by J. V. Jones
"You can tell, Gamil. That's what I pay you for."
"These things are difficult to predict, Your Eminence. Perhaps the Old Man might seek revenge for Bevlin's death by having the knight assassinated."
"Hmm. The situation bears watching. Keep an eye to the gates and ports. I will be interested in knowing if any of the Old Man's cronies leave the city."
"Yes, Your Eminence."
Tavalisk pulled on the bell rope; he needed food. Playing the lyre had honed an edge to his appetite. No wonder so many of the. great masters were as fat as pigs.
"I think it would be wise to pick up our man, Gamil. I can't allow one of my spies to turn traitor and get away with it. And who knows, once his tongue is sufficiently loosened by the rack, we might find out just what the Old Man is planning to do about Bevlin's death." The archbishop put down the lyre. Something about its shape reminded him of pomegranates--his favorite fruit. "Is there anything else?"
"A rather unsettling rumor about Tyren has reached my ears, Your Eminence."
"How unsettling, Gamil?"
"I've heard that he's ordered the knights to intercept and seize all of Rom's cargoes that are headed to the north."
"This is intolerable! Who does that gold-greedy bigot think he is?" The archbishop pulled on the bell rope again.
He now had need of a drink as well as a meal. "I need this confirmed as soon as possible, Gamil. If it is true I will have to come up with a suitable form of retaliation."
If a war was coming, let no one say that Rom was slow from the stables. The archbishop smiled a tiny smile. The whole thing was really quite stimulating. The Known Lands had been too long without a decent conflict, and as long as it was waged in the north, both he and Rom would be safe from its ravages.
"I shall endeavor to find the fact behind the fiction, Your Eminence. If there's nothing further, I will take my leave."
"I was rather hoping you would stay, Gamil. After a quick snack, I was planning to play all of Shuge's masterworks, and I'm anxious for your opinion on my fingerings."
"But Shuge's masterworks run to some five hours or more, Your Eminence."
"I know, Gamil. It will be a real treat for such an avid music lover as yourself."
There were six sacks of grain in the kitchen and Rovas was busy turning them into eight. Jack watched as the seasoned smuggler practiced one of the less ethical tricks of his trade. He poured a portion of the barley grain into a new sack until it was quarter full, then he took a quantity of what looked to be wood shavings and poured them into the sack. Next he topped the sack up with more grain and tied it with a length of twine.
"Couldn't that do a person harm?" asked Jack.
Rovas smiled showing wide teeth in a wide mouth. "There's people who'd put worse than wood shavings in grain, boy."
"Such as?"
"Ground bones, soil, sand." Rovas made an expansive gesture with his arm. "The people who get this grain should count themselves lucky. I've taken the trouble to shave the wood real fine. No one will choke on it, and I've heard that it's good for the digestion."
"Better for your pocket, though."
"What's the point of a man doing business if he can't make a little profit?" Rovas reached over to Jack and tousled his hair. "You're young yet, boy, and you don't know the ways of the world. Commerce is and always has been its driving force." He slung one of the sacks of grain over his shoulder. "You've got a lot to learn, Jack, and if I do say so myself, I'm the man to teach you." With that he stepped outside and began loading the grain onto his cart.
Once he had finished, he turned to Magra, who was spinning by the fire. "Come, woman," he said. "Accompany me to market like a good wife would." Rovas then addressed Jack. "You see, boy, potential customers will think a seller more honest if they see he is a family man."
"Perhaps I should go along as your son, then," said Jack with a hint of amusement, "just to complete the family circle."
Rovas slapped Jack on the back. "You're learning fast, boy. But I'll have to decline. I've known these buyers for many years now, and a long lost son might prove a little difficult for them to swallow."
"So might those eight sacks of grain."
Rovas laughed heartily and even the normally hostile Magra managed a snort of amusement. The smuggler buckled his belt and slipped a knife and a sword under the leather.
"When I get back, boy," he said, "I'll start teaching you how to use a blade like a real man." He winked merrily and then was off, Magra trailing after him.
Jack breathed a sigh of relief. It was good to be on his own. It seemed as if he'd had no chance to think since he'd heard that Melli was dead. He moved closer to the fire and poured himself a cup of mulled cider. The sweet and heady fragrance of apples tugged at his senses, evoking memories of his life in Castle Harvell. The kitchens were often filled with the scent of apples, either with baking or cider-making. There was such simplicity then; no dangers, no worries, no guilt.
