The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  Holding his fist firm, he turned to look at the woman. She had the baby in her arms and was calming it with a stream of mother’s talk. Tawl thought the woman had rather a sharp and grating voice, but the baby responded to the sound, and his cries soon gave way to gurgles.

  “Bring it over here so I can look at it,” he said.

  The woman snatched the baby to her chest.

  Tawl suddenly felt very weary. It had been a long hard day and he just wanted it to end. “Lady, I have no wish to harm you or your baby, but I do need to take a look at the child.” As he spoke, he sheathed his sword—his right arm was too weak to wield it, and his left arm was not trained for heavy weapons. He pulled out his long-knife instead. “Now bring it here.”

  The woman’s eyes flicked to the long-knife. “Who are you?”

  Tawl was losing patience. He crossed the room. “Give me the baby.”

  “I’ll scream.”

  “I don’t think you will.”

  The woman gave him a sharp look and offered the baby forward.

  Tawl watched her carefully. He had seen how fast she was with a knife. He decided to take no chances. “Lay it on the bed. Strip its clothes off.”

  The woman did as she was told, leaving only the nappy and woolen bedsocks on the baby. “Stand over in the corner while I take a look at it,” said Tawl, pointing the blade of the long-knife at her chest. She hesitated. “Go!”

  Tawl moved to the opposite side of the bed so he could keep an eye on the woman. He reached out and touched the baby. It was still awake and it looked up at Tawl with unfocused blue eyes. Eyes the color and shape of Melli’s. “How old is”—Tawl couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl—“it?”

  “My daughter birthed it nine weeks ago now. She’s sick so I’m looking after it for her.”

  The woman was lying to the wrong person. Tawl knew all about babies; he had raised a newborn single-handedly after his mother died. The child before him wasn’t big enough to be nine weeks old. Gently, he rolled the baby onto its stomach, checking for any birthmarks. He had heard once, long ago, that babies born into the house of Bren had the mark of the hawk upon them. The baby’s back was spotless.

  “Take off its nappy and bedsocks.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Tawl saw the woman raise her knife. Suddenly, he’d had enough. The baby wasn’t hers or her daughter’s. It had eyes and hair the color of Melli’s and it was tiny enough for a newborn. He bent down and scooped the baby up in his injured arm. Pain clawed down his shoulder. He ignored it.

  “Don’t take him,” cried the woman. She hovered forward with her knife, but Tawl’s knife hand was free and he forced her back with warning circles.

  “Get me a blanket.”

  The woman grabbed the blanket off the bed. “Please don’t take him. Please.”

  “Lady, he’s not your baby. We both know that.” Tawl neither liked nor trusted the woman, but he could tell she cared about the baby. “Why don’t you tell me the truth? I’m not going to harm you.”

  “But you’ll take the baby?”

  “Yes. I’m taking it now whatever you say.” Tawl took the blanket from the woman. She made no attempt to stab him. He tried his best to tuck the blanket around the baby, but it was difficult with only one hand. To keep the baby calm, he rocked his chest back and forward.

  “You know about babies?” she said.

  “Yes. I raised one. Long ago now.” Tawl sensed the woman was relaxing and began to relax a little himself. “Help me pull the blanket around him. He’s getting cold.”

  He watched as the woman decided whether or not to put down her knife. “Who are you?”

  Tawl was about to ignore the question, as he had the first time, but for some reason, he decided to take a risk. He needed to find out the truth. Looking straight into her eyes, he said, “I’m Tawl, duke’s champion. Before an entire city I swore an oath to protect the duke and his heirs.”

  The woman’s gaze dropped to the baby. She tucked the blanket around his body, making sure his little arms were well covered. “You think this baby is his son?”

  “I believe so, but only you can tell me for sure.” Tawl’s voice was gentle. “I won’t condemn you for taking him. How could I? You saved his life. I owe you a debt that can never be repaid, and I will be forever grateful to you, but please, please, tell me the truth.”

  A few moments of silence followed. The woman stroked the baby’s head. Abruptly, she looked up. “If I tell you everything will you take me with you? The baby loves me, you see. I’m all he knows. I’m like a mother to him—he might be frightened without me.”

