The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  Tawl was laughing at her. He wrapped his arms around her and the baby and hugged them both very hard. “I’m so glad you haven’t changed,” he said.

  They had left the city at midmorning. Melli had managed only a few hours sleep, her body curled around the baby, her head resting against Tawl’s chest. When she awoke she found that Tawl was no longer beside her; he was on the opposite side of the room talking with the knights. His voice was hushed, but one look at his face was enough for Melli to guess what Tawl was saying: he was telling the men what had happened last night. The knights’ faces were grave, their eyes downcast, the tendons on their hands and necks sharply strained. Occasionally their lips would move, and although Melli could hear nothing, she knew they spoke Baralis’ name.

  After that events moved swiftly. Borlin came to her and put a new and much larger splint on her arm. He said there was no time to reset the bone before they left. A mighty scramble to get ready followed: horses were saddled, disguises were donned, breakfast eaten quickly, plans decided, supplies acquired, scouts sent out, and proposed escape routes checked for guards.

  While all this was going on, Melli tried to deal with the baby. She felt like a fool; she knew nothing about caring for a newborn. Her own milk had dried up four days ago, and she didn’t know what to feed him. The baby cried angrily at her attempts to calm him, dribbled viciously when offered a finger to suck on, and had a fist-throwing, feet-kicking fit when presented with a spoonful of sheep’s milk. The newly styled Nanny Greal offered to help. Melli slapped her away. From a safe distance Nanny Greal suggested giving the baby a rag soaked with watered-down milk to suck on. Melli suggested that Nanny Greal should shut up. Five minutes later, when the baby had worked itself up into a tiny bundle of hungry and indignant rage, Melli was forced to concede.

  Nanny Greal dealt firmly, yet gently, with the baby, calming, feeding, then rocking him off to sleep. Melli was so upset over Greal’s success, she wanted to throw her out on the street then and there. It wasn’t Nanny Greal’s baby, it was hers.

  Tawl stepped in and practically ordered her to calm down. Melli could see he was worried about the escape from the city, so she let the matter pass.

  Minutes later they were on their way. Tawl made everyone split into small groups: some went through the east gate disguised as merchants, some went through the south gate as mercenaries or farmers, and Melli, Tawl, and the baby went under the wall. It was like fleeing from the palace all over again: freezing water, foul smells and utter darkness. Melli relished every step. She was free. Free from Baralis and Kylock and her small, confining chamber. It was a joy to walk hand in hand with Tawl, the baby snuggling against her back in a blanket-lined sling designed by Nabber.

  For a while, Melli managed to forget everything that had gone before, but when Tawl asked her how she was coping in the dark, she began her reply: “Oh, this is nothing compared to the tunnels Jack and I . . . ”

  Melli couldn’t finish the sentence. There was no more Jack and I. Jack was gone, killed by Baralis as they tried to escape. Closing her eyes very tightly, Melli willed herself not to cry. Tawl reached out and felt for her hand, and although she knew he was trying to comfort her, his thoughtfulness only made her feel worse. She and Tawl were safe, her baby was safe—it didn’t seem fair that they had emerged from the palace unscathed while Jack’s body was left behind.

  Suddenly the baby began to cry, and despite Tawl’s warnings that she would need both hands free to climb up to the surface, Melli took the baby from the sling and hugged him close to her chest. She needed to feel his warmth against her heart.

  Andris was waiting for them on the other side of the wall. He had a spare horse with him, and he handed Tawl the reins before riding off. Melli rode on the horse whilst Tawl led it forward like the good husband he was pretending to be.

  The journey to Fair Oaks took three hours. Occasionally, when they were walking on high ground, Melli would catch glimpses of Borlin. The stout archer was taking a parallel route to theirs and was ready to provide cover with his bow if trouble came. Nothing happened. The only people they passed were road-weary travelers, bone-thin farmers, and mercenaries looking for a fight. No one paid any attention to the fieldhand dressed in rags and his wild-looking wife.

