by J. V. Jones
"The good captain does insist that you don't keep him waiting too long, though. Apparently, the seas around there are real rough. He says he can't wait for you longer than a full day. That'd better be enough time, friend, 'cos the good captain will be pulling up anchor and sailing off into the sunset before you know it. And from what I've heard of Larn, it ain't a place a man would care to be stuck on."
"When does the boat set sail?" Tawl was hoping he would have time to say good-bye to Megan.
"First light tomorrow. You'll have to be up with the lark. I wrote a song about a lark once-one of these days I'll get Clem to sing it for you, he's got a fine voice has Clem. Where was I?"
"The ship."
"Aye, the ship. The Fishy Few sets sail from the north harbor. It's a two-master, you'll find it all right. Captain's name is Quain. Captain Quain, he'll be expecting you."
"Send my thanks to the Old Man, Moth."
"It's as good as done, friend."
"I thank you, too, Moth." Tawl thought for a moment and then added, "And send my regards to Clem."
"Clem will be most gratified. And as for me, it was my pleasure. I got a nice walk down to the harbor out of it."
"Oh, one more thing, Moth. The Old Man mentioned helping my friend Megan."
"The Old Man does what he says. I'm glad you reminded me." Moth rooted into the depths of his cloak and handed Tawl a heavy purse. "The Old Man wouldn't have been pleased if I'd forgotten to give you that. He'd have me strung up ... and Clem, too. We're a pair: I mess up, he pays for it. Clem wouldn't have it any other way, though."
"Oh, one more thing. The Old Man says you should take some gold for yourself. He hates to see a knight without a decent sword. No offense intended, but that knife you got ain't up to much. Course, I saw you put that thief away-real fast you were, but you could have done better with the right equipment. Pity you ain't here much longer. I could have got you something real nice in the way of weaponry. Never mind, there's always another time. I must be off, Clem's expecting me to help him with a little business. I bid you well, friend." With that Moth was off, letting himself out.
When he had gone, Tawl couldn't help but wonder what business Moth and Clem had to do. He decided he was best not knowing. He emptied the purse and found twenty gold pieces. Tawl replaced all save one of them.
A little while later, Megan let herself in. She had, as always, brought him some tasty morsels to eat and drink. She was about to lay a meal out when he stopped her, beckoning her to sit with him for a while. "Megan, I must leave you tomorrow."
Her pretty face grew grave. "I had not expected you to go so soon." Megan pulled away from him, stood up and, bowing her head, began to slice oranges.
Hair fell over her face, such a glorious mix of chestnut and gold. She was so young-Anna, the youngest of his sisters, would have been about the same age. There was something in the plane of her cheeks and the gold in her hair that reminded Tawl of his sisters. Such gentle girls, like Megan. Yet unlike her, they were so dependent upon him. His mind traveled back to the little cottage on the marshes. He was all they had, and he'd let them down so badly.
The midwife nodded her approval. Tawl remembered the blood on her apron: his mother's blood. "You made a wise decision," she said. "I'll open her now, while the cord still holds." As she turned to enter the cottage, he put a hand upon her arm.
"Let me see her first."
The midwife huffed her disapproval, but let him go ahead. His sisters greeted him, taking the fishes from his pack. Anna had just learned her numbers and slowly counted the fish on her chubby fingers. Sara, the eldest, had no patience with her and counted them loudly with a superior air. "There's one extra," she said, superiority giving way to excitement. "Is it for the baby?"
Tawl nodded and turned away. Tears prickled in his eyes and he swept them away before they could fall. He could hear his sisters behind him, busily picking out the biggest fish for the baby.
"Can he have this one?" cried Anna, a large fish in her lap.
"Yes," said Tawl, kneeling down and putting his arms around her shoulders. "The baby must have the biggest one of all." He kissed her cheek and put his arm out for Sara. She came to him as she always did, resting her head upon his shoulder. Tawl hugged her close and stroked Anna's golden hair. Such baby-fine texture, but then, what was she but a baby? Barely five years old. Too soon they would know the truth. He crushed his sisters to his chest, using his strength to express what he could never say with words.
