by J. V. Jones
Thirty-one
Baralis decided it was time to visit the fair Melliandra. He had just come from a meeting with Kylock, and from what he had managed to ascertain, the girl was playing games with him. The king was needed in Camlee. Kedrac was a good leader, but he didn’t come close to Kylock, and for victory to be both swift and assured, Baralis knew Kylock should be there. However, Maybor’s daughter had Kylock wrapped around her little finger, and he was now delaying his departure for Camlee, waiting for her to be ready.
Baralis didn’t know or care what ready meant, but he could spot delay tactics a league away, and he knew the girl was bluffing. Which was the main reason he was going to see her: no one put pay to his plans.
The other reason was less substantial, but just as compelling all the same.
Baralis lit an oil lamp and, checking the fold of his robe for his copper sigiling knife, left his chambers in the dark behind him. Through corridors that were always deserted, up stairs that hadn’t been swept in a year, Baralis traveled, hands curled up beneath his robes, feet making no sound to tell of his passing.
He rounded a corner and came face-to-face with Mistress Greal. Meeting her thus, Baralis realized he hadn’t seen her since the night of the birthing. Over two weeks ago now.
Mistress Greal seemed surprised to see him. In her hand she had a small bowl of steaming water and in the other a lambswool blanket. “Just off to bed for the night, my lord,” she said, raising the water.
“A little early for a night creature such as yourself.” Baralis didn’t like the look on the woman’s face.
Mistress Greal attempted a simper. “Must get my beauty sleep, my lord.” She bobbed a quick curtsey and scurried off.
Baralis opened his mouth to command her to stop, but the knife pressed a reminder against his thigh: he had more important things to take care of at the moment. The toothless hag was probably up to no good, but she’d had free run of the palace for the last five months, so stopping her here and now wouldn’t serve much purpose. Baralis turned back to his business.
A few minutes later he climbed up the stairs to Melliandra’s chamber. Situated in an unused annex just off the nobles’ quarters, no one had occasion to come here. The two guards stood up when they saw him appear. Baralis could tell immediately that they had been drinking. Normally such petty transgressions wouldn’t concern him, but a certain worry that had grown within his mind this past week caused him to take the men to task.
“You,” he said, pointing his finger at the nearest guard. “Drink once more whilst you’re on duty and I will have your fingers chopped off one by one.” And then to the other man: “Seeing as you are the oldest here—and so responsible for your companion’s behavior as well as your own—I will have your arms hacked off at the elbow.” Both men stared at him, their eyes large with terror. “Is that clear?”
The older of the two men nodded. He began to speak.
Baralis cut him short. “No excuses. No promises. Just do as I say.” Much eager nodding followed. Baralis was well pleased. “Good. Now, I want you to wait at the bottom of the stairs until I call you.” The guards hesitated. “Go!”
Baralis watched them scurry away. When their footsteps had receded to dim patters, he took out his knife. Copper hilt, copper blade, good for little except show, it wasn’t designed to slice flesh or spear meat or cut rope. It was used for scoring wood and designed for making sigils.
Sigils were warding signs marked upon doors. When scored properly, using the correct blade and the correct sequence of angles, the sigil acted as a gatekeeper. A silken thread of sorcery linked the sigil to its maker, and the slightest pull on the thread was a warning the link had been breached. Baralis had scored such markings upon the door to his own chambers in Castle Harvell. He always knew the moment anyone crossed his threshold and, having thought long and hard about the Valdis arrow in Skaythe’s heart, he intended to have a similar arrangement here.
Placing the oil lamp down on the stone, Baralis warmed the blade in the flame. The incident at Lake Ormon had troubled him for a week now. He couldn’t be certain what it meant; it might have just been an offhand killing, or it might be a sign that the knights were now in league with Jack and Tawl. At times like this, Baralis was always inclined toward caution. By his reckoning, the party should be arriving in Bren in the next few days, and if there was even a remote chance they might be free to try something, Baralis planned to make sure they would fail.
