The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  The knight was even more withdrawn than normal this morning. His face was tense, his words were sparse, and his movements were pared down to the bone. Judging from the dark circles beneath his eyes, the incident last night in the tavern had robbed him of sleep. Jack would have liked to ask him how he felt, but he knew Tawl wasn’t one for talk. Jack couldn’t help but admire Tawl’s continuing faith in Tyren—even as he knew it was an illusion waiting to be shattered. Believing in something against all odds was the hardest thing of all.

  Jack kicked at the wooden boards of the wharf. He hadn’t managed such a feat with Tarissa. The first sign of wrongdoing and he had condemned, punished, and abandoned her. He bitterly regretted that now. He had been too harsh, too judgmental, seeing only black and white. Nothing gray.

  Tawl tapped Jack on the arm. “This way,” he said.

  Jack was glad of the distraction; thinking about Tarissa was dangerous. Regrets were dangerous. Everything in the past needed to stay in the past—at least until this journey was over. Too much was at stake in the present.

  Tawl led him down a narrow wharf that trailed between two lines of boats. The planks were wet, slippery with salt, barely suspended above the water. On either side sailors were busy unloading their wares. They threw huge crates at each other, catching them deftly, then toting them down the wharf as if it were the firmest, flattest road.

  “Well, call me a randy walrus! If that isn’t our old friend Tawl, then I’ll eat nothing but fish-ends for a week!”

  Jack looked up. A large boat was docked at the end of a wharf. Perched on the highest of its two masts was a man with shocking red hair and the grin of the devil himself.

  Tawl waved his arm high above his head. “You reek like a randy walrus, Carver. I can smell you from here.”

  Another red-haired man popped up on deck. “I’ve heard he rollicks like one, too. Lots of honking and self-applause.”

  “Fyler!” Tawl dashed ahead. He leapt across the gangplank and onto the ship. The second red-haired man captured him in a huge bear hug.

  The first beamed at him from high atop the mast. “Finally got a hankering to see me after all this time, eh, Tawl?” he shouted.

  “Well, it was a close call between your handsome face and Captain Quain’s special reserve.”

  Jack made his way forward. He was amazed at the change in Tawl. It was hard to believe that this roguish, bantering man was the same person he’d walked here with.

  Tawl caught sight of him and beckoned him onward. “Come on, Jack. Come and meet the finest sailors ever to raise anchor in Rorn.” Tawl was now surrounded by a group of mostly red-haired men. Insults flew faster than the seagulls overhead, but there was no mistaking the warmth of the sailors’ welcome.

  “Jack,” cried the man from the mast. “That’s a worse name than Tawl. I wouldn’t call the ship’s cat Jack.”

  “You would call it dinner, though, Carver,” chipped in the one named Fyler. “I saw you eyeing that cat up last week. You were fancying how it would look in a pie.”

  Carver nodded his head merrily. “It would be a damn sight more useful as a pie than a rat-killer.”

  “If we let old Tawl here bake the pie, we’d all end up dead—including the rats.”

  Everyone laughed. There was much muttering about raw turnips and landlubbers not knowing how to light a ship’s stove. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack spotted a man emerging from below deck. Sporting red hair like the rest, he was older and more heavily set.

  “What’s all this hue and cry about?” he shouted.

  The sailors all stopped talking at once. They stepped away from Tawl, revealing him to the older man.

  “By the tides! If it’s not our old shipmate Tawl.” The man moved forward, arms stretched out. He clasped Tawl’s hands. “My heart grows larger for seeing you again.”

  Tawl’s face was hard to read. His knuckles were white as he clutched the older man’s arms. “It’s been too long, Captain,” he said.

  The man shook his head. “Nay, lad. There’s no such thing as too long between friends. The timing is always right.”

  Hearing the genuine affection of the captain’s words made Jack feel left out. He had never experienced the welcome of an old friend. He always moved forward, never back. Slowly, he began to ease away from the crowd of sailors. His movement was spotted by Carver up in the mast, who shouted at the top of his voice:

  “Eh, Captain. Tawl’s brought another green-face along with him. Name ’o Jack, I’m sorry to say.”

  The captain turned in the direction that Carver indicated. Jack stopped in his tracks. The man’s sharp gray eyes focused upon him.