He ran his hand over the thick and bristling growth on his chin and neck. It had been many days since he'd had a shave. The last time had been the day the Halcus soldiers came to the coop ... the day that Melli was murdered.
Jack threw the cup into the fire where it smashed against the back wall-he should have been there! It should have been he, not Melli, who was clubbed to death. He had failed the only person who'd ever relied upon him. He cupped his face in his hands, pressing his fingertips deep into his temples. The pain of guilt became a tangible pressure. He felt it build up, demanding release. A sharp metallic taste slivered along his tongue.
The shelving that hung above the fire suddenly rattled and then gave way, sending all the pots and pans that were hanging from it plunging into the flames. Jack stepped back in horror. He heard a door open behind him and Tarissa walked in.
"What in Borc's name have you done?" she cried, dashing forward to salvage what was probably a week's worth of food from the fire. "Don't just stand there, help me!" She grabbed hold of the metal poker and speared the haunch of mutton with its tip. "It's badly charred, but the meat will be all right," she said. "Wrap a rag around your hand and save what pots you can."
Jack obeyed her orders and pulled several pots from the fire. Most were empty, their contents spilt and then lost to the flames.
"The stew and porridge!" cried Tarissa, but it was too late. Those two most staple of foods sizzled on the embers. Jack pulled the last of the pans from the fire. He managed to salvage a pot full of beets, two roasting turnips, and a string of sausages.
"What happened?" demanded Tarissa. She was obviously upset. Angry tears gleamed in her eyes. A family's wealth was judged by its supply of food.
"I don't know," Jack said. "The shelf just collapsed." He wasn't being honest, he knew what had happened: as his anger and frustration flared, the shelf had given way. The two were related, there was no doubt in his mind, and it was sorcery that provided the connection. He supposed he should be thankful that no one was hurt. Only he didn't feel very thankful at the moment, just tired and confused.
"Here, let me look at your hand. The rag is badly scorched." Tarissa sat beside him on the bench and unwrapped the rag. The flesh beneath was livid red. Tarissa's face softened into remorse. "I'm sorry, Jack," she said. "I shouldn't have asked you to put your hand in the fire. Please forgive me." Her fingers hovered above the burn and then lightly touched his wrist.
Jack could not meet her eyes. Blistering pain swelled in his hand. He almost welcomed the sensation. It diverted his thoughts from the truth. Sorcery accompanied him, and like a shadow it would follow him to the grave.
Tarissa began searching in cabinets for ointments to put on his skin. He was deeply moved by her sudden change in demeanor. Her kindness was an unexpected gift. Jack sat and let her rub salve onto his wounds. Her touch was gentle, as if she were afraid to hurt him further. He looked at her face. Her lashes.were long and fair, her nose short with a tiny bump, her lips pink and full. She was beautiful, not perfect, just beauti
ful. She looked up and their eyes met. For a brief second Jack was puzzled by what he saw. There was something about her that was known to him. Delicate hazel eyes, an intricate mingling of brown and green, met his.
Her lips moved the barest instance: an invitation as bold as open arms. He leaned forward and kissed her, a chaste kiss made less so by the plumpness of both sets of lips. Jack felt her tender flesh give way and then envelop him. He reached out with his arm to draw her near, but she backed away. She stood up awkwardly and would not look at him.
"It was you that made the shelf give way." A statement. Jack looked to the floor. "I never laid a hand upon it."
"I know." Tarissa smiled with tantalizing assurance. Jack could think of no reply. There was little point in lying; she had guessed the truth. Instead he asked, "Is Tarissa your full name?"
She laughed outright at this blatant attempt to change the subject, yet seemed happy to go along with it. "My full name is Tarissyna," she said.
Jack felt his spirits lighten. She knew the truth but didn't condemn him: her second gift to him. "Tarissyna is a noblewoman's name in the kingdoms."
She shrugged. "Perhaps, but I've lived in Halcus most of my life, and my name counts for little here."
"When did you leave the kingdoms?"
"I was a babe in arms when my mother brought me here." There was an edge to her voice. It took Jack a moment to realize it was bitterness.
"Why did Magra leave?"
"She was not wanted. She was an inconvenience to people in high places. By staying she risked death."
"And you?"
Tarissa laughed coldly. "They wanted me dead more than my mother,"
"But you were just a baby."
"Wars have been waged over babies." Tarissa turned away and began to brush the remains of the food from the hearth.
