The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  The final retreat was underway. Bloody, mud-smeared chaos reigned. The Highwall cavalry were pulling back fast, but Bren’s mercenaries and the Royal Guard were coming after them. Hundreds of men were going down, arrows and blades in their backs. The air was filled with their screams. Maybor shook his head. The retreat losses were going to be heavy. They’d lose hundreds more lives than they saved.

  The entire battlefield was moving to the south. All of Bren’s forces were charging after the Wall. Out of the corner of his eye, Maybor spotted a company of heavily armed knights swiftly descending down Kedrac’s command slope. He watched them for a moment, his face grim. Then, spinning around, he waited until the first line of Highwall cavalry drew abreast of him and kicked his horse into a gallop.

  “To the mountains!” he cried, filled with a mad rush of exhilaration. So his son wanted him dead, eh? Well, he’d just have to see about that.

  Twenty-three

  The journey back to Rorn took six days. The mainmast of the ship was too weak to bear a topsail, so they had to rely on the mainsail to bring them home.

  It had been a calm voyage. A time of rest. The winds were gentle upon the ship, the sea itself almost conciliatory. The days were short, but the sunsets were long, and the nights were spanned by stars. The Fishy Few creaked and listed from wave to wave, and the crew cosseted her all the way.

  During five of the six days, Jack was abed with fever. Fyler and, surprisingly, Captain Quain looked after him day and night. Tawl himself was out of the reckoning for the first two days, whilst his various cuts, bruises, gouges, and swellings were seen to by the crew. Fyler was the ship’s unofficial surgeon, and never had Tawl come across a more enthusiastic—and thereby dangerous—amateur. Sometimes Tawl got the feeling he was being stitched just for the sake of it. The stitching wasn’t as bad as the raw fish poultices, though, and not nearly as painful as the cauterizing. In fact, Fyler’s only saving grace as a surgeon was his heavy reliance on hot rum toddies as painkillers.

  Indeed, Tawl had spent much of the past six days in a toddy-induced stupor. It was, he found, the perfect antidote to Larn.

  The island was having a more lasting effect upon Jack. It had done something to him: in the hours between destroying the seers’ cavern and waking up the following morning, Jack had aged five years. His hair had lost its brightness and there were strands of gray around his temples. But that wasn’t the worst. Deep lines now cut into his face, across his brow, along his cheeks, and down to his mouth.

  Tawl hadn’t said anything to him. There were no mirrors on the ship, but they’d be docking in Rorn within an hour, and so he’d find out soon enough. Tawl smiled, bringing his hand up to feel his own face. It was a mass of stitches and swellings. Neither of them was a pretty sight now.

  Still, they’d gotten off lightly. They were lucky to be alive. Tawl had no idea what happened at the cavern, what Jack had gone through, but he’d sensed the power of the place, felt it throbbing through his bones. Whatever sorcery had been there was mighty beyond telling, and it was hardly surprising it had taken a toll.

  Tawl had expected to feel relief, even perhaps satisfaction, at its fall. In reality it just left him feeling empty. The seers were dead, the cavern had been destroyed, yet many of the priests had survived—they were the real evil on Larn. Ancient magic had never tied anyone to a stone.

  “Rorn looks good from here.”

  Tawl turned around to see Jack coming to join him on the foredeck. Once again, Tawl had to hide his surprise over the change in Jack’s appearance. He still hadn’t got used to it. “How are you feeling?”

  “Not bad, really. I think I’m becoming immune to rum.”

  “You’re a stronger man than me, then. Four of Fyler’s toddies and I’m away licking the deck.”

  Jack smiled. His face was pale and drawn. The fever had left him two days ago, and Fyler had only allowed him up yesterday. “We’ve a long way to go yet, haven’t we?”

  Tawl watched the white spires of Rorn grow larger on the horizon. “We’ll be in Bren before you know.”

  The Fishy Few glided into the dock, pulled by two heavy rowing craft. Jack and Tawl were joined by Carver and Captain Quain. All four men stood on the foredeck and watched as the ship was drawn past lines of fishing boats and caravels to its berth along the wharf. Seagulls dipped and looped in the blue sky, and the breeze carried messages from Rorn.

