The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  “No. You have a taste for far worse.” Melli was shaking. The ghost contractions pumped away at her empty belly. “What did you do to my baby?”

  Baralis took hold of her arm. The bindings came apart and the splint fell to the bed. “You know what I did. He’s dead.”

  He. Melli closed her eyes. She’d had a son. Learning that one small fact was like losing the baby all over again. The pain of the first morning flooded back; her throat tightened and her stomach snatched itself in. Her breasts—dry of milk these past two days—ached with a sharp, sickening pain. She fought the desire to wrench herself away. Baralis had hold of her arm and one pull could break it.

  Baralis ran his thumb over the lump of bone. His nails were smoothly filed, but there was something appalling about them: they were too large for the thin, bloodless fingers they capped. The lack of such a basic human proportion unnerved Melli. It turned Baralis into a monster.

  His touch became a caress. “Such a nasty join, such an unsightly little bulge—it all but ruins the perfect line of your arm.”

  Melli’s chest was heaving. Her throat had tightened to a pinpoint and airflow to her lungs was constricted like sand in a glass. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “How did my baby die?”

  Baralis tapped the bone. Tht. Tht. Tht. Tht. “I don’t think, my dear Melli, that you are in any position to ask questions.” Baralis’ gray eyes met hers. He pressed his thumb against the bulge. “Do you?”

  “What do you want?” To Melli her voice sounded high, almost hysterical.

  “Aah.” Baralis let up the pressure. On the underside of her arm, his fingers nuzzled her flesh. “Ladies who play games should expect them in return.” His fingers traveled up her arm and then along the bodice of her dress. The palm of his hand came to rest against her belly. “And games always end with a loser.”

  Like a drug, Baralis’ scent heightened her senses. Even through the fabric of her dress, Melli could feel the rough texture of his palm. His touch was firm and cool. Slowly Melli’s body began to relax; her throat widened, letting in air, and her stomach settled down beneath his hand.

  “Good, good,” said Baralis. “Now listen very carefully. I don’t know what you’ve said or done to Kylock, but I do know that you’re playing him for a fool. When he comes to you next, I expect you to be more than accommodating.”

  Melli had a dim feeling she’d been through this before with Baralis. Him touching her, telling her what she would do. Even the sensations were the same: attraction, confusion, a vague thickening of her thoughts. What was he doing to her?

  His hand was no longer on her arm, so Melli pulled away from him. As she moved, she caught a whiff of his breath. She paused a moment, waiting to feel his fingers trailing down her spine, before she realized it was a memory. Why did she feel so attracted to him? She didn’t understand.

  Clenching her teeth together and contracting the muscles in her neck and jaw, Melli forced herself to think clearly. It was so hard, though: her thoughts were heavy and her body was slow to move. She pressed the thumbnail of her good hand into the soft flesh of her index finger. The pain sent a shock wave through her head, and in the moment of vivid clarity that followed she managed to stand free from the bed.

  He followed her up, and as she tried to back away from him, he matched her step for step. Finally she could go no farther, her calves pressed against the chest by the wall.

  “You disappoint me, Melli,” he said. “I so much wanted to keep things pleasant between us.”

  Gone. The muddling of her thoughts cleared in an instant; the hot pulsing in her temples stopped as quickly as it started. In the cold, pain-filled world that emerged, Baralis looked like a sharp-edged, sharp-eyed demon. He wasn’t a mysterious lover come to woo her: he was a man prepared to use all his powers to get what he wanted. She felt attracted to him because he willed it. Just like the time at the storeroom, only she hadn’t realized it then. Foolishly, she had flattered herself into thinking he felt something for her, but looking at him now—his face cast with shadows from the lamp behind his back—she realized Baralis felt nothing for anyone except himself.

  He didn’t have a sensuous nerve in his body. He found his pleasure exclusively in control.

  The myth of the powerful man succumbing to her charms died. Melli was left feeling naïve and angry: Baralis had manipulated her with the force of his will not once but twice, maybe even three times, if the vague childhood memory was to be relied upon. He had pried his way into her brain and made himself master of her thoughts. It was a kind of rape, an invasion of the most intimate sort, and he did it without blinking an eye.

