by J. V. Jones
He looked to where Maybor led the column. The great lord was now riding his captain's gelding and looked most uncomfortable doing so. Doubtless the fall from his horse had rendered him somewhat infirm. Baralis was beginning to think that Maybor could not be killed. At least not in one fell swoop. Perhaps his best course would be to slowly debilitate the man. Certainly the poison on his robes and now the fall from his horse had left their marks. Maybe he should just carry on trying to murder him until the old philanderer was so overcome with various injuries and afflictions that he dropped dead of his own accord.
Baralis smiled, his lips following the curve of his thoughts: Maybor was a naive fool if he thought he would be the superior envoy now that King Lesketh was in his grave. And what a premature grave it was.
Someone had a hand in the king's death, he was sure of it. From the very beginning of the king's affliction, right from the impact of the double-notched arrow, Baralis had controlled the man's illness. Controlled the progress of poison on the flesh, controlled the wasting of muscle and then mind, and, when it suited him, controlled the semblance of recovery. He was the architect of the king's illness, and it was an insidious construction designed to be brought down on his bidding. The king had not been due for death.
Only now he was dead. Despite what the messenger said, despite the presence of the Master of the Bath and the royal guard, someone had gained access to the king's chamber. Baralis was almost certain of who it was: Kylock, once prince and now king.
So the boy had made his first move. He should have expected it. Kylock would not be content living in the shadow of an invalid king and a too-powerful queen. Baralis could almost be pleased with this youthful show of initiative, as long as the boy didn't make any more rash moves.
Of course he would have preferred that in his absence the court be run by the queen. She was a woman who knew the value of stability, and stability was just what Baralis needed until the marriage between Kylock and Catherine of Bren was consummated. Only then should the combined might of Bren and the kingdoms show its teeth. Now he was worried in case Kylock should take it upon himself to win the war with the Halcus-a victory that Baralis knew could be won by a determined leader-and by doing so, draw the eyes of the world northward before the alliance was in place. A world made nervous by an aggressive new king would look much more critically upon a proposed alliance between the two mightiest states in the north.
There was some consolation to be gained in the fact that the armies of the kingdoms were badly depleted. Five years of war rendered even the best of soldiers battle weary. Still, it was a situation that would need careful monitoring. Kylock was his creature. Murdering the king was simply proof of it. The deed would have been done once the marriage had taken place. All Kylock did was anticipate the need. He had been rash, yes, but he'd carried it off! Fooling court and queen into believing the king's death was a natural progression of his illness. Baralis couldn't help but feel a little proud. Not a father's pride, rather pride of ownership. There was much he didn't know about Kylock. The boy had power, he was certain of it. He was also equally certain he could not use it. The drugs he provided acted as a suppressant. Kylock took them willingly, thinking they provided him with insight into the world of darkness. All they did was drive him nearer to madness. And that was the way Baralis wanted it. So much easier to control a man whose power of reasoning had been eroded by subtle shifts of poison about the brain.
The drug inhibited the swell of sorcery in the mind. Sorcery came from the mind and the gut; it met and became potent in the mouth. Kylock could draw power from the belly, but his will could not form the intent. He was like a wheel that could not turn for want of grease.
It had to be so. Baralis could not risk the future king's reputation being sullied by rumors of sorcery.
There was another, more personal reason for administering the drug. 'Twould be dangerous if Kylock turned out to be more powerful than himself. It was difficult to gauge these things, but the signs were there: he was conceived on a night of reckoning, when fate itself danced its way into his seed. Fate aside, blood alone would ensure the passing down of sorcery's particular gifts. And Baralis' blood had ever been potent.
The wind picked up and there was bite to its bluster. Baralis pulled his collar close about his neck, seeking to quiet his misgivings along with the cold. Kylock was addicted to the drug. He would continue to take it in Baralis' absence. There was nothing to be concerned about; he was merely tired, no more. Endless hours in the saddle combined with the relentless chill of wind and snow had worn him down. He was anxious to be over the mountains and into the city. Ambition and intrigue were his lifeblood, and the long journey eastward had forestalled both.