  As they drew nearer, Tawl raised a hand to shade his eyes and looked out at the quayside. Two figures waited on the dock. Tawl recognized Nabber straightaway—the bulging tunic, the pack slung over the shoulder, the impossibly skinny legs—but the second one he couldn’t make out.

  Carver had a spyglass to his eye. “We’ve got one waiting for us, Captain. A bit raggedy, she is, but a live one just the same.”

  Quain glanced at Tawl, noted where he was looking, and said, “I don’t think she’s waiting for us, Carver. Why don’t you give the glass to Tawl?”

  “Here you go, mate,” said Carver, handing over the spyglass. “She’s standing next to that young lad on the quay. Pimps get younger by the day.”

  Tawl looked through the glass. He couldn’t help but smile as he spied Nabber. The young pocket did not look happy. The girl who stood beside him was cleaning his face and neck with a rag. The girl herself was pitifully thin. Her hair was shorn short, and if it wasn’t for the fact that she was wearing a dress, she could have been mistaken for a boy. As Tawl watched, she turned to face the ship. Tawl caught his breath. It was Megan. His Megan.

  He brought down the glass. What had happened to her? Where were her bonny curls and rosy cheeks? Her plump lips, her curves, her sparkling eyes? Tawl felt a cold dread steal over him. He remembered the last time he’d disembarked The Fishy Few, running down the gangplank and heading straight for the whoring quarter, hoping to spend the night with Megan. Only she hadn’t been there. Her room was empty, her possessions in disarray. He’d just accepted that she’d gone. What if he’d been wrong? What if she’d been in danger, and he’d just carried on?

  Gradually the ship drew level with the wharf. The two figures on the quay began to move down the wooden walkway. Tawl could see them clearly now. Megan was dressed very prettily in a pink skirt and bodice that, judging from the way it gleamed in the sunlight, could only be silk. A woolen shawl lay across her shoulders, and every so often Nabber would reach up and pull it close against her arms. The two walked hand in hand.

  “Whoa! Tawl!” shouted Nabber, approaching the docking ship. “I’ve brought a friend to see you.”

  Tawl looked down at Megan. Even from this distance, he could see he had been wrong: her eyes still sparkled. She didn’t say anything, but she smiled. It was a smile of welcome and warmth and friendship, and it filled Tawl’s heart with a sharp, aching joy.

  He was down the gangplank before the mooring ropes had been secured. He raced along the walkway and into Megan’s arms. She was so thin, so frail, he was frightened he might crush her. Her cheeks were wet with tears, and she shook like a newborn colt. “Tawl, I’m so glad,” she murmured, resting her head against his shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  The crew cheered. Tawl looked up to see all twelve of them lined up along the ship’s railings, grinning. He couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of them. They were good men. He raised his arm and waved. After a second, Megan waved, too, and the crew went wild: yelling, throwing kisses, and asking her if she had any friends.

  Shaking his head, unable to stop smiling, Tawl put his arm out for Nabber. The pocket slid under his arm and against his chest.

  “If you don’t mind me saying so, Tawl, you look a bit rough.”

  Tawl burst out laughing again. He squeezed the boy hard. “If you don’t mind me saying, Nabber. I think you could do with a little tact.”

  Jack was saying his farewells to the crew. Tawl watched as he exchanged a few words with the captain and then made his way down the gangplank. He had a strange look on his face.


  “Hey! Jack!” cried Nabber, disengaging himself from Tawl and running up to meet him. Jack hugged the boy.

  Tawl was standing with his arm around Megan, waiting for Nabber to put his foot in it. He didn’t have to wait long.

  “Borc’s kneecaps, Jack! What happened to you? Tawl looks bad, but you look awful. Is that gray in your hair, or wet paint?”

  Jack raised a hand to his hair. “Gray?”

  “Just around the edges, mind.”

  Jack looked at Nabber a moment and then laughed. “Well, if a few gray hairs are all I’ve got to show for Larn, then I didn’t come off too badly.”

  Tawl breathed a sigh of relief. He beckoned Jack over to meet Megan. As he introduced her to Jack, he couldn’t help wondering what she had gone through. Dark circles ringed her eyes and her cheeks were empty hollows.