  Eventually they came to a small village that boasted one inn, a smithy, and a dressmaker. Fair Oaks. They were greeted by two knights whom Melli had never seen before. The men wanted to take them straight to the inn. Tawl refused at first, but after some discussion that Melli wasn’t party to, he reluctantly agreed.

  Never in her life would Melli forget the welcome she got at the inn. The innkeeper, his wife, his three pretty daughters, the cook, the stableboy, and an old man who could have been anyone’s grandfather, all bowed as she walked in the door. Melli was confused. What had they been told?

  “Drink! Food for the lady. Quick, quick.” The innkeeper clapped pudgy hands together and the prettiest daughter went running off. Pulling a chair close to the fire, he dusted it down with his sleeve. “Please sit, my lady.” He wasn’t looking directly at her. No one was. They were all looking at what she held in her arms.

  The baby started to cry. Everyone in the room leant forward. Tawl touched her sleeve. “Andris got here before us,” he murmured. “He thought it best to tell them who the baby is.”

  Melli didn’t know what to do. Everyone was waiting for her to move.

  The youngest of the innkeeper’s daughters stepped forward. “Can I have a look at the baby, my lady?”

  Melli glanced at Tawl. He nodded almost imperceptibly, and Melli held out the baby for the young girl to see. Soon everyone was around her. Awestruck at first, they spoke only in whispers, keeping a polite distance between themselves and the child, then as they grew more confident the atmosphere changed. They stroked the baby’s hair, giggled over his tiny fists, gave advice on how to feed him, and shared newborn stories of their own. They were all united in their desire to do something for the baby: the cook went off to warm some milk, the innkeeper’s wife brought down her softest lambswool blanket, the stableboy went away to look for something suitable for the baby to lie in, the old man hummed a lullaby for sleeping, and the innkeeper’s daughters, all three of them, ran upstairs to make sure the room the baby would rest in was as warm and dry as it could possibly be.

  Melli felt tears coming to her eyes. She had gone on for so long without kindness, that now, to find it here amongst strangers seemed a gift of the most precious kind. She knew these people were taking a great risk welcoming the duke’s son—Kylock would tolerate no one who aided the sole challenger to his title—and she paid back their bravery with trust: handing the baby over to the innkeeper’s wife while she slept a few hours by the fire.

  By the time she awoke all the knights, Nabber, and Nanny Greal had arrived. Judging from the number of lit candles, it was an hour or two after dusk. The baby was crying heartily for his dinner and all the women were fussing around, trying to calm him down. Once again, Nanny Greal was the only person who could comfort him: one squawk of her shrill voice and the baby was as quiet as a lamb.

  Little Herbert was quiet now, resting against Melli’s chest as Tawl caught them both in a hug. Melli felt safe and happy. Her baby was alive and well, and as long as Tawl was beside him, he’d never come to harm.

  “Tawl!” cried someone from outside. “They’re here! Maybor’s men are here.”

  All thoughts dropped from Melli’s mind at the sound of her father’s name. She looked up at Tawl. “Is my father coming?” She had visions of Maybor meeting his grandson. He was sure to insist that the baby resembled him!

  Tawl’s face darkened. “Melli, I—”

  Melli shook her head. “No,” she said softly. “No.” The look in Tawl’s eyes scared her. Some deep protective instinct warned her she didn’t want to hear anymore. She tried to pull away, but Tawl held her firm.

  “Maybor died two weeks ago. He’d spent a month up in the mountains hiding away from Kylock
, and he caught pneumonia.” Tawl’s voice was gentle. His fingers traced the line of her cheek. “By the time he came down it was too late.”

  Melli’s legs buckled beneath her. The only thing that kept her from falling was Tawl. Her father dead—she just couldn’t imagine it. He had always been so hearty, so full of life. . . .

  Someone came forward and took the baby—Melli didn’t know who. Tawl picked her up and carried her over to the fire. A cup of wine was pressed to her lips and reluctantly she drank. It tasted like blood. “How do you know what happened to him?” she said to Tawl.

  “Jack and I saw him the night he died. He said he loved you very much.” Tawl was kneeling beside her now. His eyes were filled with love and understanding. “I should have told you sooner, only everything happened so fast, and I wanted to wait for the right moment.”