  Baralis made a grab for her arm. Melli jerked backward. Her knees collapsed and she landed in a sitting position on the chest. In the second it took to settle herself, Baralis seized hold of her wrist. Straightaway his fingers slid to the break.

  “Such a foolish, headstrong girl,” he said, stroking the lump of broken bone. “You should learn to be better behaved.”

  Melli’s right hand was trailing over the side of the chest. Very slowly, she moved it around to the back. In the space between the chest and the wall lay the supplies she had stocked for her escape. To distract Baralis’ attention, she kept him talking. “What will you do if I turn Kylock away?”

  A push upon the bone. “Oh, you won’t turn him away, my dear. You most certainly won’t do that.”

  Melli stretched her hand down along the back of the chest. Tilting backward to increase her reach, she said, “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because I will have to punish you if you do.”

  Melli’s hand closed around the cool stem of the glass. “Really. And what will that punishment be?”

  “Warning and punishment, I think.” Baralis clasped her forearm just below the elbow, and with his other hand grabbed her wrist. He meant to break the bone.

  Panicking, Melli raised the glass. She smashed it against the wall, sending splinters flashing into the air. The fragment that remained in her fist she thrust straight for Baralis’ face. Dropping her arm, Baralis jumped back. The shard of glass caught his chin, drawing blood. Melli saw his lips move.

  The smell of metal in a furnace filled the room.

  “No!” she screamed. “Hurt me now and Kylock will destroy you.”

  Baralis closed his lips.

  She held the glass out before her like a shield. “He thinks I am his one chance of redemption. Take that away from him and he will never forgive you. Never.”

  Baralis formed a fist to wipe the blood from his chin. His eyes were as dark as slate. “You have just made a fatal mistake, Melliandra. Do you really think you can hold me for ransom? I have shaped men and countries, lives and fates. I have changed lineages of kings and signed death warrants for dukes, and no silly little girl from a family filled with fools is going to get in my way.”

  Baralis was shaking now. His beautiful voice was honed sharp like a blade and each word was a cutting blow. “Don’t think for one moment you can get the better of me. Don’t even think it in your dreams. Take me on and I will win every time. I know of nothing but victory: it is what I live for. And you, my dear Melliandra, with your proud, flaunting ways and your fast-working tongue, are nowhere near a match for me.”

  He took a step toward her. Melli raised the glass. Baralis smiled, and Melli suddenly felt like a child with a child’s toy.

  “So you think I can’t harm you, eh? I could kill you now in a hundred different ways and Kylock would never know who did it. I could stop your heart, or harden your liver, or clot the blood in your brain. I could block the air in your lungs, or halt the juice in your belly, or prevent the poison in your kidneys from getting out. There is nothing I couldn’t do to your body.” Baralis waved a dismissive hand at the glass. “That, my dear Melliandra, has just cost you your life. If you refuse Kylock again, then I will design a death so slow and painful you will beg for the end to come. Accommodate his wishes, however, and I will kill you with one clean blow. The choice i
s yours.”

  Baralis looked at Melli a few seconds longer, and then turned and walked away.

  The second the door closed behind him, Melli dropped the glass. The shard had cut a deep pit in her palm, and she hadn’t even felt it. Cradling her left arm, she lifted herself off the chest and made her way over to the bed. Settling amidst the covers, hugging her frail limb close, Melli gave way to the blinding tension that had been building inside of her and cried herself into a frenzy.

  She was tired of being strong, sick of being on her own, incensed by all the waiting. Where was Tawl when she needed him? Why hadn’t he come to save her?

  As a rule, Madame Thornypurse always closed early on nights when the pits were covered. No matches meant no spectators, and no spectators meant no loot. Heavy sleet, rain, or snow didn’t prevent the matches from being fought—a desperate man would fight under any conditions—but it did make it hard to keep the torches lit. A fight in the dark was as good as no fight at all to the bloodthirsty men of Bren.