The moment passed, leaving him calmer. Standing up, he left his sisters sitting on the floor amidst the fish, and opened the door to his mother's room. He would be the one to tell her, the news would come from her son, not the mouth of a stranger.
The smell was sickly. Flies buzzed around the bed and finding no hindrance landed on the drying blood. "Tawl, is that you?" His mother's voice was gentle. He could tell she was afraid.
"Yes, Mama, it's me." He came and sat on the stool by her bedside, keeping his eyes low, so as not to look at the swell of her belly.
"How many fishes today?" It was strange how in this time of distress his mother chose to speak of everyday events. He played along, too young to see where she led.
"Nine, but they were slow to bite."
She sighed in sympathy. "Never mind, you may need fewer tomorrow."
So she knew. For an instant a weight was taken from his shoulders, but then, just as quickly, it returned, heavier than ever. "Mama, I'm sorry."
"Ssh, Tawl." She clasped his hand in hers. "Don't worry about me, it's your sisters who need you now. You must be strong for them." His mother's eyes held such strength of purpose, it was impossible to believe she was so weak. "You must promise me you'll look after them."
The pressure of her hand upon his was almost unbearable. "And the baby," he said, half statement, half question. "And the baby, if it lives."
Megan took his hand. "Tawl, are you all right?" His legs buckled under him and he sat down on the floor. The mixture of present and past disoriented him-the images took longer than normal to leave. The baby had survived, and the midwife had known of a wet nurse. The pay was two fishes-his mother's portion. She'd been wrong, then, his mother: the catch had remained the same.
Megan handed him a cup filled with steaming liquid. Its sharp tang of oranges brought him to the present more forcefully than any words. Oranges were unheard of in the marshes.
"Forgive me, Megan," he said. "I am still a little weak."
"Are you sure you should be on your way, then? Stay a little longer. Not for my sake, but for your own."
He had to go. The quest was all there was, and he couldn't allow anything else to matter. He was destined to always leave like this: a soft good-bye with no chance of returning. "No, Megan. I must be on my way." He searched for the familiar words of parting, but they wouldn't come. By giving so much, Megan had taken something from him-he could not leave her with glib phrases. She deserved more than that. He took her face in his hands. "I'm afraid that if I stay any longer, I might never go. You would be better off with someone else. There is much about me you don't know."
"I know you're in pain." Megan's voice was tender. "Tawl, I can tell you're not happy. You make the mistake of thinking that once you finish your quest and find who you seek, everything will be all right. But you're wrong-it's love, not achievement, that will rid you of your demons." Was he that transparent? Or was she just perceptive? He kissed her gently-it was his only reply.
Later, when passion had gone, leaving tenderness in its wake, Tawl handed Megan the heavy purse. "Take this, it will help you live a life of your own choosing."
Megan took the purse and opened it up. Seeing the many gold pieces, she handed it back to him. "I want no payment from you, Tawl, save your promise to keep yourself safe." Tawl gently pushed the purse back to her.
"This is no payment, this is a gift. I beg you to take it." Megan picked up the purse. "Will I see you again?"
"I am a knight of Valdis, Megan
, sworn to make no promise that can't be kept." Tawl found strength in the formality of his words. He knew he sounded cold, but he was a knight first and foremost, and it was time to do his duty. Megan drew away from him, just as he expected. It took all his willpower to stop himself from pulling her back.
Baralis slipped into the concealed passageway and headed for Maybor's chamber. On his way, he noted what he thought to be an entirely new moss clinging to the wet, stone walls. He made a mental note to come back another day with a specimen dish. Mosses were always a thing of great interest. A new one could mean interesting innovations in his poisoning skills.
He decided he would take a less direct route to Maybor's chamber than usual. He felt the need for great caution, but could not exactly say why. Finally, having taken a twisted path, he found himself outside the lord's bedchamber. He checked that the room was empty and then slipped quietly through.
