by J. V. Jones
"I think the rope will prove most unpleasant, don't you agree, Mistress Greal?"
"You are most wise, magistrate. The sting of the rope will certainly force the evil from the girl." Mistress Greal looked pleased. "Though may I be so bold as to make a suggestion?" .
"Certainly, Mistress Greal, I value your judicious opinion in all matters."
"Perhaps the rope should be soaked in salted water first. We wouldn't want the girl's punishment to be a half-measure, would we?"
"Wise as ever, Mistress Greal," said the magistrate. "Now, I believe that Master Hulbit has said the girl can work in his tavern to pay off any fine?"
"He has indeed, magistrate," replied Mistress Greal, shooting a malicious glance in Melli's direction.
"Excellent. After the girl has recovered from the beating, she will be sent back here to work. This has turned out most neatly. She will be flogged at two hours past noon tomorrow. She will be kept in my custody until then." The magistrate turned to Melli. "Follow me, girl, and quick about it."
He led her out onto the street and through the town. Everyone on the streets was staring at Melli, and she hung her head in embarrassment. After a while they approached a stone building. "You'll be spending the night in the pit," said the magistrate. "Let it be a lesson to you."
Jack shifted against his bindings. Pain coursed through his arm and down his back. For the briefest instant, the pain crystallized into something tangible. The pit of his stomach contracted and pressure flared within his head. Even as Jack recognized what it was, it left him. The loaves. It was the same feeling he'd experienced before the loaves. Jack rested his head against the huge oak. There was no doubt now. The loaves hadn't been a lone occurrence. He'd felt power again, and its taste was sickeningly familiar.
He was suddenly afraid. It seemed to Jack as if his fate was now sealed. All his life, he'd lived in a world full of reason: dough rose because of yeast, the longer the rising the better the bread, the larger the loaf the fresher it kept: simple truths that never changed. Now he was in a world where nothing was certain; where burnt loaves turned to dough, where anger or pain could spark the flare of power, and where the future held no promise of peace.
Jack pulled against the rope-there was no give.
The mercenaries had bound him to a tree to stop him from fleeing. They'd ridden hard all morning, heading east in . search of Melli, and were now resting their horses. Jack needed water. He had neither food nor fluid all day. And now more than ever, with the metallic tang of sorcery in his mouth, he was desperate for a drink. He called to the guards. One came sauntering over.
"What d'you want?"
"Water, please." Jack's throat was dry and sore. The mercenary kicked him hard on the shins.
"Bit uppity for a prisoner, ain't you." Just as he walked away, the leader, Traff, spoke up:
"Give him some water, Harl. After all, the boy did think to bring us a few gifts. Right polite of him, if you ask me." The rest of the men laughed heartily. Traff was referring to Falk's sack of supplies, which the mercenaries had wasted no time claiming as their own. It upset Jack to watch as they greedily tore at the precious food, gnawing on joints of meat and then flinging them away half-eaten. The dried fruits and nuts were scattered over the cold ground-the men had no interest in those.
"And find him half a loaf," said Traff. "If I remember rightly, it was Winter's Eve last night, and we don't want to be discourteous to our guest." More laughter followed this remark. Jack was brought a cup of watered ale and a hunk of bread.
Winter's Eve. Had he been gone from the castle that long? Frallit would not be pleased at being a man short for the second biggest festival of the year. There would have been scores of fancy breads to be baked: honey cakes, gingerbreads, malted fruit loaves. Normally at this time, Jack's hands would be stained yellow with saffron. Rare spices were sprinkled as liberally as salt on feast days. It was Jack's job to cook the frumenty, which was cracked wheat mixed with milk, eggs, and saffron. No festival was complete without a plentiful supply of that much-loved golden porridge.
Jack felt so alone. Feast days were the best time to be in the kitchens: plenty of food and ale, everyone busy and merry. There'd be joking and dancing and a few stolen kisses. He missed it all so much. For the first time since leaving the castle, he realized what he'd lost: his friends, his life, his mother's memory; they were all back at Harvell. He had belonged there. It was his home.
Jack picked up the cup, turning it slowly in his hand. Ale was dripping from its side. It took him a moment to spot the hairline crack.
