by J. V. Jones
"No, sir. Kylock assured the court that it was what she wanted. He sent a handsome detachment of the royal guard to escort her."
"Hmm." Baralis allowed this skeptical syllable to hang in the air a moment before saying, "And' what of Kylock? Does he still wish the proposed betrothal between himself. and Catherine of Bren to go ahead?"
"Yes, indeed, my lord. He is most anxious for the union."
The look of relief on Baralis' face was fleeting but unmistakable.
"Surely now that Kylock is king, he has no need for two envoys?" An idea was beginning to form in Maybor's mind. "His Majesty expressly bid me state that he still wanted both of you to serve as his envoys."
"_I am king's envoy," said Maybor, feeling rather pleased with himself. "Lord Baralis is prince's envoy. Only there is no longer any prince."
"I beg your pardon, Lord Maybor," said Baralis, "but I believe I was appointed Kylock's envoy."
"Did the king express any wishes on the matter of who between us would take precedence?" Maybor was thinking that if Kylock had said nothing on the matter, that would mean things would go on as they were, with him as the superior envoy.
"King Kylock expressed the wish that you sort out such matters amicably between yourselves. He is confident in both your abilities to strike a favorable contract."
Maybor was not entirely happy with this reply, and he expected Baralis felt the same way. His confidence was still high, though. He was, after all, king's envoy. He took a deep draught of wine and settled back amidst the silken cushions. He was surprised by Baralis' next question. "What were Kylock's first actions upon becoming king?"
"The king did everything expected of him, my lord. He kept vigil in the great hall and prayed for God's guidance."
"I don't want to know about all the ceremonies he was obliged to perform for show. Has he passed any laws? Taken any actions? Ordered any executions?" Maybor detected a certain anxiety behind Baralis' words.
"I was sent out two days after the king's death." The messenger's tone was one of subtle reprimand. "Kylock had not taken any actions. He was deep in mourning for his father."
"What of the war?" persisted Baralis.
"I believe the king did express the wish that the war finally be won."
Baralis, having squeezed this information out of the messenger, seemed to withdraw into himself. Maybor couldn't figure out what was so important about the statement. Surely it was only fitting that Kylock state his commitment to winning the war with the Halcus. If things had turned out differently, and he had been Kylock's father-inlaw, he would have urged the new king to win the war as quickly as possible. In fact, it was high time the Halcus were sent back to their filth-ridden hovels once and for all. He had missed too many apple-growing seasons because of them.
"If you will excuse me, my lords, I will retire," said the messenger. "I have ridden a long journey and am weary to the bone."
Maybor nodded his assent, and the messenger bowed and then left.
Baralis stood up, smoothing his robes with his crooked hands. "I bid you good day, Lord Maybor," he said with a thin show of courtesy. As he passed by Maybor, he forced something cool and smooth into the lord's hands. "I believe you dropped this earlier."
After he'd left, Maybor opened his palm. In it was a gold coin. He did not need to look at it closely to know it was the same one he had given to the steward outside the tent an hour before.
Tavalisk was eating blood pudding. True, it was a peasant dish and therefore low on his list of culinary favorites, but every now and then he felt the need to delve into the fare of his childhood. His servants knew nothing about this, of course. He told them he occasionally ate such things as blood pudding and tripe to feel empathy for the peasants who were forced to live on such foods. He made sure this excuse was well publicized, and what had been a liability-his occasional yearning for foods from his impoverished youth-had now turned into an asset. The people of Rom admired his attempts to eat as they ate; it added to his reputation as a man of the people. And Rom was a city that was at the mercy of its people.
Tavalisk cut himself a portion of the pudding, marveling in its rich, black color. Blood, when dripped from a carcass, usually a freshly slaughtered lamb, was stirred over a flame until it thickened and turned black. Chunks of fat and seasonings were added, and the ingredients were then stuffed into a casing and boiled. When prepared correctly, the pudding should have a dense grainy texture that spoke of the grave.
Tavalisk spit out a chunk of fat. He was only interested in the blood.
