The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  “Wake up, boy! Wake up! It’s disrespectful to sleep in the presence of the Old Man.”

  Nabber was shaken, prodded, cajoled, and finally freed from his bindings. His first instinct was to smooth back his hair. His second instinct was to feel for his sack. Gone. Bleary-eyed, sore-headed, and indignant, Nabber took in his surroundings. Nice. Very nice. A good fire, gold-embellished furniture, and enough fresh flowers to bury a family of four.

  “You should count yourself lucky, young man,” came a voice from behind.

  Nabber swung around. An old man was sitting in the corner. He was dressed well but plainly, and had no hair to call his own. Thinking he’d got the gist of the situation, Nabber said, “I tell you now, sir, I’ve got nothing against you types, but it’s just not my meat of choice.”

  The old man burst out laughing. The man behind joined in.

  Unsure what to do next, Nabber finally settled for a long, sweeping glare. As he caught the eye of the one who’d brought him, a tiny little shift took place in his brain: he recognized this man. It was the smaller of the two cronies who had delivered the letter to Tawl in Bren. What was it he said when he woke him up? It’s disrespectful to sleep in the presence of the Old Man, not an old man. Nabber took a gulp big enough to swallow an apple whole. He was in the Old Man’s lair. And the person who he’d just insulted was none other than the Old Man himself.

  “Moth, would you be so good as to leave us alone?” said the Old Man.

  “No problem, Old Man. Me and Clem will be waiting outside.” The one named Moth bowed and left.

  The Old Man turned his attention back to Nabber. “Sit. Sit,” he said, indicating a chair near the fire.

  Nabber sat. When in the presence of Rorn’s greatest crime lord, it was best to do as you were told. “Nice arrangements,” he said, nodding to the various vases filled with flowers. “Must be hard to get your hands on such a variety at this time of year.”

  The Old Man smiled a dry little smile. “I do my best.”

  Nabber cursed himself for not knowing more about flowers. He could hardly tell a tulip from a turnip. “Smell real nice, they do. Brighten the room up considerably.”

  “We all have to have our little indulgences. Mine is fresh flowers; yours, I hear, is a certain wayward knight.” Nabber went to speak, but the Old Man didn’t give him chance. “Now, as I said earlier, you are quite lucky, my friend. I could have had Moth and Clem give you a real nasty blow to your skull. Instead they brought you in the nice way, with just a sack over your head.”

  “That sack nearly killed me!” Nabber wasn’t about to have anyone, including the Old Man, tell him he was lucky when he’d nearly died of suffocation. “I passed clean out. Couldn’t breathe to save my life.”

  “Yes, that was unfortunate.” The Old Man smiled again, this time rather merrily. “I think it’s time we got down to business. I believe your friend has left the city—heading to Larn, so I’ve heard. Now, as far as he is concerned I have no choice but to wipe my hands of him. He murdered a dear friend of mine, and I couldn’t call myself a man of honor unless I acted honorably, could I?”

  Nabber nodded. The Old Man had a point there.

  “So that leaves me with a choice. I could either sit back and do nothing—my duty to Bevlin ended the minute the letter was delivered—or I could do what little I could to continue the wiseman’s cause.”

  Nabber was sharp enough to realize that he wouldn’t be here if the Old Man had decided on the first option. He remained outwardly nonchalant, though. Let the Old Man say his piece.

  “I think I owe Bevlin more than a letter. Many years ago now he saved my daughter’s life. Not with sorcery, mind, but with his potions. Daisy was bad with red fever and everyone said it was too late. Bevlin was in Toolay at the time and I sent word to him by pigeon. That man was in Rorn three days later—how he managed it I still don’t know—but he made it anyway, and he saved my sweet Daisy’s life. And that’s why I brought you here today. I still don’t think I’ve done enough to repay that debt.”

  The Old Man got up, walked toward the fire, and rearranged the flowers on the mantel, throwing all the red ones into the flames. “I can never speak with or see Tawl again, but I’d be fooling myself if I didn’t admit that Bevlin would have wanted me to help him. Even after all that has happened.” He turned to face Nabber. “So that’s why I’ve brought you here.”