He might have belonged, but he never fitted in. Even before the loaves he was an outsider. Everyone had something that set them apart: Master Frallit was as bald as a berry, Willock the cellar steward had a club foot, even Findra the table maid had to bear the shame of being caught in the hayloft with the blacksmith. To them, being taunted was part of being accepted; it was done in good humor and served to include rather than exclude the person in question.
For him it was different-the jokes were behind his back, not to his face. Jack took up the cup with his free arm. He noticed his hand was still trembling from what had happened earlier. Was this his fate, then? Always to be excluded, to be set apart, to be an outcast? He flung the cup from him. Let the flavor of sorcery stay in his mouth. It tasted of loneliness, and that was something he'd have to get used to.
"No, Bodger, just because you tumble a wench when it's raining doesn't mean that she won't get knocked up."
"But Master Trout swears by it. He says that it's a sure method to stop a girl from getting with child."
"The only reason Master Trout has never got a wench with child is that no sane woman would ever let him near her."
"He is a bit past it, Grift."
"Aye, Bodger, there's only one method to ensure a wench doesn't get knocked up and it ain't rollickin' her in the rain."
"What is it then, Grift?"
"The way to stop a girl getting knocked up is by making sure you never rollick her in the nude."
"What, the woman?"
"No, you fool, the man. Be sure to always keep your shirt on, Bodger, and you'll never be an unwilling father." Grift nodded sagely to Bodger, and Bodger nodded sagely back.
"It's terrible what happened last night in the banquet hall, Grift."
"Aye, Bodger. By all accounts the fire caused quite a panic. Lords and ladies scurrying like rats, they were."
"I took a look at the damage this morning, Grift. The whole back wall went up in flames."
"Aye, Bodger, I can't help wondering how it started."
"The queen's pronounced it an accident, Grift. Says it was fallen candles that did it."
"It's more than that, Bodger. I had a word with one of the lads who was serving the drinks. He said the whole room moved under everyone's feet, said something knocked people down where they stood, and all the metal cups were hot to the touch. If you ask me, something very nasty happened last night."
"Still, it was lucky that only one man was killed."
"You got a look at the body, didn't you, Bodger? Could they tell who it was?"
"Not a chance, Grift, the poor soul was burnt to a crisp. . . terrible death."
"So no one knows who died, Bodger?"
"No, no one's been reported missing, Grift. There was a drunken squire at the back of the hall when it happened, says he saw a man in black, but no one's paying his story much heed. The only clue is the dead man's dagger. It was found right next to him on the floor. Course the blade was ruined by the heat, but it was the only thing that was left-all his clothes had been burnt off his back. It was horrifying, Grift. I've never seen a worse sight in all my life than that charred and blackened body."
"What sort of knife was it, Bodger?"
"Well, that's the strange thing, Grift. It wasn't a man's eating knife. One of the lords said it was a curious kind of knife to take to a dance."
"There's a lot more going on here than meets the eye. The queen mi
ght have pronounced it an accident, Bodger, but I for one can't see anything accidental about the way that man died."
Lord Maybor was seriously ill; he had spent the night gasping desperately for each breath.
By the morning his condition was so bad that the physicians and priests were called. Maybor lay on his bed, barely conscious, struggling for air. He was coughing up much blood. The red rash looked much worse; his skin was now raised and puckered. Sores had formed around his nose and mouth, oozing blood and pus.
The doctors did not know what to make of the great lord's illness. It was like nothing they had encountered before. They immediately ruled out the pox and water fever. It appeared to them that Maybor's windpipe and lungs were being burnt away from within. They shook their heads gravely, not holding out much hope. They prescribed filling the room with the smoke from fragrant woods to penetrate Maybor's lungs and drive out the malignant humors.
Maybor refused to let the physicians fill the room with smoke. Wheezing for breath, he ordered them away. The priests then stepped forward, with their precious oils and waters, sprinkling and chanting, preparing for death.
"Be gone, you damned clerics, I am not dead yet!" Maybor fell back amongst his pillows, coughing feebly, barely able to breathe, but still able to feel pleasure at the sight of the priests scurrying away like rats.