  Tawl dropped the long-knife on the bed. Reaching up, he placed his hand over the woman’s bony, misshapen wrist. “I promise I’ll take you with me. I know you love him—I can see that. Now please, tell me what happened.”

  In a gesture of trust, Tawl handed the baby back.

  The woman was shaking. Teardrops turned her eyelashes into spikes. “Come to Nanny Greal,” she cooed. “There’s a good boy.” Settling herself down on the edge of the bed, she uncovered the baby’s left foot and pulled off his sock. A pink mark, small as a thumbnail, rested in the chubby fold of flesh just above his ankle. The mark of the Hawk.

  “Baralis ordered me to take the baby away and kill it,” said the woman quietly. “I would have done it, too, if it hadn’t been for Corsella.”

  “Corsella? Thornypurse’s daughter?”

  The woman looked up. “Yes, she’s my niece. Did you know her?”

  “She took me in when I first arrived in Bren.”

  “Good girl. Heart of gold. Beautiful, too.”

  Tawl didn’t have quite the same opinion of the girl, but now wasn’t the time to dispute it. “What did Baralis do to her?”

  “He murdered her. Crope had her necklace in a box, said his master let him have it.”

  Tawl sat on the bed next to the woman. Together, they stroked the baby. “I’m sorry,” he said, feeling guilty at how roughly he’d treated Madame Thornypurse. “I didn’t know.”

  “Nothing for you to be sorry for. Baralis has done just as bad to you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was the one who plotted the duke’s murder. I was listening in when he got that man Traff to do it. Heard everything, I did.”

  Tawl’s head was reeling. “Where was this?”

  “At my sister’s place, of course. Traff was staying there and Baralis paid him a visit. Told him about the secret passageways and the like. Promised him Melliandra all for himself.”

  “And you heard all this?”

  The woman nodded. “Word for word.”

  “What else do you know about Baralis?”

  “Plenty. I keep a notebook of all the nobles he and Kylock have had killed. Kylock maims the bodies so they can’t be recognized, and then throws them into the lake. The official word is that they all go missing.”

  “Do you have that book with you now?”

  The woman patted her side. “Never without it. Some of the richest and most respected noblemen in Bren are listed in it.”

  Tawl was beginning to realize how valuable Nanny Greal could be. The things she knew about Baralis and Kylock could turn the city upside down. “I think we’d better get going,” he said. “I’ll watch the baby while you get your belongings together. Only take things you can carry on your back. You’ll need both hands free for the baby.”

  As she rummaged around in her wardrobe, Tawl took the baby in his arms. Melli’s baby. It was perfect: a tiny, tough-looking thing with eyes as large as pancakes. Tawl hugged it to him, enjoying the feel of its warm little body pressed against his. “What were you going to do with him?” he asked the woman.

  “Take him far away. Make sure no one ever knew who he was.” She smiled at Tawl—an unpleasant sight, for she had lost both her front teeth. “You’re good with him, I see.”

  “He’s beautiful.” Tawl looked up at the woman. “You did the right thing, you know. Baral
is would have found out sooner or later. He would have tracked you down and killed you both.”

  “Aye. You’re probably right.” The woman fastened her cloak and came over for the baby. “So where will you take us?”

  “Outside of the city, until it’s safe to come back.” Tawl handed over the baby. His sword arm had stopped bleeding, but a sharp spasm coursed down his shoulder as he held the baby out.

  “I can’t see that it will ever be safe to come back.”

  “Oh, it will,” said Tawl. “It will.”

  Mistress Greal, or Nanny Greal as she now preferred to call herself, showed Tawl a back way down to the servants’ chapel. The palace guards were out in full force now, but they were concentrating their efforts in the nobles’ quarters, and apart from one lone guard Tawl dispatched with his long-knife, and a young scullery maid who looked so terrified at the sight of Nanny Greal that Tawl simply let her go, they met no one along the way.