  “Captain Quain,” said Tawl, “this is my good friend Jack.”

  Jack watched as the captain, a large man who looked as healthy as a dog, brought his hand to his chest and fell backward onto the deck.

  “Don’t know what came over me,” said Captain Quain, bringing the glass of rum to his lips. He swallowed its contents in one. “Aah. That’s better.” He slammed the glass down on the banded wooden table. “I’ve sailed the high seas for close to half a century now, and I’ve never had such a turn in my life.”

  Jack noticed the captain’s eyes avoided him.

  They were belowdecks in a small, brightly lit cabin. Fyler had just left. Even though the captain had insisted on walking down the stairs, “with nothing but my sea legs beneath me,” Fyler had stayed by his side until he was safely in his chair.

  “So, Captain,” said Tawl, “have you just got in from Marls?”

  Jack glanced at Tawl. It seemed an abrupt change of subject following so soon after the captain’s turn. The knight shot him a quick hard look, and Jack suddenly understood what he was doing. Captain Quain was a proud man, and proud men don’t like to show weakness. Tawl, by not dwelling on the incident abovedeck, was helping the captain regain his pride.

  “Aye. First light. I’ve a shipload of Isro silk aboard. Worth a fortune, it is.” Quain took the bottle of brandy and refilled all three glasses. As he leant over to fill Jack’s glass, his gaze was firmly down.

  “Is silk your normal cargo, Captain?” asked Jack, determined to make the man look at him.

  The captain downed his second glass before he looked Jack’s way. When his eyes finally came up, he actually smiled. “Silk, spices, siege powders—anything I can get my hands on.”

  There was a discernible expression of relief on the captain’s face. It was as if he’d jumped into water he thought would be cold, only to find it warm instead. Still looking at Jack, he continued: “Business is booming at the moment, lad, what with the war and all. Those who are fighting need everything they can get their hands on, those who are considering fighting are busy stocking up, and everyone else is so damn nervous they’re hoarding just for the sake of it.”

  “So you wouldn’t consider taking The Fishy Few on a charter?” said Tawl.

  Captain Quain stood up. His large presence took up most of the cabin, and his booming voice filled what little was left. “I don’t need the cash, lad. I’ll be honest with you there. Right now Rorn to Marls and back is about as profitable a run as it’s ever going to be. I could sail blindfold and still make a living.” The captain turned his back on them, pausing to look at a wide, banded shelf lined with books. After a moment he said, “But there is one small problem, though.”

  “What’s that, Captain?” asked Jack.

  Quain turned to face him. “The straits, lad. This time of year the sea between Rorn and Marls is as thick as slow-pouring custard. There’s no wind, no waves, no swell—nothing for a man to get his teeth into. Why, The Fishy Few practically sails herself.” The captain shook his head sadly. “Right disheartening, it is.”

  Jack didn’t need Tawl’s pointed look to catch on this time. “How about the sea to the east, Captain?” he said. “What’s that like this time of year?”

  “I’ll not mince words with you, lad. The eastern run’s a bitch at the moment.”

&n
bsp; “How about the run to Larn?” said Tawl.

  The captain didn’t blink an eye. “I thought that’s what we were talking about, Tawl.” He smiled. His gray eyes sparkled like the sea itself. “Larn is the charter you’re after, isn’t it?”

  Jack was beginning to like the captain. He liked his loud gruff voice, the coziness of his cabin, and the mischievous glint in his eye. Quain had known what they wanted from the start, probably from the very moment he set eyes on Tawl. Jack drank his second glass of rum. Brandy was lamp fuel compared to this golden brew.

  Tawl leant over the table. “We need to get to Larn as soon as possible.”

  The captain rubbed his jowls. He looked at Jack and then back at Tawl. “A pressing matter, I take it?”

  “The future of the north depends on it,” said Tawl.

  Jack thought for a moment, then added, “And the life of a beautiful woman.” Tawl sent him a puzzled look, but Jack knew he was right to say it. Captain Quain didn’t seem the sort of man to be swayed by thoughts of saving the north.

  “A beautiful woman, eh?”

  “The most beautiful,” said Jack. “Eyes the color of the midnight sky, skin as soft as silk, and hair . . . ” He shook his head. “Hair as dark and fragrant as a tropical wood.” As he spoke, Jack looked only at the captain. For some reason he didn’t fancy meeting Tawl’s gaze.