  “Pleased to meet you, Jack,” she said. Her voice was thinner than he remembered.

  Jack bowed and took her hand. Tawl smiled at him, pleased that he greeted her as if she were a highborn lady.

  After a moment, Nabber padded up from behind to join them. “I’ve just had a quick word with the good captain. Told him we’d be back later with the payment.”

  “You’ve managed to raise it?” said Jack.

  “Of course I have,” said Nabber instantly indignant. “What d’you think I am, a bungling amateur? You two aren’t the only ones who have been up to stuff, you know. I’ve been busy, too. Having meetings, rescuing damsels, acquiring the loot. Right put upon, I’ve been. Right put upon.”

  Tawl, guessing Nabber’s feelings had been hurt by being left in Rorn, said, “That’s why we left you here, Nabber. Because we knew we could rely on you to take care of business.”

  “Take care of business, my earlobes! Stranded, I was. Left to fend for myself without so much as a word of warning or thanks. You two should count yourselves lucky that I’m here today. Mortally insulted me and I’m still paying the bills!”

  Tawl grabbed hold of Nabber’s arm. He began steering him along toward the quay. “Why don’t we go to the Rose and Crown, have a hot meal, and you can tell us all you’ve gone through?”

  Nabber snorted. “I suppose I’ll be paying for that, too.”

  “Your Eminence, word has just come in from the north. Highwall’s armies were defeated six days ago on the southern plains of Bren.”

  Tavalisk put down the asparagus that had just been aimed at his throat. “How did this happen? Bren’s armies alone couldn’t possibly have been enough to rout the Wall.”

  “The kingdoms’ forces moved across the mountains last week, Your Eminence. They arrived in Bren just ahead of the winter storms.”

  “So that was what Kylock was waiting for all this time. The winter storms.” Tavalisk licked the asparagus butter from his fingers. This was the worst news that Gamil had ever brought him. The northern empire was no longer a threat. It was a reality. Baralis and Kylock had effectively conquered the north. “Tell me, was it a massacre?”

  “Yes, Your Eminence. Apparently the Wall was surrounded on three sides. They tried to withdraw to the east, but they didn’t make it. Bren’s blackhelms slaughtered them. By all accounts it was a bloodbath. No prisoners were taken.”

  “Maybor and Besik?”

  “Lord Besik went down with his men. There’s no word on Lord Maybor. There’s a rumor that he led a third of the Highwall army into the mountains, but from what I can ascertain, most of their number died. They were the last to withdraw from the field.”

  “Yes. That would do it.” Tavalisk was distressed, but not about to betray that fact to Gamil. Ever since that unfortunate incident last week with the young pickpocket, the archbishop found himself trusting Gamil less and less. His aide was obviously up to something of a dubious nature, or he wouldn’t have been successfully blackmailed by a street urchin. And, more importantly, there was now a remote possibility that the man knew about his treasure trove.

  Tavalisk picked an asparagus spear from the tray. He bent it until it snapped. As soon as that pesky little pocket left Rorn, he’d arrange to have his savings moved. Might even split it—half in the city, half outside. The way things were looking in the north at the moment, a man couldn’t be too careful where his assets were concerned. Especially when those assets were hard gold.

  “How are Camlee and Ness taking the news of Highwall’s defeat?”

  “Badly, Your Eminence. Ness is but three weeks hard march from Bren. It doesn’t take a genius to see where Kylock’s eye will fall next.”

  Tavalisk waved an asparagus stalk at Gamil. “Hmm. You’re probably right. Kylock will be hoping that the mountain storms keep Annis on ice all winter. And now he’s got his kingdoms’ army with him, he’ll be loathe to sit around and do nothing. There’s no one more restless than a newly crowned king.”

  “He is in a very strong position, Your Eminence.”

  “Gamil, if I’d wanted someone to state the obvious, I could have brought in a copper-polisher. He might be ill-informed, but at least he’s sure to see everything in front of his face.” The archbishop slipped the top half of the asparagus in his mouth. He never ate the bottoms. It was an act of kindness, for he always sent the remainders to the poor.

  “Come spring Kylock will have problems, though, Your Eminence. He’ll have to cross the mountains and claim Highwall, keep Halcus subdued, and defeat Annis.”