Baralis knew little of such things, but even he could tell that Maybor's rooms were furnished with more money than taste. Hideous scarlet tapestries lined the walls, silver and crimson rugs covered the floor, even the bed was covered in lurid red silk. He had little time to amuse himself with Maybor's bad taste, however, and stole toward the small dressing room, which was just off the bedchamber.
Baralis allowed himself a thin smile as he took in the contents of Maybor's wardrobe. The man had more robes than most court ladies-in colors to outdazzle any peacock.
He quickly decided that Maybor would wear one of two redcolored robes that evening. The queen was to be in attendance at the Winter's Eve dance and Maybor would surely use this chance to display himself in his richest. The two robes that Baralis picked out were by far the most ostentatious: gold embroidery, ruffles, and pearls. Baralis shuddered. He himself would wear a discreet black. He never liked to draw unnecessary attention upon himself.
With haste, he sprinkled the poison on the shoulders and neck of the robes. He then beat a quick retreat. He knew just how deadly the poison was and he had no intention of being in a small room with the lethal fumes for an instant longer than necessary.
Pleased that the task was done to his satisfaction, he slipped out of the chamber and returned to his own rooms by the same indirect route he had used coming.
The assassin was not unduly worried that he'd lost Lord Baralis when he slipped into the passageways. Baralis was ' probably spying on someone, or up to some other ill deed. That no longer concerned him. What did concern Scarl were his plans for this night.
Tonight he would make his move, carry out his commission. The assassin had thought long and hard over how best to do his job and had finally decided on carrying it out on the night of the Winter's Eve dance. The great banquet hall would be crowded with people, all drinking and eating. Baralis would not dare to bring his servant Crope to such a grand event.
The assassin had found, on his many explorations of the labyrinth, a passage that led to a small antechamber just off the banquet hall. It would be easy for him to slip into the hall, unnoticed amid all the drunken revelry and watch his mark.
The assassin knew Baralis' ways well: he was not a man who liked to keep in the forefront; eventually he would retire to a remote comer to better observe the foibles of his fellows. Then, as Baralis watched with studied boredom, the assassin would make his move. The great lord would barely feel the touch of the knife before he fell dead to the floor. Scarl would return to the passage before anyone noticed what had happened.
The assassin was beginning to feel the familiar knot of excitement in his stomach which always accompanied the time leading up to his task. He was eager that it be done, and anxious that it be done right. He did not doubt his own skills-he was the best with a knife in the Known Landsbut he did worry in case anything should go wrong. Still, he had never failed before and he had a fine plan.
It really was a most beautiful plan. To carry out a murder in a room full of people would actually be a lot easier than it seemed. He would wait until such a time when the crowd's reactions were dulled by drink; no one would notice a shadowy figure move about the room. In addition to the plan's other merits, Lord Maybor would be in full sight of the room, and so no guilt would fall upon him.
Scarl considered Lord Maybor-he did not trust him. It was true that Maybor had paid willingly in the past for his services, but the assassin had seen something in the lord's face when they had met last that boded no good. The assassin would be wary. He had taken a risk by not requesting his payment in gold-for if he had been paid in the traditional manner he would by now have half his fee in his keeping. As it was, he had nothing more than a promise from Lord Maybor to deed him some land after the job was done. He sincerely hoped that Maybor would not try and renege on his word ... that would be most unfortunate-most unfortunate, indeed.
These matters the assassin put to the back of his mind; he would deal with such difficulties when and if they arose. For today and tonight he would need his complete concentration for the task in hand. Almost as a reflex, Scarl took his knife from his belt. He ran his finger lightly over the blade; the subtle motion drew blood. The assassin was well pleased at the sight: his blade had never been keener.
Jack was heading east through the forest. He was making a good pace; sometimes he even broke into a short run, his sack banging against his side. He had never felt more free in his life. It was a joy to him to be in the woods running at his own speed. All his life he had been at the beck and call of others: Master Frallit, the head cellarer, Lord Baralis. Now, for the first time he was experiencing what it was like to do things when he wanted, to eat when he was hungry and to sleep when he was tired.