  Quain held the rum bottle up to the light, found its contents wanting, and brought out another from a cabinet. The top was corked and waxed. The captain took one of the candles from the shelf and put the flame to the wax. Catching Jack’s puzzled glance, he said, “Aye, lad, I know what you’re thinking. If I broke the seal by hand I could get to the rum sooner. But if I did I’d be missing out on the most important pleasure of all.”

  “Anticipation?”

  The captain smiled his way. “I like you, Jack. You’re a smart lad.” He gave Jack a quick searching look, as if he were trying to put a name to a face. Only he knew the name already. Shaking himself, he brushed the last of the liquid wax from the bottle top. Taking a cork that was barely blackened in his fist, he pulled the bottle open. He made a quick gesture to Jack and Tawl, urging them to drink the last drops in their glasses, and then poured three new measures of rum. In silence they downed the brew.

  Finally, when his glass was empty once more and enough time had passed for the rum to mellow on his tongue, the captain spoke. “A woman whose eyes are the color of midnight is a treasure well worth sailing for. The Fishy Few’s anchor has been raised for a lot less, I can tell you. Men sail for many reasons: for gold, for adventure, to escape their pasts or to find a new future. I sail for one thing and one thing alone: for the love of it.”

  Quain’s eyes were no longer focused on any point in the room. They were seeing something that was not there. “I sail because the sea changes color from day to day, because the wind whips and chides one minute and caresses like a lover the next. I sail because my body has more salt than blood in it, and my soul never follows me ashore.” Slowly, the captain’s eyes refocused on the present. He looked directly at Jack. “I’ll sail to Larn, my friend. I’ll sail for a beautiful woman and for the love of the sea, and because a sailor never knows a place until he’s been there thrice.”

  Jack’s heart was pumping. Captain Quain spoke with such emotion, such rhythm in his voice, it was impossible not to be carried away by his words. Jack felt the pull of the sea, the same pull that Quain spoke of, yet up until today he’d never been on a boat in his life. He hastily downed his rum. Nothing made any sense.

  “How soon can we sail?” asked Tawl.

  “How soon do you need to?”

  “Tomorrow. First light.”

  The captain smiled. “Tide’s no good tomorrow morning, lad. It’ll have to be tonight or not at all.”

  Jack and Tawl looked at each other. Neither of them had hoped for this. “Captain, I don’t know how to thank you,” said Tawl.

  “Oh, I’ve got an idea or two,” said Quain, eyes twinkling. “I’ve got a hold full of silk for one thing. Can’t move until it’s been off-loaded. And then, I’ll need someone to get me supplies for the journey—plenty of rum o’ course. And, seeing as there’s two of you this time, I’ll not need to send the cook ashore, but he’ll certainly need some help for the extra hands.”

  “What about Nabber?” said Jack to Tawl.

  “He stays here. Larn is no place for a young boy.” Tawl turned to Quain. “We have no money to pay you now, Captain, but our friend may have secured enough once we return. If he hasn’t, then I’ll give you all we have, both our horses and a promissory note.”

  “No help from the Old Man this time, eh?”

  Tawl shook his head.

  “Good. I like it better that way. Not that I’ve anything against the Old Man, mind. It’s just that I feel happier knowing that my hand’s on the tiller, and your hand’s on the coffers.” The captain opened the cabin door. “I’ll take whatever you have when we return. You’re a man of your word, Tawl. I don’t think you’d leave the crew with empty pockets.”

  “They’d keelhaul me if I did.” Tawl stood up and walked through the door. Jack followed him. They took turns grasping the captain’s hand and then headed onto the deck. They had a hard day’s work ahead of them.

  Tavalisk was racing frogs. His cook, Master Bunyon, had turned up with them only a few minutes earlier with the intent of asking the archbishop which one he fancied delimbing first. Tavalisk had immediately thrown the rubbery little amphibians onto the floor and was currently encouraging them to jump by promising to eat the loser in a lemon-garlic sauce.

  Neither frog was taking much notice of him—a fact that caused the archbishop so much consternation that he was just about to stamp his foot on the most lethargic of the two when in walked Gamil.

  “Know anything about frogs, Gamil?”