  “Because you can’t talk to Tawl, so you’ll talk to me, instead?” Nabber’s eyes were on the arrangement above the fire. Without the red ones it looked decidedly odd.

  “Yes. So listen hard, for I’ll say this only once.” The Old Man moved close. His sharp little face was nothing but a backdrop for his eyes. Almost black, they shone with all the cunning of a fox. “First of all, don’t expect any help from me in terms of money or favors. Information is one thing, but I’m not about to go out of my way to help the man who murdered my friend. Tawl probably knows this already, but I’m stating it here and now to ensure there’s no misunderstanding.

  “Second, the archbishop is holding an old acquaintance of Tawl’s in the dungeon below the palace. She’s a young prostitute called Megan and she’s been there for over a year now, so Borc only knows what state she’s in.” The Old Man paused to take a quick breath. “Last, we come to the venerable archbishop himself, or rather his chief aide, Gamil. The man has been sending and receiving messages from Larn at regular intervals over the past five years. I’m pretty certain the archbishop himself has no knowledge of this correspondence, and I’m also certain he wouldn’t be too pleased if he found out.” The Old Man gave Nabber a pointed look.

  Nabber gave one back.

  “You are aware that the archbishop intends to pick up Tawl the moment The Fishy Few docks in Rorn?”

  “I’m ahead of you there, Old Man.”

  The Old Man was not displeased. “Well, that’s everything I mean to say.” He walked toward the door. “Tawl’s on his own from here.”

  Sensing an imminent dismissal, Nabber stood up. “No, sir, Tawl’s not on his own.”

  “You’re right. He’s got you.” Opening the door, the Old Man raised an age-spotted hand to his face. “You know what, Nabber, when all this business is over with, I think you should come back and see me again. You and I would make good business partners.”

  Try as he might, Nabber couldn’t quite stop himself from beaming from ear to ear. “Might take you up on that, Old Man.”

  “Might be obliged if you did.”

  Nabber bowed at the compliment. Just as he was out the door, he remembered his sack.

  “Moth will see you get it back,” said the Old Man. “Oh, and tell him I said to go easy on you on the way back. Perhaps just a fold this time, eh?”

  “A fold sounds good to me.” Nabber stepped out into a dimly lit chamber. The door closed behind him. Well, well, well, he thought as he was frisked for valuables by Moth, the Old Man had good as given him a plan.

  “It came out of nowhere, Captain,” shouted Fyler above the roar of crashing waves. “An hour ago and the sky was as clear as a mountain pool.”

  Tawl never heard the captain’s reply, as a mighty wave crashed against the hull of the ship. A mountain of frothing water was driven over the deck and the entire ship pitched starboard. Holding on to the railings with all his might, Tawl brought his head down to his chest to stop the rain lashing at his face.

  Lightning struck. It forked blue across the sky, lighting up the night with a single chilling flash. Thunder followed less than two seconds later.

  Tawl watched as the captain barked out orders. A team of men were already bringing in the sails. The deck was secure and the last of the hatches was being barred. Fyler was at the wheel, but the smooth oakwood round was spinning out of control beneath his fingers.

  There were three lanterns on the deck: one above the anchor mount, another above the wheel, and a third nailed against the mainmast at man height. All three of them were burning, yet their pale, bucket-siz
ed halos of light did nothing but emphasize the dark. The temperature had dropped rapidly in the past hour. The wind had gone from a healthy breeze to a full-blown gale. It cut across the sea, slicing the tops off the swells and driving the rain hard and fast against the boat.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Tawl spotted Jack emerging from belowdecks. He watched as Jack struggled to close the hatch against the wind. The ship rolled and lurched, both masts rocking wildly from side to side. The flag above the crow’s nest was torn from its rope, a quick flash of yellow consumed by the dark.

  Another wave hit. Tawl’s left side was blasted by the surge. Water skimmed across the main and foredecks. Having secured the hatch, Jack made his way forward. Tawl was surprised at how well he moved. The deck was running with saltwater and the ship rocked like a pendulum, yet Jack’s footing was sure. The rain was coming in heavy white sheets now, and Tawl couldn’t make out Jack’s expression until they were an arm’s-length apart.