He was light-headed with freedom. He owed so much to Falk. Thanks to him, he didn't feel that what he'd done to the loaves was evil. Now, with time and the goodness of nature to give perspective, Jack realized Falk was right: he hadn't intended to do anything bad. All he'd felt the morning of the loaves was worried. A worried man was not necessarily an evil one.
Still, he had done it. He couldn't hide from it. In fact, part of him didn't want to. It made him different, and he no longer felt the overpowering need to be the same as everyone else. A thought drifted through his mind, and when he realized its importance, he spoke out loud: "I might have inherited it." Whatever it was that he had-power, sorcery, magic-he could have got from his parents.
Falk had led him to believe that his mother had not been afraid for herself but for him. What if she'd been afraid for both of them? If 'she'd had any similar power, she would have needed to keep it hidden in order to continue living in Harvell. If only she'd taken him into her confidence. But had he really given her the chance? He had been too young, too keen to be out at play when all she wanted to do was sit by the fire and talk.
Jack wished Falk was with him; he would know if magic, like hazel eyes and large feet, could be passed down in the blood.
It was really quite unbelievable: he, a baker's boyand, according to Frallit, not a particularly good one at that-had somehow managed to change the natural order of things. He felt no differently-perhaps a little wiser since his visit with Falk, but for the most part he was unchanged. He was still unsure what to do with his life; various ideas warred in his mind, and depending on his mood he either wanted to search for his mother's family, settle down to be a baker in an eastern town, or wander through the world finding adventures as they took him, ideas of revenge against his father, which Falk had so shrewdly guessed at, were not something he would let govern his life.
For today, though, he was content to be out in the forest. Decisions were for the future. The food was good, the ground was firm, and time, at last, was his own.
He began to feel a chill once more, and broke into another run to keep himself warm. He leapt over ditches and fallen logs, dodging trees and trampling the undergrowth.
When he finally stopped, his feet were a little sore. The boots that Falk had given him were not a very good fit; he was grateful as they kept his feet warm and dry, but they pinched
at his toes. He'd always had a problem with shoes and clothing, everything was always too small, and he'd become accustomed to tying his jerkins with string and cutting holes in his boots for his toes.
Breathless, Jack fell to the ground. Hungry as ever, he decided upon a bite to eat. He cut himself a slice of venison and chose an apple to round it off. He dreamt of where he would go: there was Annis, the jewel of the north, beautiful and proud; Highwall, austere and majestic; or Bren, powerful beyond measure. Jack took a hearty bite of his apple. There was only one choice that seemed right, one city where he felt he needed to go. He would head to Bren.
The noise was unclear at first, masked by the apple crunching against his teeth. He swallowed quickly and concentrated. Jack's stomach churned with fear as he recognized the sound of horses galloping in the distance. Baralis had come for him! It had been so long, he'd thought himself safe. Quickly, he searched for somewhere to conceal himself. The surrounding land was flat and without bush just the thin trunks of taIl trees. Jack grabbed his sack and started to run.
The horses were drawing closer. He decided his best course would be to run toward a distant rise. He was already short of breath, but forced himself to run further. The horses were almost upon him and he dived to the ground, hoping the riders would not spot him. The cold earth echoed with the thunder of hooves. He was now able to see the riders as they raced through the trees: they were the same men he had last encountered, only this time there were more.
He thought he might go undetected, for he had managed to clear the riders' path, and they were obviously headed in a specific direction. However, the first rider shouted something and the troop slowed down. Jack tried to make his body as flat as possible against the ground. The first man had now dismounted and was examining the undergrowth. He bent down and picked something up and showed it to the others. At first Jack could not see what it was, then he realized the slice of venison and the apple had been left behind when he had fled. He cursed his stupidity-his brain was as addled as crumpets!