  Nanny Greal hugged little Herbert tight as she followed Tawl down through the palace. She liked the golden-haired knight a lot: he was handsome, honorable, gentle, and most of all she believed him when he said he’d protect little Herbert with his life. She hadn’t meant to go with him, not at all, but seeing him handle the baby—big hands gently cupping Herbert’s soft, vulnerable head—she knew she could trust him. He had a good heart, and that was something Nanny Greal hadn’t seen in anyone in a long time.

  He was right about Baralis, too. The man would find out that the baby was alive—there was nothing he couldn’t do. And nothing he wouldn’t stop at to get what he wanted.

  Yes, she thought, it’s for the best. Keeping little Herbert safe is all that matters now.

  They entered the servants’ chapel, and Tawl set about pulling the center panel off the wall. It had been nailed down, and Tawl had to use the blade of his sword to pry it open.

  Soon they were in a pitch-black passageway, wading through ankle-deep water, then knee-deep water, then water that came up to Nanny Greal’s chest. Tawl took the baby then, holding it high atop his shoulder, pausing whenever they came to a tricky bit to lend Nanny Greal a hand. The farther they went, the colder it got, but the warmer it felt in Nanny Greal’s heart. Little Herbert was in safe hands, kind hands, hands that would never harm him. Nanny Greal smiled a satisfied toothless smile. For the first time in her fifty-year lifespan, she didn’t care a jot about herself.

  “Here, my lady, drink this; it well help you relax.” Melli took the bowl of holk from Borlin, even sipped it, but she knew she wouldn’t relax. How could she rest until she knew Tawl was safe?

  Pulling the blanket close around her body, Melli closed her eyes for a few minutes. She couldn’t believe that she was free. Baralis’ threats had no power to harm her, Mistress Greal could no longer terrorize her, and Kylock could never use her to wash away his sins. Safe at last. Luck had waited until the last minute—as luck always does—and whisked her away from the palace in the company of six gallant knights.

  Why then didn’t she feel happy? Why did she just feel hollow and ready to cry?

  The time after Tawl had left her had passed in a series of flashes: freezing water, tense faces, strung arrows, and galloping horses. The escape had gone smoothly. They emerged into a dark alleyway and were met by a man who was holding horses ready. He introduced himself as Borlin, whisked her onto the back of his horse, and together they rode across the city in the rain. They met up with the others later at the hideout.

  Nabber was there. He greeted her with a great big smile and then looked over her shoulder for Tawl. The smile slid off his face when Borlin said, “Tawl went off on his own for a bit, lad. He’ll be back later—wait and see.”

  And that’s what everyone did: wait. They sat around, one candle lighting the space between them, and listened for the sound of Tawl’s approach.

  The knights’ kindness brought a lump to Melli’s throat. In hushed voices they asked her how she felt, gently touching her brow, rubbing salve into the burns, tracing concerned fingers along the line of her arm. Borlin wanted to reset the bone then and there, but Melli was reluctant to take a painkilling drug in case it dulled her wits or sent her to sleep, so she put the operation off until morning. She wanted to be alert when Tawl returned.

  Neither Nabber nor the knights asked her about what had happened in the palace. Melli was grateful for that. She didn’t want to think about her last sight of Jack. He had saved both her and Tawl—that much was clear—but how he had done it she didn’t really know. Everything had happened so fast. There was a bolt of blinding light, a wave of scorching air, and then . . .

  Melli brought her hand to her face. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks. Jack was dead. He had died saving her. She remembered the moment they first met, when she was attacked on Harvell’s east road—he came to her rescue then. There were so many times after that as well: the dungeons, the forest, Cravin’s townhouse in Bren. He was always saving her. Now he couldn’t save her anymore.

  “There, my lady.” Borlin was beside her, stroking her hair, his gruff voice as soft as he could make it. “Don’t take on. Tawl will be back soon.”

  But Jack won’t, Melli wanted to say. And neither will your two brethren. Baralis has taken them all. Instead she said nothing, and let herself be comforted by Borlin until the tears went away.

  A sharp noise awakened her. Surprised that she had fallen asleep, even more surprised that she had been sleeping against Borlin’s chest, Melli sprang to her feet. Two of the knights had gone to investigate the noise; the others were looking in the direction of the stairs. Nabber was standing by the bottom step, swaying impatiently from side to side. Melli came and stood by him, bringing her good arm up around his shoulders.