  “He’ll be stronger by spring, Gamil. Only half the troops in Bren are fully trained at the moment. There’s all sorts: mercenaries, farmers, conscripts. If the man’s got any sense at all, he’ll spend the winter making sure they’re fully trained for the spring.”

  “What of the invasion of Ness, Your Eminence?”

  “The blackhelms and kingdoms’ forces can take care of that. Ness can’t be expected to put up much of a fight.”

  “But won’t the south help the city?”

  Tavalisk considered the asparagus: green, glossy with butter, scenting the air with the faint tang of sweat. With their furtive little spearheads, they were the perfect vegetable to scheme over. “The official line should be that the south is not prepared to help Ness at all.”

  “And the unofficial line, Your Eminence?”

  “We need to give Bren the impression that we’re wiping our hands of Ness, that way they’ll be more likely to send out less troops and be less prepared. Only when they look set to conquer that wretched sheep-bound city will the south make its move. I say we arm Camlee in secret, mind our own business until the last possible moment, and then take young Kylock by surprise.”

  “Your Eminence is wise indeed.”

  Tavalisk beamed. He was still the chosen one, after all. Marod had certainly picked well when he’d picked him. “Any more news, Gamil?”

  “The Fishy Few was spotted in the east bay this morning, Your Eminence. She’s probably already docked by now.”

  “Hmm. I think it’s best if we let the knight and his friends go. Wouldn’t want to waste my time with such trivial matters as torturing commoners—not at the moment, anyway.”

  Gamil was quick to bow. “Your Eminence is quite right. Let us concentrate on more important matters.”

  He’d certainly changed his tune. What did the pocket have on him? “That’s all for now, Gamil. After you’ve done me a little favor, you can go.” It was, Tavalisk considered, exactly the right time to put Gamil in his place.

  “What favor, Your Eminence?”

  “I’d like you to make me a written list of all your intelligence sources.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes. From the richest merchant down to the lowliest scullery boy.”

  Gamil looked worried. “But Your Eminence, that would take all day.”

  Tavalisk faked a yawn. “I’m prepared to wait.”

  “So the archbishop’s chief aide was working for Larn?”

  “That’s right, Tawl. The Old Man was spot on.”

  “What is the man’s name?”

  “Gamil.”
>
  Tawl sat back in his chair. They were gathered around a small circular table in the Rose and Crown. The remainders of a roast pork dinner lay congealing on platters, and Nabber was just finishing off the last of the pie. The place was quiet and warm. The tavern-keeper had just put more logs on the fire, and the tavern-maid kept coming by to top up the ale.

  Gamil. It was the name they had given him all those months ago at Larn. The man he’d delivered a letter to on their behalf. Tawl remembered his face clearly, remembered his surprise at seeing who was waiting outside his door. The man was just another self-serving coward—he and the archbishop deserved each other. Tawl rubbed his aching forehead. “Everything is connected in the end.”

  Jack looked up. During the telling of Nabber’s and Megan’s stories he hadn’t said a word. “What’s connected?”

  Tawl had dropped the comment casually, yet Jack’s manner was anything but casual. Tawl shrugged. “You know: Larn, Rorn, Bren. Even you and Melli—the way you both came from the kingdoms.”

  “Larn, Rorn, Bren, and the kingdoms,” repeated Jack. He had been acting strangely since he got off the ship. Distracted and introverted, he had kept his distance from them all. Tawl wondered what was going on in his mind.

  “Why don’t you get some rest?” Tawl said. “Nabber’s taken three rooms for the night.” As he spoke, he shot a quick glance at Nabber.

  Nabber nodded. He stood up, walked over to where Jack sat, and pulled on his arm. “Come on, Jack. I’ll take you upstairs. You can have the room with the bed. Two golds extra it cost me.”

  Jack allowed himself to be led away. Tawl watched him go.

  “You are worried about your friend?” Megan drew her chair closer to his.

  “Yes. We’ve all been through a lot.” Tawl took hold of Megan’s hand and kissed it. “But none as much as you.” Her smile was so sweet, it pained his heart to see it.

  She raised her finger to his lips. “Don’t blame yourself, Tawl. You can’t go through life protecting everyone you care for. It just can’t be done.”