By murdering the king, Kylock may have made his job more difficult, but he was always one to rise to a challenge.
Melli sat at the foot of the stairs and waited. She knew it was now well past morning. The light stealing beneath the doorway grew steadily weaker and would soon be replaced by the even paler glow of candlelight. Even this late in winter the days were still short.
She had sat here for many hours now, knowing the delicate terror of anticipation. At every sign of movement from above, Melli would grow tense; her hands fluttered nervously, one to smooth her dress, another to check her blade. Once she was sure the knife had not slipped from its position between living skin and dead bone, she would compose herself. It was important not to look afraid. Only they never came, and so Melli had more time to think the worst.
She wondered what the delay could mean. She knew the captain had intended her to be taken away in the morning, and now it seemed his plans were either delayed or changed. Melli stood and waited.
As the hours went by and her limbs grew stiff with stillness and cold, Melli wondered what had become of Jack. In the weeks they'd spent with each other, she had come to rely on him. She had watched him gradually changing, growing more sure of himself, and at the same time more distant. She was quite confident that he'd survive on his own. In fact, he would probably do better now that he didn't have her to worry about.
The lock turned, and Melli's thoughts snapped back to herself. She stood up and faced the door. Her heart quickened and her stomach reeled. The door opened and two men were silhouetted in its frame. One was tall and well proportioned: the captain. The other was slight and oddly shaped. "There she is," said the captain, making no move to enter the room. "I told you she was a beauty."
"Bring her up into the light." The voice of the second man was thin and high, lacking in emotion.
The captain made a snort of protest, but complied with the man's wishes. He descended the steps and grabbed Melli by the wrist. Twisting her arm to ensure compliance, he forced her up the stairs. She was led past the man in the doorway and into the light.
She had to squint at first. The light was too bright.
The captain slapped her hard on the cheek. "Stop squinting, girl!" he ordered.
Melli did not have time to wonder at this curious command, as the second man moved close and began prodding her with a long, thin finger. She shrank back in distaste. The man was badly disfigured. One side of his face was slack; there was no muscle to fill out the cheek. His left eyelid drooped nearly shut, and his half-mouth rested in a flaccid sneer.
"Too skinny," he said, the lips on his good side curling up slightly. He shook his head. "Too skinny."
The captain looked at the man with barely disguised distaste. "You're mistaken, sir. There is meat to the bones." The man made a doubting sound with tooth and spittle as he circled Melli. She noticed that his left arm lay limp at his side; the fingers curled close to the palm. His left leg dragged as he walked.
He continued prodding her with his good hand. A finger came up to her cheek, and its long, yellow nails drew a furrow in her skin. "Not as young as you promised," he said.
The captain shrugged. "She is young enough, Fiscel, and you know it."
The man ignored this comment and slipped his fingernail between Melli's l
ips. Melli was forced to open her mouth as his nail pressed against the tender flesh. She tasted her own blood. He ran his finger along her teeth and pulled her lips back to see the gums.
Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he turned his attention to her body. Melli felt the guilty pressure of the knife at her side. Detection of the hidden weapon seemed imminent. Through the fabric of her dress, the man named Fiscel squeezed the swell of her breast. This indignity was too much for Melli to bear and she raised her arm to strike him. With surprising speed Fiscel caught her arm, and with unexpected strength he forced it to her side. He made a strange sound in his throat, and it took Melli a moment to realize he was laughing. His face was close to hers. She smelled the sick-sweet odor of his breath. It occurred to Melli that if she could divert his attention long enough, he might not resume his prodding of her body, and her knife might go undetected.
She decided to become her own saleswoman. "I am, I assure you, sir, well rounded. There is no bone on me that is without its fair measure of meat. I see no need to poke me as if I were a newly set cheese."