He asked for his sons, but his two youngest had headed off to the front to do battle with the Halcus. Such was the fate of younger sons-they either sought glory in battle or commiseration in the priesthood. Maybor was well pleased that he had raised no priests.
Kedrac entered the room, wrinkling his nose at the putrid smell of sickness. As he saw his father, he attempted, unsuccessfully, to conceal the horror that he felt. "Father, what has become of you?"
Maybor saw revulsion in his son's face and beckoned Crandle to bring the splinter of mirror. Kedrac took the mirror from the servant and would not let his father have it. Maybor had not the strength to protest.
"Father, I spoke with you only a day ago. What has happened since to cause this affliction?"
"I do not know, son." Maybor could only manage a rasped whisper.
"Could poison be the cause of this?"
"Any food or ale consumed by his lordship last night at the dance would have been sampled by many others. I have heard of no one else with any sickness," said Crandle. Both men turned to look as Maybor succumbed to a terrible fit of coughing. When he had finished, the sheets were speckled with blood.
"What do the doctors say?" Kedrac asked of Crandle.
"They do not know what ails his lordship. They advised smoke."
"Smoke! Are they out of their minds? The man can barely breathe as it is."
A soft knock was heard at the door, and the queen walked in. Her cold, haughty face changed when she saw the condition of Lord Maybor and she froze in mid-step. "Is it the pox?" she demanded of Kedrac.
"No, Your Highness," he said bowing. The queen breathed once more and approached the bed.
She saw the look of amazement on Kedrac's face and said in way of explanation, "Your father was requested to meet with me this morning. When he failed to come, I decided to seek him out for myself. I see he is most unwell. What ails him?" Maybor tried to speak for himself, but was overcome with coughing.
"The doctors do not know what afflicts him, Your Highness." Kedrac smoothed his hair and adjusted his clothes.
"Doctors! They are fools, they only made the king worse. I will send you my wisewoman-she is skilled in the lore of herbs. If anyone can help him she can." The queen looked with sympathy at Maybor. "I am well used to sickness, but this I cannot understand. Why, only last night I watched Lord Maybor. He was as healthy as a man can be. Was this caused by the fire?"
"No, Your Highness," offered Crandle humbly. "Lord Maybor left the hall just before the fire started."
The queen gently squeezed Maybor's arm. "I will go now, but I am glad I came. I will send my woman to you the moment I gain my chamber. Good day." She nodded to Kedrac and left the room. The moment she left, Maybor snatched the sliver of mirror from his son. With shaking hand he drew the mirror to his face. Seeing its hideous reflection, he dissolved into a fit of tortuous coughing.
Later on, as dawn's first light stole into the room, Baralis had become restless, tossing and turning in his bed. Crope hurried to his side and saw that his master was drenched with sweat and shaking violently. He felt Baralis' brow and found it was hot to the touch. Quickly, he hurried for water to cool the burning, and with a gentle touch he wetted the brow.
Crope looked upon the bums that covered Baralis' face and hands--some of the skin was beginning to scar. Blisters and lesions could be seen, red and inflamed.
Baralis began to murmur words that Crope could not understand. He seemed filled with agitation and flailed restlessly in his bed. Crope felt great fear at seeing his powerful master so overcome. He worried that Baralis would wear himself out with his frenzied motions. So Crope tried to quiet his sleeping master, softly pressing Baralis' arms and legs flat against the bed and covering his body with sheets and heavy blankets.
He felt that his master needed to be able to sleep peacefully to better regain his strength. He could see that Baralis was getting no such peace--he was troubled by an inner turmoil that was allowing his body no rest. Crope decided he would administer a light sleeping draught to his master to help him fall into a more restful sleep. He walked to the library and searched among the various bottles-he'd watched many times as Baralis had taken the draught on late nights, when sleep refused to come. He found what he knew to be the right bottle, for it was marked with an owl on the stopper. Crope loved owls.
He returned to the bedroom and, with large and awkward hands, poured a small quantity of the liquid between Baralis' swollen lips. Crope then returned to his chair by the side of the bed and reached inside his tunic for his box. Just to look at it made him happy. It was beautiful, with tiny paintings of sea birds on the lid. He settled down, turning the little box in his hand, and prepared to watch over his master for as long as necessary.