The archbishop knew he should be a happy man; the interfering old fool Bevlin was finally out of the way. The wiseman had been a thom in his side for years. Only now he found himself feeling rather apprehensive about the future: Bevlin was gone, events in Bren were moving swiftly, and the Knights of Valdis were a constant thom in his side. Trouble that had been simmering for months, even years, seemed close to coming to the boil.
More and more, Tavalisk found his thoughts heading north toward Bren. The coming drama would be staged in that most deadly of cities. If Marod was right, he would have a leading part in what was to come. A tiny smile pulled at the corner of the archbishop's mouth. If Marod was wrong, then damn him! He'd still steal the show anyway.
A knock sounded and Gamil entered carrying Tavalisk's cat. Gamil's face was sporting ag vicious and still bleeding scratch.
"I finally located your cat, Your Eminence."
"What took you so long? You've been gone for hours."
"The cat was hiding on the compost heap at the far end of the gardens, Your Eminence. It was most reluctant to be brought back."
The archbishop tempted the cat forward with a morsel of pudding. "Really, Gamil, it's most inconsiderate of you to bleed on my best silk rug."
Gamil hastily daubed the blood from his face with the corner of his robe. "I apologize for bleeding, Your Eminence."
"Good. Now, what news have you?"
"Well, our spies have tracked the knight as far as Bren. Apparently the young man is not acting like himself."
"Who, pray tell, is he acting like, then?" Bren again: its very name was enough to make the archbishop's heart beat faster. He reluctantly pushed the dish of pudding to one side; his physician had told him he was slightly overweight and should consider eating less. Advised him to take up music instead. Music, indeed!
"He's acting like a scoundrel, Your Eminence. Womanizing, drinking, brawling: causing trouble with every step."
"So he's actually having some fun for a change. He needed to loosen up a little, if you ask me. He was a little too noble for his own good." Tavalisk lifted a pudgy arm to the light. The porcelain-pale flesh wobbled like aspic.
"You don't think me fat, do you, Gamil?"
"No, Your Eminence. You have a most. . ." Gamil paused as he searched for the right phrase, ". . . a most magnitudinous bearing."
"Magnitudinous." The archbishop liked the sound of the word on his lips. "I think you're right, Gamil. I'm a long way from fat, I'm magnitudinous." He favored his aide with a smile. "So, back to other matters. What else have you for me this day?"
"Not much, Your Eminence. The young boy is still following the knight, and we still don't know why Larn arranged the assassination of Bevlin."
"Really, Gamil, sometimes I think you have the mental capacity of that pudding over there. It's obvious to me why Lam had Bevlin bumped off. Bevlin had been trying to put an end to the practices on the island for years now. The old fool was never happy unless he was imposing his moral values upon others. Personally, I think there is nothing wrong with being bound to a rock. I hear they get fed regular meals."
"Your Eminence is a great humanitarian."
"Alas, Gamil, it is a weight I have to bear." Tavalisk took a swing at the cat, sending it flying into the air. If he couldn't have any more pudding, then neither could his cat. "Any news of the knights?"
"Tyren is said to be fuming over the expulsions, Your Eminence. He may not take things as passively as
we thought." -
"We thought, Gamil. We thought no such thing. I thought they would be likely to treat the expulsions as a gauntlet thrown in their face, and it seems I was right. They will rise to the challenge."
"That could mean war, Your Eminence."
"Perhaps. We will have to wait and see how the north reacts." The archbishop smiled. "Anyway, I fear the whole thing may have been fated from the start."
"What gives Your Eminence cause for such thought?" Tavalisk looked at Gamil a moment, considering. His fingers strayed to the book on his desk. These days Marod was never far from his reach. His aide looked a little too eager for Tavalisk's liking, so he shrugged negligently." 'Tis nothing, merely a hunch," he said. "You must never forget that I am archbishop, Gamil, and therefore blessed with divine insight from time to time." He was not ready to share his revelation just yet. "Be sure to keep a careful eye on Valdis and Bren in the coming months, Gamil."
"Certainly, Your Eminence. If there is nothing further, I will take my leave."