  “A frog is a tailless amphibian, Your Eminence.” Standing where he was—by the door—Gamil had not yet spotted the frogs in question. “Their most distinctive feature is their long hind legs, and they are found most commonly in damp or aquatic habitats.”

  Splat!

  “Hmm,” said the archbishop. “They squash well, too.” Tavalisk beckoned his aide forth. Together, they studied the remains of the frog. “You’re quite right, Gamil. No tail.”

  The sudden obliteration of its brother-in-arms caused the second frog to rethink its position on jumping, and it bounded across the floor, managing to successfully evade both Gamil and Master Bunyon by leaping under the archbishop’s desk.

  “Get up, man!” snapped Tavalisk, as his aide dove under said desk in search of the runaway frog. “Really. I expect a little dignity from those who serve me.” Tavalisk knew Gamil had chased the frog to please him, but he liked to keep his aide in a constant state of bafflement: it kept him on his toes.

  Tavalisk turned to Master Bunyon. “What are you staring at?” He pointed toward the squashed frog. “Don’t just stand there, scrape it up and cook it.”

  “But the legs, Your Eminence. They’re ruined.”

  “Well, scramble it with some eggs, then. Bake it in a pie. I really don’t care what you do with it as long as I’m eating it within the hour. Now go.”

  Master Bunyon nodded, scraped, and then left.

  As soon as the door was closed behind him, Gamil stepped forward. “Your Eminence, we must take action.”

  Tavalisk groaned. “What now, Gamil? Have the knights taken over Marls? Is Kylock calling himself a god?”

  “No, Your Eminence. The knight has returned to Rorn, and by the looks of things he’s setting sail for Larn.”

  Riddit, riddit, went the frog under the desk.

  “This is interesting. When did he get in?”

  “He was spotted last night in a tavern by the dock. He’s still got the pocket in tow, but he’s also picked up someone else. A young man, by all accounts. They headed down to the docks together this morning. And as luck would have it The Fishy Few had just come in fr
om Marls.” Gamil looked a little edgy as he talked. His brow was slick with sweat, and he dabbed at it with the sleeve of his robe. “We’ve got to stop them from leaving the city, Your Eminence.”

  “Why on earth should we, Gamil? What’s it to us if they go to the godforsaken isle of Larn?”

  “But the knight is wanted for the duke of Bren’s murder. Catherine’s, too. He’s a notorious criminal.”

  “Not by me, though. It’s Baralis who wants the knight’s head on a stake.” Tavalisk took off his left shoe; the sole was slippery with frog scum. “I think we should just watch and wait as usual.”

  “But it’s your duty to act, Your Eminence. You’re the chosen one.”

  What was this? Flattery? Gamil was certainly acting strangely today. “What would you have me do, Gamil?”

  “Send out a band of armed guards to pick up the knight and his new companion. Bring them in, torture, then kill them.”

  “That seems a little hasty.”

  “But Your Eminence, you’ve said all along that the knight had a part to play in the coming conflict in the north. What if his part conflicts with your own? He could rob you of your only chance for glory.”

  “Gamil, a man such as myself has many chances for glory.” Tavalisk wriggled his pudgy toes. “Glory is my element. It shines upon me like sunlight. No one person is going to come along and rob me of it—unless of course it’s the reaper. Even then I think I’d make a glorious corpse.”

  “You would indeed, Your Eminence.”

  Tavalisk looked up sharply. Gamil was looking down.

  Riddit, riddit.

  “Where are they staying?” asked the archbishop with a heavy sigh. “It won’t do me any harm to bring them in for questioning.”

  “The Rose and Crown, Your Eminence.”

  “Very well. I’ll send someone round there early tomorrow morning. A predawn raid should catch them nicely unawares.”

  “Couldn’t we act today, Your Eminence?”

  Tavalisk was beginning to feel a little suspicious of Gamil’s eagerness. “No. I will take no action before tomorrow. If the ship just came in from Marls, then it certainly won’t sail before morning.” The archbishop handed Gamil his shoe. “Once you’ve caught that damned frog, Gamil, be so good as to see if you can remove the stain from this.” He thought for a moment, then added: “Oh, and I’ll need you in the palace for the rest of the day. You can help me with His Holiness’ paperwork.”