  Still, even though tonight was deemed too wet to fight, Madame Thornypurse was enjoying a rare boom in business. Tomorrow morning a large portion of the new recruits were going on a four-day training expedition north of the city, and they were out in search of a little feminine comfort before they left.

  Of course, they didn’t pay well—these days no one did—but a bucketful of coppers was better than nothing at all. Things had settled down a bit compared to right after the victory over Highwall, but there was still little profit in whoring. Which meant that Madame Thornypurse had to take anything she could get.

  A sharp rapping came at the door. Madame Thornypurse was in the process of rubbing rat oil into her scrawny neck, so she sent Franny to see who it was. Half a minute later Franny returned. “Two gentlemen to see you,” she said.

  Madame Thornypurse put the lid firmly on the rat oil—on cold nights such as these it could get cloudy unless it was well covered. “What’s the look of them?”

  “One looks a bit simple, but the other’s quite handsome. Both big, they are.”

  Madame Thornypurse peeked her coifed and powdered head around the corner into the main room. Half a dozen blackhelms were currently lounging beside her girls. Her practiced eye knew immediately that the men had reached the stage where no more money would be spent: they were too drunk to eat, drink, or wench. A few more customers more would not go amiss. Gathering her second-best shawl about her, Madame Thornypurse made for the door.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen. Come out of the cold.” She held a hand out for kissing. Neither man took her up. “I have a warm fire, strong ale, and the best girls in town.”

  The stupid-looking man in the felt hat lunged forward. Clasping a hand over her mouth, he yanked her out onto the street. Madame Thornypurse tried to scream, but her lips were pressed tight against her gums. The second man slammed the door shut, and then Madame Thornypurse was dragged into the alley at the side of the building.

  Her first thought was for her shoes: silk—the slush would ruin them. Her second thought was for her complexion: the freezing cold would dry out her skin. Only when these considerations had whipped through her mind did she actually begin to panic. She might be robbed, raped, killed, or maimed!

  The felt-hat man drew a knife. Raising it to her recently oiled throat, he said, “One scream from you and you’re dead.”

  Madame Thornypurse nodded vigorously. Her eyes flicked to the front of the building. Surely Franny would notice she’d gone?

  “Now,” said the felt-hat man, easing up his hold on her mouth. “Tell me what you know about Melliandra.”

  Madame Thornypurse’s hearing was nowhere near as good as her sister’s, but she was certain she heard screaming from inside the building. Screaming and the sound of furniture being upturned. “What are you doing?” she cried.

  The knife came closer. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  The lights in the brothel started to go out. Smoke, lots of it, began billowing from the spaces beneath the shutters. Madame Thornypurse’s knees buckled under her. Her business was under attack! The strong arm of the man stopped her from falling to the ground. Even in her distraught state, Madame Thornypurse could appreciate the man’s firm grip. She tried a little feminine wheedling. “Sir, if you could only tell me what exactly you want to know, I’ll be more than pleased to help you.” She finished her request with what she hoped was a beguiling smile.

  “Listen very carefully, woman. I need to know where Baralis is keeping the Lady Melliandra. I’ve had it on good information that your sister runs the palace, and if you don’t tell me everything you know in the next thirty seconds, then my boy inside the building is going to stop smoking your customers out and he’s going to start burning, instead. Is that clear?”

  As the man was speaking, the light from the building across the way caught his face. Madame Thornypurse recognized his features at once: it was Tawl, the duke’s champion. Strange, but his voice wasn’t at all as she remembered it. He sounded a lot more dangerous now.

  The second man was standing at the corner of the building, keeping an eye on the front. People were running past the alleyway, screaming about ghosts and smoke. So much for the blackhelms!

  Madame Thornypurse was, above all, a practical woman. She had no intention of having her throat cut in a heroic attempt to guard her sister’s secrets. If the man wanted information, then that was what he was going to get. “Come to think of it, I have heard a few things,” she said with a teasing pucker of her lips. Madame Thornypurse prided herself on being able to flirt with anyone—even potential murderers. “You know, one or two things here and there.”