Crope stood vigil as his master drifted in and out of consciousness. He had stayed awake all through the night, watching Baralis' limp form.
Chapter Twelve
Tawl was standing on the deck of The Fishy Few, staring out at the dark, sparkling ocean. Larn lay two days ahead, and he didn't know whether to be relieved or full of dread.
The harsh voice of Carver startled him from his thoughts. "Hey, you! What d'you think you were doing feeding us raw turnips yesterday. Had me pukin' my guts up all night."
"The turnips didn't make you sick, Carver," shouted Fyler, drawing near. "It's the sea that's finally gotten to you. Nobody born in the mountains makes a good sailor. It was only a matter of time before your true nature showed."
"I was not born in the mountains-it was the foothills." Carver's voice was suitably indignant. "And I was sailing before I was walking. Seasickness! Never had it once in my entire life. It's that boy's awful cookin' that set me off. Turned my guts to jelly." Carver turned his attention to Tawl. "You better watch it, boy. One more trick like turnip and parsnip salad and you'll be overboard before you know it."
"Well, I'm sorry the dinner wasn't to your liking, Carver. Perhaps if someone could show me how to get the stove lit and find me some wood to bum, I might be able to cook the turnips tonight."
"I don't want to see another tumip as long as I'm on this boat. In fact, if I never saw a turnip for the rest of my life, I'd die a happy man. I want some decent food."
"Why don't you catch some fish, then, Carver?" said Tawl ingenuously.
"Can't stand fish." Tawl and Fyler laughed merrily at Carver's pronouncement. "What's a man doing at sea, on a boat name of The Fishy Few, who doesn't like fish?" Fyler was enjoying himself. "They must have been pretty high foothills, Carver. You're the only sailor I know who won't eat fish."
Carver was about to issue a scathing reply when another man turned up. He
addressed Tawl: "Hey, you. Captain wants a word. Move sharpish-he's waiting in his quarters."
"Probably wants to give you a mouthful over those turnips," mumbled Carver as Tawl walked away. Belowdeck in The Fishy Few was small and cramped. The rooms were so low that Tawl could not stand up straight, and he was forced to walk with his shoulders and neck bent. He knocked on the cabin door and was bidden to enter. He walked into a tiny, dim room lined with books and lit by one small oil lamp.
The captain looked at Tawl disapprovingly and told him to sit. When Tawl had done so, Captain Quain poured out two cups of rum. "Best rum in the known lands, this, boy," he said, handing it to Tawl. "Better be careful not to down it in one go. I don't want to have to answer to the Old Man if you fall overboard." Quain gave Tawl a scornful look.
"I believe you were well paid to carry out this charter, Captain Quain," said Tawl. "No man forced your hand. It was your choice to sail to Larn."
The captain appeared to ignore Tawl's words and took a slug of his rum, taking time to appreciate its flavor. "The test of a good rum is not how strong, but how mellow it is. Only the best rum has a taste so rich and smooth that it conceals its true potency. Go ahead, try it."
Quain beckoned Tawl to drink. He took a mouthful of the rum, wondering if the captain had heard what he'd said. Tawl's thoughts were diverted, however, when the heady liquid met his palate. He wondered how Quain could call this drink mellow; to Tawl it was fiery and strong.
The captain smiled, noting his companion's reaction. "The first taste is always a surprise. Take another sip, and no rushing this time-let the rum dance upon your tongue."
Tawl took a second mouthful, pausing to appreciate the flavor before swallowing. He began to comprehend that the rum was in fact mellow; it was as smooth as late-summer honey. It warmed his mouth and his innards, and loosened the tension in his brow.
"Now you're getting the hang of it. Go easy, though, it's powerful potent." Tawl decided to heed the captain's advice and reluctantly put the cup down. "No self-respecting captain would dare set sail with less than four barrels of rum aboard. It's well known that a sailor can go months without a sight of land, weeks without fresh food, and days without fresh water, but stop that sailor's ration of rum for a day and you'll have a mutiny on your hands." Quain's eyes twinkled in the dim light. Tawl found it hard to tell if he was speaking the truth or joking.