"Just a quick word of advice before you go, Gamil. I'd get that cut seen to, if I were you. With a face such as yours, you can ill afford yet another disfigurement."
The door opened, and something was thrown at her. Melli panicked for a moment, thinking it a knife or a club. The object missed and landed on the ground beside her. It was a loaf of bread. Her captors were being most generous with their food. She had already been served three meals that day. Melli got the distinct impression she was being fattened like a feast-day goose. The way they were going, she'd be served buttermilk and pig fat next, to promote a shiny coat.
Melli was in a small, dark root cellar. She was alone and bitterly cold. She had been brought here the day before. The company had ridden up to a large garrison, and the captain had led her beneath the innermost building. He left strict orders with the guards to keep her well fed and not to come near her. The guards had complied. She had only seen their shadowy forms in the doorway as they pushed platters of food into the cellar.
She had spent a cold and lonely night huddled in a corner for warmth. Her one comfort was that at least Jack was free. Melli had noticed how little he liked being holed up in the chicken coop for a few days. To be stuck here, with no power to open the door, might have been too much for him.
Not for her, though. She was getting quite used to captivity. One way or another, she had been a captive all her life.
Melli knew she was lucky. She had talked herself out of the fate of Lady Varella. Whatever happened next, she could take comfort in the fact that she would have all ten fingers left to deal with it. Melli tore open the loaf and began to chew on the rubbery and over-yeasted bread. For the first time it occurred to her that what happened to Lady Varella was as much the fault of the kingdoms as the Halcus. If her husband had welcomed her back lovingly, instead of making her feel like a useless, hideous invalid, then she wouldn't have been driven to suicide. A woman in the kingdoms was only as valuable as her appearance, and a woman with two fingers couldn't even make herself useful at the spinning wheel-as was expected of those with no claim to beauty. So Varella had no value, and she knew it, and did the only decent thing she could do: remove the burden from her husband and family.
Melli heard the scuttle of a cockroach. As a child she'd been afraid of them. It was considered becoming for a lady to make a pretty show of terror whenever an insect was spotted.
Young girls even went so far as to choose a specific insect that they simply could not bear the sight of. The smaller and more pathetic the insect, the more refined the lady. Melli stomped on the creature with her foot. Judging from the substantial cracking noise, it must have been a big one.
The door opened again. What next, she thought, a five-course dinner? A man stepped into the doorway; he was haloed by the light. The creaking of leathers told her what her eyes could not see: it was the captain.
"I hope my men are treating you well," he said. "About as well as a farmer treats his prize heifer."
The captain laughed and stepped into the room. "Borc, 'tis cold in here. Have they refused you blankets?"
"I never asked."
"By my leave, you are a proud wench! It will prove your downfall if you do not stay the flow."
"If you have come here to exchange character flaws with me," said Melli, "then I suggest arrogance as one of yours."
The captain laughed once more. His hand stole to his gleaming mustache, which Melli was beginning to suspect served to hide less than perfect teeth.
She was desperate to know what was going to happen to her, but didn't want to betray her anxiety to the captain. Instead, she said, "I hope you don't plan to keep me here long, as the dark robs me of my appetite and good looks. I'm sure you wouldn't like an ugly, scrawny stray on your hands."
"My dear lady, you do yourself an injustice. I would say your beauty is enhanced by the dark, like a wine in a cellar."
"Some wines turn to vinegar if left too long."
"You will not be left too long. By the morrow you will be on your way."
"Which way is that?"
"Eastward is the usual route." The captain shrugged. "Whatever way, it is no concern of yours."
"How so?" Melli was beginning to feel anger at his smugness.
"Spoils of war, my dear. You're mine to do with how I please." With that the captain executed a singularly contemptuous bow and walked over to the door. "And it pleases me to make a healthy profit." He stepped from the room and closed and locked the door behind him.
Melli's hand stole toward her side. She felt the fabric of her dress and then the hardness of the boned corset. Just above her waist, her fingers found what they'd been searching for: the knife. It was still there, pressed against her rib cage. Blood-warm and metal-smooth, it was now her only comfort; whatever happened next, at least she had a blade.