  Two weeks. He’d been dead two weeks and she hadn’t even known it. She felt like a traitor. Her mind was acting strangely, switching from thought to thought without the normal links in between. “Who are the men?” she asked. “The ones who are coming?”

  “They’re the Highwall troops he led off the battlefield into the mountains. He saved their lives.”

  “Why are they coming here?”

  “They’re going to help us take over Tyren’s camp.” Tawl took her hand. “Maybor brought them down from the mountain to give them a chance to fight.”

  Melli nodded; her mind had already moved on. “Did he suffer much?”

  “If he did he never showed it. When I saw him he was clear-headed and alert, almost his old self.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “The same as ever. His hair was well brushed, he was clean-shaven. Even wearing fragrance.”

  Melli smiled. She could see him now, lying in his bed, surrounded by pots of hair oil and scented creams, calling for his mirror whilst supervising his shave. In the back of her mind she knew that Tawl was leaving things out—no one dies of lung fever without pain—she also knew that if she asked him, he would tell her everything. But the same instinct that had warned her earlier to stop Tawl speaking warned her now to accept the image she had. Better to accept the half-truths than root out cold facts that could haunt her for life. She knew the thought of her father suffering would be too much for her to bear.

  “I think you should go upstairs and lie down,” said Tawl. “I’ll ask the innkeeper’s wife to send up the baby and you and he can rest for a while.”

  Melli stood up. Strange, but she didn’t feel like crying: not now, not yet. Crying marked the end of things, and there was still a long way to go. “No,” she said gently. “I won’t rest just yet. I want to meet my father’s men and show them the baby.”

  And that was what she did. One by one, she met them, talked to them, kissed their weary cheeks, shared jokes about her father’s stubbornness, and showed them all his grandson. She made sure they were well fed and rested, ordered hot water for them to wash with and strong brandy to help them sleep. She set the cook cooking, the innkeeper’s daughters mending, Tawl and Borlin physicianing, and Nanny Greal doing all the unpleasant things like scraping the mud off their shoes.

  Melli didn’t stop until she was too tired to think. Close to midnight, Tawl took her hand and told her to sleep. She was about to protest—Grift had turned up with the men and she hadn’t had a chance to speak to him yet—but something in his face stopped her. Glancing over at the far side of the room, she saw that Andris and Borlin were talking to a handful of the Highwall troops.

  “I’ll sleep if you tell me what’s going on,” she said.

  “We’re planning to raid Tyren’s camp before dawn.”

  Melli was shocked. “So soon? The men have only just arrived.”

  “I know. I would have preferred to give them a full night’s sleep, but we’ve got no choice. Now that Kylock and Tyren know we’re here we have to move fast. We’ve already given them a day to prepare themselves.” Tawl came and sat beside her. Melli noticed how tired he looked. “If we’re going to put your son in his rightful place, we need to win the support of the knights. We need their manpower, their resources—without them we haven’t got a chance. We can’t enter the city with less than a hundred men; it would be suicide.”

  “You don’t have to enter the city.” Melli didn’t want Tawl leaving her so soon. “We could just run away. Head south—”

  “No.” Tawl’s voice was harsh. “I won’t do that. Too many people have died, too many lives have been destroyed. I can’t just run away.”

  “What if you get killed? You’re in no state to fight—your sword arm’s wounded. It’s been dragging at your side all day.”

  Tawl seemed surprised that she’d noticed. He made a circular movement with his shoulder. “It will be all right.”

  “What about me and the baby, though?” As always, when Melli was worried she became angry. “Will we be all right if you don’t come back? Or do you think you’ve fulfilled your obligation now that you’ve saved us once?”

  Seeing Tawl flinch at her words, Melli went to apologize, but Tawl spoke first. “Borlin and a few chosen men are supposed to stay here with you, and if things don’t go well at the camp, you’ll be taken straight to Ness, and then moved south from there.” Tawl leant forward. “But I’ll change that if you’re worried. I’ll stay here at the inn. My first obligation will always be to you and the baby. You must believe that.”