The captain, who was becoming impatient with all the proddings and examinations, seemed pleased at this statement. "See, Fiscel. I told you she has the bearing of a noblewoman."
Melli took this opportunity to step away from her inspector. To her delight, Fiscel let her go and turned his attention to the captain.
"I will take her," he said. "Though she is a disappointment to me."
The captain seemed unaffected by this pronouncement; he leaned back against the wall, placing a foot on an empty beer barrel. With his oiled mustache and softly beaten leathers, he was a picture of dashing elegance. He was well aware of the contrast between himself and the other man, and Melli saw that he was using his physical superiority as part threat, part bargaining tool. "I'm afraid I have you at a disadvantage, sir," he said.
"What disadvantage is that?"
"When you first arrived and were taking a glass of mulled wine, I took the liberty of having one of my men, inspect your ... how should I put it? ... your wares. He told me you had two other girls, and that, although young, they were lacking in beauty and bearing." The captain permitted himself to look a little smug.
Fiscel waved his good arm dismissively. "Captain, your low tricks are as misguided as they are predictable. Those two girls are no concern of yours, and their charms, or lack of them, have no bearing on this deal." The flesh-trader-for Melli now knew without a doubt that he was one-was obviously well used to verbal parrying. "I am in half a mind to leave the girl. She is pretty, yes, but no longer young and has a violent disposition."
"The girl is not yet past her eighteenth year, and violence when called spirit is often attractive in a woman." The captain had now given up his nonchalant pose. Melli almost felt sorry for him. He was in the presence of one who would surely outwit him.
"The girl might be thought young here in the north," said Fiscel, "but in the Far South, she would be considered an old maid. She is many years past first blood."
Melli strove to hide her embarrassment at the mention of such an intimate subject by a man. In all her life, she'd never heard a man make any references to a woman's cycle, and she thought it a subject they had no knowledge of.
"Fiscel, you and I both know that not all your dealings are done in the Far South. I have heard that you do business in places as near as Annis and Bren. This girl is still young in the eyes of such cities." The captain was allowing his temper to show. "The girl is beautiful, nobly born, fine figured, and she knows courtly manners. Do not try to tell me that she is an old maid barely worth your attention."
"You say she is a virgin?"
"You have my word."
Fiscel made a peculiar doubting noise, which had the effect of spraying the limp side of his lips with spittle. "The girl is no great find. She is skinny, dark-eyed, and small breasted. I will give you a hundred less than you're asking."
"The girl is pale-skinned, blue-eyed, and well-hipped. I will take no less than my original price."
Melli was beginning to feel most indignant at being talked about so callously. Although she disliked the fleshtrader's comments, she could see there was some truth to them.
"The girl is simply not worth three hundred golds," said Fiscel. "Her hair is too dark, her chin is too forward, and she is too tall. Why, her very height alone will cut down the number of potential buyers-men insist on being taller than their women."
Melli had the distinct feeling that Fiscel could come up with belittling things to say about her until winter's end. She took some comfort in the fact that he would probably be no less insulting if he were face to face with the greatest beauties of the day.
"I will take two fifty, no less." Apparently, the good captain had succumbed to this last tirade; either that, or he'd run out of good points with which to counter the insults.
"Take two twenty-five and you have a deal." Fiscel smiled: a dreadful sight, as only half his face complied with his wishes.
The captain rolled the fine points of his mustache and did not bother to conceal his repulsion. "Two forty."
"Two thirty."
"Done."
Fiscel held out his long-nailed hand to clasp on the deal. The captain brushed the surrounding air, but did not touch it. He glanced over at Melli, a strange look not without regret. "You have got yourself a good deal, Fiscel."