FOUR
"Rotten lamb! Rotten pork! Bring your rotten meat here!" Nabber was intrigued by this call and pushed through the crowds toward the man who was shouting. "What d'you want with rotten meat?" he asked. Nabber was always open to the possibility of a new ploy.
"Have you got any?"
"No."
"Well, don't stand around wasting my time then."
"I could get some, though, if you make it worth my while."
"Don't be stupid, boy. There's no money in rotten meat., It's charity. For the lepers."
"You give your lepers rotten meat?" The man nodded and Nabber continued, admiringly, "You treat your lepers well in Bren, we give 'em nothing in Rom."
"The duke is famous for his good works." The man smiled the smile of the morally superior and urged Nabber along.
Nabber was beginning to like Bren. At first it had seemed like a cold fish of a city when compared to his beloved Rom, but it was beginning to grow on him. Now that he'd been in the city for a few days, he realized he had been wrong about there being no smell. Bren did have an odor: a subtle festering. Once his young nostrils finally picked up on this he began to feel decidedly more at home. In fact, he was now starting to think that there was really little difference between the two cities. Bren was just cleverer when it came to hiding its flaws.
Of course the cold was an entirely different matter. He just wasn't bom for the snow. True, a man could wear a most handsome cloak in the cold, but it just wasn't enough.
Thanks to a well-to-do but unsuspecting salt merchant, he had managed to procure some rather fine pigskin gloves. They were far too big, however, and hung limply on his hands like just-milked cow's udders. So he didn't wear them. He prided himself on being well turned out: Swift would have expected no less.
He had the beginnings of a healthy contingency once more. Bren was an affluent city. The traders' market was proving to be fertile ground. Oh, Bren had pockets of its own, but from what he'd seen, they were sadly lacking in finesse. A quick snatch and grab. What skill was there in that? Swift, had he been dead-which was quite possible, given his risky line of business-would have turned in his gr
ave.
Nabber forced his way through the crowds. Due to his diminutive size and the great clamor of people, he couldn't see where he was going. This was only a problem when he bumped his shin painfully against a stone fountain. "Borc's breath!" he muttered, rubbing his leg. "What's the use of all these fountains?" Since he'd been here, he'd noticed that there was hardly a street corner that didn't boast a fountain or a decorative pool. Only they didn't look very decorative with their dark, bird-dropping-stained stone. In fact, they looked rather depressing. Doubtless the man who'd built the city had a great love of water, either that or he took a fiendish delight in placing fountains just where they'd cause the most inconvenience. Like here.
Nabber was beginning to feel a little annoyed; his shin was throbbing and he was having no luck locating Tawl.
The trouble was that tall, golden-haired men just weren't as rare here as they were in Rorn. He'd asked people if they'd seen a golden-haired stranger and had been sent on various forays to all four corners of the city. So far he'd found a sheepherder from Ness, a fortune-teller from Lanholt, and a pimp from Dourhaven. But no Tawl. The pimp had been most accommodating, though, even offered to help him look. But the man hinted at the time-honored tradition of a favor for a favor, and Nabber didn't think he'd be willing to oblige with what might be asked.
So that left him nowhere. Well, more exactly, it left him at the foot of an inconvenient and ugly fountain.
It was early morning, and the day offered thin light and sharp breezes. Bren was yet another city of early risers, and the streets were already crowded with people going about their business. Commerce was the great and invisible bond that held the city together. Nabber could feel its pull, and it was like a caress to him. He hurried on his way to the traders' market.
The pickpocket's art lay in its subtlety. The secret was in the touch, and the trick was to make your victim believe that it was purely accidental. The touch could range from a gentle brushing of an arm to a plunderous fall into the crowd. Body contact was what counted. Nabber could turn a pat on the shoulder into a delve into a tunic, an arm outstretched to steady himself into an exploration of a purse. The art of the pocket was similar to that of the magician: it was all sleight of hand. A magician had his flick of the wrist, a pocket had his furtive fingerings.