The baker’s boy had to be killed. He had already destroyed Larn. He could not be allowed to destroy the empire as well.
And as for the knight—well, he had to be tried and hung for Catherine’s murder. Justice was long overdue.
Baralis lifted the knife from the flame. The blade was beginning to darken and the hilt had grown hot in his palm. Bringing the tip up to the banded wooden surface of the door, Baralis began to utter the appropriate words of warding. His saliva thickened with sorcery as the chant escaped from his lips. The heated blade scored a mark three hairs deep in the wood.
The signs etched weren’t as important as the angle of the blade. It was the bevel of the mark that made the sigil dance. Runes, stars, and other devices worked more as a physical deterrent rather than a magical one. Superstition alone kept most people from crossing a warded door. On first sight, though, no one would be able to tell this door was warded. Baralis made the sigil follow the grain of the wood, veering off at angles only when necessary. To a casual glance the door would look normal.
Which was exactly how Baralis wanted it. Just in case.
“We’ll meet outside the Brimming Bucket at midnight,” said Crayne. He made a point of meeting everyone’s eyes. “If either party gets delayed or caught, or if the others don’t turn up, then we continue on without them. Understood?”
Jack nodded along with the rest. They were on a dark street corner in the east side of Bren: to the left lay a cobbler’s shop, to the right a dimly lit tavern with saffron-yellow shutters. It was early evening. They had passed the gate less than a quarter of an hour ago.
It had taken them seven days of hard riding to reach the city. Seven days of freezing sleet, driving winds, and morning fog. They stopped only when the horses needed rest and rode five hours past sunset every night. Burnt villages and farms dotted the horizon, and corpses and refuse littered the fields. They followed Kedrac’s path all the way; it was the fastest road to Bren.
When they finally drew near the city this morning, they made a small detour north to the village of Fair Oaks. This was the place where they had arranged to meet Maybor’s troops. The Highwall men would be two or three days behind them, so Crayne dropped Follis and Mafrey off in the village to wait for their arrival. The remaining men had split into two groups. Jack, Tawl, Nabber, Crayne, and Borlin were in the first group. Andris led the others in the second. The job of the first group was to go into the city and find out all they could about Melli’s whereabouts and security arrangements in the palace. Later they would meet up with the second group and decide upon a definite course of action.
No one had challenged them so far. The run up to the city had been without incident, and Jack and his party had met no problems at the gate. They had left half of their horses in Fair Oaks, and only Borlin and Nabber had been mounted when they approached the wall. Both knights had pared down their armor and weapons, and they had their circles well covered. Jack still thought they could be spotted a league away, but knights were currently welcome in Bren, and the gatekeeper hadn’t batted an eye.
Tawl was the only one who caused them problems. A lot of people in the city knew what he looked like, and there weren’t many men who could match his size and golden hair. He had claimed Nabber as his son, donned a felt hat, rubbed ash into his seven-day beard, and took to leaning against his horse as if he were half lame. Jack wanted to laugh when he saw him—up to that point Tawl had never looked anything less than dignified. Now, with a felt hat flopping around his ears and a fake limp dragging at his foot
, he looked like an unusually large village idiot.
The disguise had worked, though. The gatekeeper had addressed his questions to the bright-looking son rather than the dim-looking father and, hearing nothing amiss, had let them pass.
The gate was heavily guarded. A dozen blackhelms stood on either side of it, and two dozen more manned the wall. When they entered the city it was the same: blackhelms on every other corner, blackhelms keeping watch from the battlements. Tawl said, and Crayne agreed, that not all of the men could be fully trained, as Kedrac would have taken the best to Camlee. Still, there were enough of them to intimidate no matter what their weapons skills were, and as Jack made his way across the city, his heart was pounding fast inside his chest.
He, Tawl, and Nabber had split up from Crayne and Borlin; four grown men walking around the city together might attract unwanted attention from the blackhelms. They would meet four and a half hours later at a tavern of Nabber’s choosing. Andris and the men in the second party planned to enter the city two hours before the gate was closed for the night. Their job was to acquire supplies and find lodging.