  Jack gripped the rail. His eyes were dark. A muscle in his neck beat a pulse.

  The crew darted about them, fastening lines, sweeping the decks, drawing in the rigging. There were two pairs of hands on the wheel now: Fyler’s and the captain’s. Tawl didn’t know much about sailing, but he had a feeling that the only thing steering the ship was the storm.

  More lightning. Thunder right behind it.

  Tawl got a clear look at Jack’s face. What he saw scared him. The boy’s lips were drawn to a thin line. His eyes were blank. He seemed to be looking through the storm, not at it.

  “Captain, the swell’s rising fast. It’ll match the hull before we know it.” Carver dashed past them to the wheel.

  Jack followed him. Tawl was reluctant to leave the railing, but he knew something was wrong with Jack and he had to find out what. His hands were numb with cold. He pried them free from the railing and followed Jack to the wheel. The deck was as slick as a frozen pond. Tawl skidded with every step. The rain beat him back. Waves hit from all sides. There was a powerful gust of wind and then Tawl heard something crack.

  “Whoa! Watch out!”

  Instinct more than sense made Tawl leap to the side. He dived for the railings and hit an oncoming wave full-on. Water smashed against him. It was in his eyes, his nose, his throat. He couldn’t breathe. A high, creaking sound split through the air. The ship rolled sharply to port. Tawl was forced to hold on to the railings with all his might to stop himself from rolling with it.

  Crack!

  With sea salt stinging in his eyes, Tawl watched as the aftermast crashed to the deck like a felled tree. It went smashing into the port railings, crushing them like tinderwood.

  “Cut the rigging!” cried the captain.

  The cables attached to the aftermast were pulling against the mainmast. The huge central mast was listing to the port. Tawl could hear the beam creaking with strain. Carver dashed forward, knife in hand. Tawl felt for his own knife. He was up before he knew it. As soon as his left foot hit the deck, pain coursed up his ankle. He ignored it. He had no choice. The winds were high and the mainmast was listing, ready to crack. If that fell, the entire ship would go down with it.

  Tawl scrambled toward the fallen aftermast. The rigging ropes were wrist-thick. They were so taut they hummed in the wind like the strings of a bow. Carver and two other crewmen were busy hacking. The mainmast towered above them. It was visibly bending. Waves beat against the hull. Surf spewed across the deck. The ship no longer rolled, it heaved.

  Lightning flashed. Thunder roared. The wind cut the rain into razors.

  One by one the rigging ropes were cut. The usually quick-tongued Carver was silent. Tawl worked by his side, sawing the ropes with the edge of his blade. Finally there were only four ropes left: those that secured the top of the aftermast to the top of the mainmast. Tawl’s gaze traveled to the end of the aftermast. It was jutting out two horse-lengths across the sea. He stood up.

  Carver put a hand on his arm. “No, Tawl. This is my job.”

  Tawl opened his mouth to protest.

  Carver gripped him hard. “No, Tawl. You did me a favor once by insisting you row to Larn on your own. I haven’t forgotten that, and I’m not about to let you risk your neck out there when I can do the job faster and better than you.”

  Tawl brought his hand up and clasped it against Carver’s. “You’re a brave man.”

  “No. I’m just a man who loves his ship.”

  No one on the ship spoke as Carver moved toward the broken railings. The aftermast gleamed with saltwater. Like a sapling in a gale, the mainmast leaned toward it. The last four rigging ropes bound the two masts together as surely as a leash between master and dog. Carver hoisted himself onto the aftermast and began to shunt along the beam. The blade of his knife was between his teeth, as he needed both hands to hold on. Tawl crept alongside the mast, only coming to a halt where the deck came to an end.

  Thirteen men watched with baited breath. Carver was now suspended above the open sea. The waves swelled up to meet him. Reaching the end of the mast, he took the knife in his right hand and began to work on the first of the four ropes. Rain drove against his face. His legs were entwined around the beam for support. The first rope snapped back to the mainmast. A massive wave smashed against the port side. Carver was engulfed by white foam. For a second no one could tell what had become of him, then the foam fell away and Carver could clearly be seen spitting saltwater from his mouth and holding onto the beam for dear life.