The flesh-trader shrugged. "She will do." He unclasped his belt, and for one awful moment, Melli wondered if he was going to flog or rape her. He did neither. Instead he twisted the broad leather belt until a split in the inner lining became apparent, dipped his fingers into the split, and drew out two fifty-gold bars. These he handed to the captain, who duly tested them with a scrape of his knife. Fiscel replaced the belt. "You will receive the rest once I have confirmed your word."
"Word?"
"Your word that she is a virgin. Just as you tested the gold, I must test the girl."
The captain did not look pleased, but Melli really didn't give a damn. What test was this? Her face flushed with anger, but she forced herself to be calm. Maybe if she were left alone with Fiscel, she would have a chance to use her knife.
"It is nothing to be concerned with, captain," he was saying. "I will take her to the inn with me, and once certain delicacies have been ascertained, I will pay my due. I will, of course, expect a complete refund if the girl has been used." Fiscel's good eye narrowed sharply. "Perhaps, if such an unhappy situation arises, I might be persuaded to take the girl off your hands for the odd thirty golds."
The captain reluctantly agreed. "I will set a guard by the inn, in case you decide upon a late-night departure."
"You are too kind." Fiscel came as close to a bow as his twisted frame could muster. He turned to Melli. "Follow me, girl. I am most anxious that this matter be settled tonight."
FIVE
Darkness came early to Bren. The sun slipped behind the western mountains, and the city fell victim to their shadows. On cold winter nights such as this, mist rose from the great lake and cloaked the city in its icy pall.
Those who braved the chill streets of Bren did so in search of what diversions the darkened city afforded. Bren was not a city of music or culture, high cuisine or clever conversation. Bren was a city of power. A city that knew the value of a strong army and that praised the worth of a strong man. A night's entertainment for a man of Bren-the women didn't count--consisted of a skin or two of cheap ale, some wagering at the fighting pits and, if he had a few extra coppers left, an hour's worth of whoring.
The whores of Bren didn't roam the streets or ply the taverns, it was too cold for walking, particularly in the sort of clothes they chose to wear. Instead, they worked the brothels. These brothels were to be found close to the fighting pits. A man who wins at wagering will likely feel the need of a woman to celebrate. The man who loses needs a woman for commiseration. Not that women were the only sex on offer, though Bren, as a soldiering city, officially frowned upon anything
that was not considered manly.
Still, most men were drawn from their homes at night, leaving the warmth of the embered hearth for the cold promise of the streets. Once sufficiently numbed against winter's chill by a skin or two of ale, they would gather around the pits, hungry for the sight of blood.
The fighting pits had been present in Bren before there were any walls, before it was even a city, when it had just been an ambitious town. Some said the pits first started Bren's craving for bloodshed, others said it was merely a symptom of what had always been present. The men of Bren cared little for such debates: intellectual pursuits were for the priest and the weaklings. Fighting was what counted.
The pits were circular in shape, roughly four men across, and less than a man deep. The crowd gathered around the edge and laid bets on whatever fight was taking place.
Tradition held that the victor of the fight was thrown onethird of all money bet. However, this was usually not adhered to unless the fighter was either especially good, or had enforcers in the crowd. The rules of conflict were simple: the only weapon allowed was the short-bladed hand knife, and once in the pit anything was considered fair game. Victory could be claimed by either death, unconsciousness, or submission.
In olden days, long metal spikes had jutted from the walls of the pit, and the idea was to impale one's victim. Too many people died that way-though the victors always got their third-and the practice had stopped from lack of willing participants. It was rumored that such matches could still be found, if one knew the right people and were willing to pay the price.
Tawl lifted the skin to his lips and drank deeply of the cheap ale. He then swung the skin above his head and poured the remainder over his hair and face. The crowd was bigger than last night. No doubt the story of the man whose arm he tore off had spread. Nothing like a maiming for bringing in the crowds. He could see the men looking his way, see their eyes appraising him and their whispering lips discussing him. He could feel their excitement, their desire for blood and guts and bone. He was repulsed by them.