“Where should we start?” said Tawl. The brim of the felt hat cast his eyes in deep shadow. Which was just as well, thought Jack, for Tawl was constantly looking from side to side to check for blackhelms.
“Let’s try and find out what happened to Lord Cravin.” Jack was standing with his hands thrust into his tunic to stop them from going numb. Bren was a full winter colder than when he’d been there last. “I say we skirt close to his townhouse. Talk to a few street traders, maybe go into a couple of taverns.”
Jack and Tawl both looked to Nabber. As acknowledged master of city life, any objections he could raise were invaluable. Like a true expert, Nabber knew his worth. He sucked in his breath, then let it out with a series of cheek-puffing motions. “I say Jack’s got a plan. I’ll hang back a bit from you two. Keep an eye out for trouble. Raise the cry if it’s needed. No one will pay any attention to a boy like myself. I’ll be as good as invisible.”
“Sounds good to me, Nabber,” said Jack. “Let’s go.”
They didn’t have far to walk. Lord Cravin’s townhouse was less than a league from the east wall. On Nabber’s advice, they decided not to pass too close to the building and kept a few streets south of it at all times. Coming upon a small square where market traders were packing away their goods for the night, Jack veered off into the pathway between the stalls. A light drizzle had just started up, and the men and women who were closing shop worked quickly to prevent their wares from being soaked.
Spying a pastry seller, Jack darted around the various fruit sellers and vintners and approached the coarse wooden stall. A tiny, bald man was busy placing sweet rolls onto a covered tray. Without looking up, he said, “No handouts here, my friend. The stale stuff goes to the wife’s pigs.”
“They must be happy pigs.”
“Aye. The wife cares for those pigs like they were her children. She’d have the skin off my back if I didn’t come home with the leftover pastries.”
“How’s business lately?” Jack spotted Tawl drawing close and waved him back with a small movement of his wrist.
The pastry seller still hadn’t looked up. He started on his second tray. “Things have begun to pick up some since they opened the gates to trade. No one’s got much money, though. Grain’s running out, too. It won’t be long before I’ve got nothing left to bake with except fresh air.”
“Some say things were better under the duke.”
The pastry seller’s hand hovered above a pastry. It was shaking. “I’m not one of those,” he said.
Jack nodded slowly. The man thought he was a troublemaker. Well, it wouldn’t do him any harm to act like one. “’Course with all the goings-on at the palace, the king hasn’t got much time for city affairs.”
“I don’t know anything about goings-on at the palace. I hear rumors like the rest, but I pay them no heed.” The pastry seller had stopped placing the pastries on the tray and simply threw them on, instead. He dumped the trays on his cart and took hold of the yoke. “I’ve got to be off now. Can’t keep the wife waiting.”
Jack caught the man’s arm and squeezed it. “What rumors do you hear?” The pastry seller was as small as a child. His bones were as thin as sticks. Jack felt sorry for him, but he had no choice: time was running out.
“I hear that Kylock’s killing off all the nobles who oppose him. That Lord Baralis is a demon who eats babies, and that the entire palace is being run by a mad woman with no teeth.” Although scared, the pastry seller seemed to find satisfaction in uttering the last words. He yanked at his arm, and Jack let it go.
“Is Lord Cravin one of those who Kylock has killed?”
The pastry seller hooked the yoke of his cart over his shoulders. “He was hung months back now. Hung, quartered, and set to rot on the walls.” He began to move away, his cart trundling after him.
Jack was about to let the man go when, as an afterthought, he shouted, “What’s the name of the woman who runs the palace?”
“Mistress Greal,” cried the pastry seller. “Her sister owns a brothel on the south side of the city.”
“And the sister’s name?”
“Can’t recall.” The pastry seller’s voice was lost beneath the creaking of his cart for a moment. “Thorny something, perhaps.”