  Everyone cheered.

  Carver tipped them a nod.

  Without realizing it, Tawl had stretched out along the beam, ready to catch Carver’s foot or britches if he fell.

  The second rope was cut and then the third. Carver hacked away at the last. The mainmast creaked like a rotten staircase, and then, as the final rope was cut, it bounded back toward the starboard side. The aftermast, which had been in part suspended by the rope, shifted downward, crushing more railings and coming to rest at a lower point above the sea.

  Tawl didn’t wait. He shunted out onto the beam and grabbed Carver’s leg. Carver was barely above the swell line. Holding on to the beam was like holding on to a greased pole. Together, Carver and Tawl crawled back to the ship. Jack had grabbed hold of Tawl’s legs, and someone else grabbed hold of him. Carver was reeled in like a fish on a line.

  As soon as Tawl’s feet were on deck, Jack said to him, “We’ve got to get off this ship now, or everyone will be killed.”

  Tawl, high on exhilaration and relief, was brought down in an instant. Quickly, he made sure that Carver was all right and then grabbed hold of Jack’s arm and dragged him to the side of the bos’n’s cabin.

  “What d’you mean?”

  Jack was soaked to the skin. His long hair was loose and the wind blew it into his face. “I mean this storm isn’t natural. It’s been created by sorcery. Can’t you smell it?”

  Tawl could smell salt and the sharp chemical tang of the lightning. “No.”

  “I don’t know how it’s been done, but it’s been created to kill us. You and me, Tawl, not the crew. And unless we get off this ship right now, it’ll take all the sailors along with us.”

  Tawl had never see Jack so firm. There was no question of arguing with him. “How strong is it?”

  “Still strong, but given enough time it will die down. No one can keep this up for hour after hour and not be weakened.”

  Tawl nodded. He trusted Jack’s judgment implicitly. “How far are we from Larn?”

  “Captain says that when the storm hit, we were twenty leagues to the south. Borc knows where we are now.”

  More lightning. Thunder right behind it. Jack was right; this storm wasn’t passing over, it was staying right on top of them.

  Two waves hit the ship in quick succession. The Fishy Few bounced off the first only to plow headlong into the second. A crest of water blasted across the bow and foredeck.

  “If we take a boat now, the chances are it’ll be ripped apart.”

  Jack
looked Tawl straight in the eyes. “It’s either us or the entire crew.”

  “You think we can draw away the storm?”

  “I think we can give it a try.”

  Tawl nodded. “Let’s do it.”

  The rowboat was winched down to just above water level. Already it was carrying water, courtesy of the waves that kept lapping over the sides.

  “I don’t like this,” said the captain, watching as the little boat swung back and forth on the ropes. “It’s suicide to put down in a storm.” As he spoke, the wind whipped through the rigging. The fall of the aftermast had left the mainmast vulnerable, and everyone tensed until the gust tapered off.

  Jack didn’t know what to say to the captain. He didn’t want to lie, yet he wasn’t sure how the captain would take the truth. He looked around for Tawl, but he was belowdecks, collecting together whatever they needed. Jack took a deep breath. “The storm’s not going to pass as long as Tawl and I are here.”

  The captain nodded. “I’m not a fool, lad. I know.” He looked across at the wheel. Fyler was struggling to gain control of the ship. His huge muscles could be seen straining in the lamplight. “A storm like this doesn’t come fresh out of the blue sky of its own accord.” Quain looked at Jack and smiled. “You don’t sail the high seas for forty years without learning a thing or two about life.”

  “Boat’s ready, Captain,” shouted one of the crewmen.

  Jack was beginning to realize why all sailors had loud voices: they needed them to shout over the roar of the waves. Making a small gesture toward the sky, he said, “I’m sorry, Captain. I would never have come on board if I thought anything like this would happen.”

  “Nay, lad. Don’t be sorry. The Fishy Few isn’t ready to pay her respects to the seabed just yet.”

  “A big one’s coming in, Captain.”

  Jack and the captain looked out to sea. Amidst the black and the gray was a gleam of pure silver. It was the top of a swell and it towered high above the deck.

  “Brace yourselves, shipmates,” cried the captain.