  “What things?”

  “Well, Lord Baralis charged my sister with looking after the little bitch. First they held her in one of the northern turrets, then there was some sort of incident with fire, so they moved her to an annex not far from the nobles’ quarters. Too good for her sorts by far, I’d say.”

  Tawl relaxed and lowered his blade. He took several deep breaths. “Has she been moved since then?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen my sister for over two weeks now. Bit strange it is, as she usually pops in at least once a week with—” Madame Thornypurse caught herself. She wasn’t about to tell him about Mistress Greal’s penchant for smuggling dead noblemen’s valuables away from the palace and then selling them for a tidy profit. “—kitchen scraps for the hens.”

  “Has anything happened in the palace these past couple of weeks to stop her from coming to see you?”

  Madame Thornypurse patted the hair around the nape of her neck. “Can’t say. But last time I saw my sister she mentioned that the little bitch was near her time.”

  Beneath the rim of the felt hat, Tawl’s face visibly hardened. “Go on,” he said. “Get back to your business. One word to anyone about what happened here tonight, and I’ll personally return to burn the place down—and I won’t come knocking first. Now get out of my sight.”

  Madame Thornypurse never moved faster in her life. Her second-best shawl went flying to the mud and her skirts flew up around her knees. She ran past the second man and up the stairs to her door. A steady stream of smoke billowed out of the building, and after gritting her teeth and calculating the smoke-resisting capabilities of rat oil, Madame Thornypurse ran straight into the flow.

  As she raced toward the shutters in the main room, she came face-to-face with a small, masked demon. Black from head to foot, reaching only to her shoulder, the demon was carrying a bulky sack in one hand and a handful of smoking reeds in another. Catching sight of her, the demon raised the reeds in greeting. Madame Thornypurse took a deep startled breath, inhaled two lungfuls of smoke, and promptly keeled over onto the floor.

  “You should have seen ’em run, Borlin. The old fearless blackhelms took one look at me and scaddled for their lives. Thought I was the grim reaper.” Nabber bent his head to take a drink of his ale and a small landslide of soot skidded onto the floor. “’Course, bl
ocking off the chimney was the worst. That roof was as slippery as a tinker’s tongue—nearly fell to my death, I did. Worth it, though. That place filled up so fast that by the time I’d squeezed through the back window, I couldn’t see my hands in front of my face. Hardly needed the reeds.”

  “You weren’t supposed to show yourself,” said Tawl. He was leaning against an old upturned dyeing vat, and he did not look pleased. “I told you not to go into the main room.”

  “I had to get some loot, Tawl. It was only fair: last time I met the rat woman she robbed me of my contingency.” Nabber smiled, encouraging Tawl to forgive him.

  Tawl didn’t return the smile. Since he’d questioned Madame Thornypurse about Melli he hadn’t smiled once.

  They were sitting around a pressing slab in a derelict dyemaker’s shop. As planned, they had met up with the others earlier outside of the Brimming Bucket. Andris and his men had made it through the gate successfully, and they had spent their time scouting around the city for a safe place to hole up. They had managed to lay their hands on ale, fresh food, hay, and candles, and everyone had enjoyed their best meal in days. No one wanted to risk lighting a fire, so the place was bitterly cold, but the two candles on the granite slab gave a cozy feel to the room, and the brandy in their bellies warmed like a well-stoked hearth.

  The dyemaker’s shop was one in a row of disused, run-down businesses located in a pitch-black street in the southeast of the city. The roof leaked, and all the wooden surfaces were damp; there were no doors, no shutters, few floorboards, and a lot of drafts. The one room that had no windows to speak of was the storage bay. Half above-, half belowground, the large, low-ceilinged room was where Andris had made his camp.

  “I say we go in tonight,” said Tawl, bringing the conversation around to the one topic that was on everyone’s mind. “We know for sure Melli’s there now, so there’s nothing to stop us from moving ahead. The blackhelms aren’t expecting any trouble—as far as they’re concerned they thrashed the enemy eight weeks ago. They won’t be on their guard.”