the top of the rise. It was a severe slope and the horse took its time, choosing its steps carefully, like a young boy at his first dance.
The air changed on the way up. It became cooler, faster, fresher, and it began to taste of salt. Barley took the last stretch with growing confidence and Jack eased up on the reins. He even sat back a little on the saddle.
Nothing prepared him for what he saw at the top. Barley scrambled onto the flat ground and Jack looked out at something he’d never seen before in his life: the ocean.
Dark and sparkling, impossibly wide, it stretched out into the territory where the earth met the sky. Above Jack’s head seagulls turned and circled, calling and diving, white specks amidst the blue. The air smelled of so many things that were new and unfamiliar. So salty he could taste it, so complex he could never hope to name the parts. Jack’s breath was literally taken away and replaced with tidings from the ocean. Caught up in a tangle of emotions and sensations, Jack felt like he’d come home.
They had been traveling for several weeks now. Southeast at first and later just south. They’d skirted around the shores of Lake Herry and crossed the northeastern plains. Meeting up with the mountains in the east, they had followed them down as far as Ness. Two days they spent in the busy farming city. Nabber had enough money in his pack to exchange their horses for better ones, and Tawl had gone missing for the day. Later, when he joined up with them he had a beautifully crafted longbow strapped to his back and a red-haired girl waving him good-bye from the crowd.
Tawl refused to speak about his absence, but later Nabber told Jack that the girl in the crowd had once tried to seduce Tawl, and that Tawl had felt bad about it since. Tawl’s mood certainly seemed better after that day, and Nabber wisely concluded that Tawl must have stopped by to apologize. Either that, or he had seduced her this time.
They spent the next weeks following the mountains farther south, and just today they crossed over to the coast. Tawl said they would be in Toolay by this time tomorrow.
The weather had been with them all the way. Late summer curved into autumn and trees changed their wares from
green to gold. The rain, when it fell, was light and warm, and the wind only blew after dark. They made good time up until Nabber was shot in the arm.
It was a shock to all of them. In a way they had grown used to the shadowy presence who was constantly at their backs. Over the past three weeks other arrows had been shot. Expertly aimed, they skimmed breath-close but never hit. Jack had gradually begun to relax—even Tawl had let down his guard. And then five days back an arrow was aimed straight at Nabber’s chest. No one had got much sleep since then. Nabber’s bone had been chipped and his arm was now resting in a sling. The boy didn’t seem too upset by the incident, saying that at least it wasn’t his pocketing arm.
Even though things had been quiet since the shooting, Jack suspected they wouldn’t remain so for long. Someone was playing a game with them, and if Nabber hadn’t suddenly swiveled around to catch an escaping frog, it would have been a deadly one. The arrow had been meant to kill him. It hit the exact spot where, less than a tenth of a second earlier, Nabber’s heart had been beating.
Tawl was on his guard day and night. They all were. The problem was that the archer never showed himself. He had a longbow and could fire from the sort of distances that were impossible to spot him over. And he had a definite preference for waiting till dark. Ever since Nabber was wounded, they hadn’t had a fire. They couldn’t risk one. The flames glowed through the night like a target.
Sometimes they would catch a glimpse of him. When they crossed the plains they had spotted him twice. He was on horseback, that much was clear, but further details were hard to make out. At the time, Tawl had only a shortbow, and the shots he had taken were hardly worth the nocking. Not now, though; he had a beautiful yew-wood longbow. Curving more wickedly than a tavern-maid’s hips, it promised that the next time the archer was spotted would be his last.
“Hey! Jack! What you doing mooning over the ocean? Come over here and have some blackberries.”