Jack turned away. He felt disappointed. The man had told him nothing useful. Lord Cravin was dead, so that ruled out going to him for information. Now all they had to go on was some half-remembered brothel-keeper’s name in a city full of brothels.
With heavy steps he returned to Tawl. The drizzle had thickened to snow. The soft flakes clung to Jack’s hair and dripped down his collar when they melted. Tawl was silent while Jack told him what the pastry seller said. At the end, however, when the name of the brothel-keeper was mentioned, Tawl’s eyes narrowed to slits.
“Thorny, you said?”
Jack nodded.
“Thornypurse.” Tawl made the word sound like a curse. Despite the flapping felt hat, he suddenly looked like a man whom no one would want to cross.
“You know who she is?”
“She nearly killed me.” Tawl swiveled around, and seeing Nabber lurking on the opposite side of the square, he beckoned him over.
Nabber ran through the slush and dirt with a dancer’s grace. “What is it?” he said, skidding to a showy halt.
“We’re going to pay a visit on an old friend, and I think you’ll want to come along for the ride.”
The clawing noise outside the door went on for a few minutes. It sounded like rats. Only higher.
Melli scratched her arm. She had just taken the splint off because the skin underneath was itching so much. In the pale light that seeped under the door, she could see the uneven line of her forearm. A knot of bone pushed against the skin. The break was rehealing, but it wasn’t a clean join, and Melli knew her left arm would never be the same again. If a surgeon could only get to it, he might be able to limit the damage, but every day that passed lessened her chances of having the bone reset.
In her head she counted the number of days that had passed since she put Kylock off. Eight. When he finally came to her in two nights time, she had another plan ready to postpone him further. For a week now she had been saving odd scraps of food, nothing much—an apple here, a sliver of chicken fat there—but enough to fester along nicely under the bed. The day that Kylock was due, she was going to rub the moldy meat and vegetables over her clothes and thighs. If the smell alone failed to put him off, then Melli intended to claim the ghones or worse.
It wasn’t at all ladylike, but then Kylock was no gentleman.
Melli was rather pleased with her plan, and as no one entered her chamber these days except the guards, there was little chance of discovery.
The scratching on the door stopped abruptly. Melli’s abdomen squeezed a ghost contraction. Since the baby was born, she always felt fear first in her belly. All was quiet f
or a few seconds, but shadows bobbed under the door with the light, and Melli could tell someone was moving on the other side. Was it Kylock? or Mistress Greal? Melli shot her good arm out to feel for the splint. Once she had it in hand, she began the lengthy and awkward process of rebinding it to her arm. She felt vulnerable with the damaged bone on show.
Biting one end of the bandage with her teeth, Melli wrapped the other round with her right hand. She had to move slowly, for the slightest sudden movement might cause the bone to break.
“Playing doctor, I see.”
Melli looked up. Baralis stood in the doorway. She hadn’t heard him enter.
He brought the light forward. “Has no one tended to your arm?”
“Has no one cut your throat yet?”
Baralis’ laughter was surprisingly warm. “Such a proud little girl. I would have thought five months of captivity might have blunted your sharp little tongue.”
Listening to his rich, cultured voice brought back glimpses of the past to Melli: fingers running down her spine, a breath taken deeply, a scent so heady it drew her in. This was, she realized, the first time they had been alone together since the day at Castle Harvell when he’d moved her to a storeroom for safekeeping. Years ago now, yet why did she remember it like yesterday? Her stomach sent her a warning, but the blood in her head pumped fast, as if she were drunk.
Forcing herself to stay calm, Melli continued to bind the splint to her arm.
“Here.” Baralis was beside her before she knew it. “Let me take a look at the bone.”
She pulled away from his touch. Another memory, older, fainter, chased up her nostrils along with his scent. A hand upon a silk dress—a child’s dress. The stiff fabric had been out of fashion for ten years.
“Not afraid of being touched, are we?” Baralis’ voice was mocking. “Don’t worry, I’m not Kylock. I’m not about to please myself with petty torture.”