  Melli suddenly felt out of her depth. There was something in Tawl’s voice she couldn’t understand, something almost desperate. She knew she had to let him go, but she didn’t understand why. Taking a deep breath, she said, “The baby and I will be fine. Borlin’s a good man. I’ll feel safe with him watching over us while you’re gone.”

  Tawl gave her a softly knowing smile. “You are the most remarkable woman I have ever known.”

  Melli returned the smile with a similar one of her own. “When you get back, I expect you to tell me the real reason why you had to go.”

  “When I get back I’ll tell you everything.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek and led her up to bed, and when she woke in the morning he was gone.

  Tawl counted the tents and the campfires. It was the last hour of darkness before dawn and the world was arranging itself into forms. Ten regular tents, one surgeon’s tent, the command tent, and Tyren’s tent could be seen amidst the glow of the fires.

  “My guess is there’s three hundred men in all,” hissed Andris.

  Tawl nodded. He and Andris were southeast of the camp, hiding in the cover of a small copse of trees. The city of Bren was a dark mass on the horizon and the mountains of the Divide were just so many shadows emerging from the night. Snow was falling: lazy, weightless flakes that were borne sideways by the wind. It was very cold.

  Tawl glanced at the sky to the east. “How long do you think it will be before the men are in place?”

  “Forty minutes,” said Andris. “Mafrey and Corvis will signal when they’re ready.”

  “Let’s hope they’re both ready at the same time, then. As soon as one of them lights up a torch, the knights will know something’s wrong.” Tawl was tense. He wished he’d had longer to plan the raid. He didn’t know enough about the camp and the number and makeup of the knights. He felt he was leading Maybor’s men in blindly.

  “Follis and the two Highwall archers will be in position soon. They should be able to take out the watch the minute the signal is given.”

  “Will three archers be enough, though? How many knights are normally set to watch a camp this size?” Tawl had never campaigned with the knighthood, and he knew little about their camps.

  “It’s hard to say. Maybe twenty. Sometimes they use squires or first-year initiates, sometimes knights. It depends on what the dangers are.” Andris’ voice betrayed tension of his own. Since Crayne’s death, he was in charge of the party, and his first mission as leader was not only reckless, it was treason. He was leading his men against Tyren.

  An owl hoot startled
them both. Tawl looked at Andris. “Come on, let’s get back to the others. The signal’s less than half an hour away now and I want a good head start.”

  They had less than ninety men in all. Mafrey and Corvis had thirty apiece and had ridden over to the west side of the camp: Corvis to the northwest, Mafrey to the southwest. Once in position they were to spread out and encircle the north, west, and south of the camp. Andris’ men were due to head in from the east on their signal. Tawl was going to take a handful of men—Gervhay and four Highwall swordsmen—into the camp first, and attempt to take Tyren’s tent.

  Twenty men waited in the dark behind the grove. Tawl didn’t know most of their names. They were lean from seven days of hard riding and tough from living on the mountains. By all rights they should have been tired—most had only had two or three hours rest—but one look into their dark, weather-beaten faces was enough to see that sleep was the last thing on their minds. They wanted revenge.

  The journey to the southern plains of Bren took under three hours, and for the last of those hours the Highwall troops had ridden past the decomposing corpses of their countrymen. Kylock hadn’t even bothered to bury the bodies. Five thousand men left for the weather and the carrion-pickers to take their toll. It sickened Tawl, but it had an entirely different effect on Maybor’s men: it enraged them. Their friends, their brothers, their comrades, and their leaders had been denied the right to an honorable end.

  Approaching them now, Tawl knew in his heart they would fight to the death. Their eyes were bright with fury.

  “Gervhay,” hissed Tawl, dismounting his horse. “Are you ready?”

  Gervhay nodded enthusiastically. “Aye, Tawl. We’re all set to go.”

  Tawl smiled at him. The young knight hadn’t been branded with the second circle long: the skin was still raised around the mark. “I hope you’ve strung your bow tight for the cold.”