  The two knights came back first. Melli let out a sigh of disappointment, then, just as she sucked in another breath, Tawl appeared at the top of the stairs, covered in blood, soaked to the bone, a makeshift bandage around his upper arm. She rushed forward, pushing past the knights to get to him. But then, suddenly, she stopped in her tracks.

  Mistress Greal was walking in Tawl’s shadow. In her arms she was carrying some sort of bundle.

  Melli’s stomach quickly turned. She looked at Tawl; he was smiling. She looked at the two knights; they were smiling. Didn’t they know who this woman was? Didn’t they know it was a trap?

  Tawl whispered something to Mistress Greal, and the woman stepped forward. Melli readied herself to attack her. These men here might not know who the woman was, but she did, and with bare hands she was going to kill her. Mistress Greal held out her bundle—she obviously meant to throw it. Melli was poised for the block.

  Mistress Greal looked confused. “Don’t you want to take him?” she said.

  Melli glanced at Tawl. He made an encouraging gesture with his hands. Melli felt like she was going mad. The woman had bewitched him.

  And then a sound came from the bundle. A tiny gurgling noise.

  Melli’s heart stopped beating. The hairs on her arms prickled. Her entire body swayed forward. She didn’t dare hope, didn’t dare think.

  Everyone was looking at her now. “Take him, Melli,” murmured Tawl.

  The room began to blank out. Sides and edges faded into shadow and all that remained was the bundle in Mistress Greal’s arms. Melli took a step toward it. The blanket moved. The corner of the fabric fell away and a fierce little fist came into view. A quick breath escaped from Melli’s lips. Her heart pumped wildly in her chest. She leapt toward the bundle, arms outstretched, hands cupped ready, tears streaming down her face. Mistress Greal handed the warm and shifting bundle to her. Slowly, carefully, Melli took it into her arms. It was lighter than she had expected—so light it made her heart ache. She hugged it against her chest and peered down into the calm blue eyes of her baby. Her baby.

  The clawing hollow in Melli’s stomach snapped closed. She felt complete.

  Looking up through a blur of tears, she searched out Tawl’s face. This was what he had gone back for: he
had gone back to find her baby. “Thank you,” she whispered softly, hugging her baby tight. “With all my heart and soul, I thank you.”

  Thirty-four

  Stop calling him Herbert. He isn’t Herbert.”

  “What is he, then?” Nanny Greal cooed down at the baby. Much to Melli’s annoyance, he stopped crying immediately and gurgled up at Nanny Greal.

  “He’s . . . ” To Melli’s further annoyance, she couldn’t think of a suitable name. Garon, after his father? No, it sounded too challenging; she wanted her son to have a gentle name. She edged past Nanny Greal and looked into the baby’s face. The truth was—though she hated to admit it—Herbert suited him nicely. Which annoyed her even more. “I’ll name him in my own good time and that’s the end of that.”

  Melli pushed Nanny Greal out of the way, snatched the baby up, and crossed over to the other side of the inn.

  “Melli. Don’t be so hard on her.” It was Tawl. Where had he come from? “She saved your baby’s life. She hid him from Baralis, kept him safe, and looked after him as if he were her own. You owe her thanks, not resentment.”

  “Who turned you into a saint, Tawl?” Melli regretted the words as soon as they left her lips, but she’d said them and she wasn’t about to take them back. To her surprise, Tawl actually smiled.

  “They’ll turn me into a saint the day you learn to think before you speak.” Reaching up, he brushed a lock of hair from her face. “Seriously, if you can’t be kind to Nanny Greal, at least don’t be mean. It took her a lot to admit who the baby was and then give him up to me.”

  Nanny Greal! Melli tried, but couldn’t quite stop the snort of indignation from puffing down her nostrils. “Well, she’s certainly taken a shine to you, that much is clear. Ever since last night it’s been Tawl this, Tawl that. If that woman has one soft spot in that hard bony head of hers, then you’ve surely found it.”