Jack could tell she wanted to say no more. She had told him just enough to pique his interest, and he found himself more puzzled than ever. He could still feel the press of her lips against his. It acted like a reprimand, reminding him not to question too deeply, after all she had done no less for him. By dropping the subject of the shelf falling into the fire, she had saved him from awkward questions. He would do no less for her.
Jack knelt beside her, helping to scrape the burnt stew from the grate. He looked at Tarissa, and she looked at him. Their mutual secrets, only hinted at, never told, acted as a bond between them. And when their arms brushed together as they cleaned up the fireplace, neither was inclined to be the first to pull away.
A short time later, when the grate shone like a newly minted coin, the door burst open and in came Rovas and Magra. The older woman sniffed the room like a bloodhound and then made straight for the fire. "What has happened here?" she cried. Even in anger, her voice carried the elegant modulated tones of a noblewoman. Her eyes darted to Jack.
Tarissa spoke before Jack could stop her. "There was a little accident, Mother. I was stirring the stew when the whole shelf came down."
"How can that be?" asked Rovas. "I nailed that up good and strong before winter set in."
"Hmm, I think we have our answer, then," said Magra.
"If ever a man lacked practical skills, it is you, Rovas Widegirth."
"Less of the wide girth, woman. You know as well as I do that to be a successful merchant you need to appear prosperous. There's nothing like a big belly for showing a man's got money to spend."
Jack wondered what a woman like Magra was doing with a man like Rovas. They were total opposites. Magra was refined; her speech, her appearance, even the words she chose, spoke of nobility, yet Rovas was a self-confessed rogue. It didn't make any sense.
"No need to worry," Rovas was saying. "There's plenty more where that came from. How can I call myself a smuggler and not have some hidden stashes?" He turned to Jack.
"Come with me, boy. You can help me dig up the vegetable garden. I buried a chest of salted beef there. The only problem is, I can't remember exactly where."
As Jack left the cottage, he caught Tarissa's eye. He sent her a look of thanks. She had saved him from some difficult questions.
Rovas spotted the bum mark on his hand. "How'd you do that, boy?"
"I was helping Tarissa save the pots from the flame."
"Right hand, eh? Never mind, that won't stop me teaching you the blade. A true fighter knows how to wield a knife with both .hands. This way your left can have a head start."
Nabber made his way along Bren's busy streets. Traders and beggars called to him. He bought a stuffed pork pie from a street merchant and tossed a handful of coppers toward a cripple and his blind mother. The speed with which the mother found the coins was nothing short of miraculous for a blind woman. Nabber smiled brightly her way. He knew she could see, but he admired her skill anyway. The way her eyes rolled wildly in her sockets was truly the work of a dedicated artiste.
He bit into his pie. It was delicious, hot and juicy, with at least a passing resemblance to pork.
It was a beautiful day, that is, for a place as cold as Bren. The sky was light blue and clear, the air crisp and fresh. Something was going on in the city, he was sure of it. To the north of the city, where all the fancy buildings and the duke's palace were situated, the streets were being cleaned and banners were being hung. Probably expecting important visitors, Nabber concluded. Affairs of state didn't concern him, however. He had one mission on his mind today: he was going to help Tawl.
He passed a market stall where hand mirrors were being sold. He picked one up and had a quick look at himself. "S'truth!" he muttered to his reflection. He hastily smoothed back his hair with a handful of spit. To think he'd gone following Tawl last night with the hair of a wild man. His collar was none too clean, either. Swift would be disappointed. "Always wear a clean camlet, " he would say. "You'll look less like a scoundrel that way. " Nabber could see the wisdom of Swift's words. Though he still wasn't sure what a camlet was.
He was tempted to pocket the mirror-it would make a fine addition to his personal grooming accoutrements but the stall-holder had a mean eye, and Nabber prided himself on knowing when not to take chances.
The sun followed him to the west of the city. It was late afternoon and Nabber wondered if he should have made an effort to find Tawl earlier. The problem was that the best pickings were to be found before noon, and he'd been reluctant to give up a day's earnings. Swift would have thought him foolish. So here he was, best part of the day over, bag full of coinage in his tunic, on his way to find the knight.
He took a turn onto Brotheling Street
and made his way toward the place where he'd last seen Tawl. The smell was more accurate a guide than any map. Each building had its own characteristic odor, and Nabber honed in on the one he remembered from last night. The place looked rather dismal in the daylight; the timbers were rotting and the paint was peeling. It just went to show how generous the night was with its favors. The building had looked like a palace under its patronage.
Nabber knocked boldly on the door.
"Go away, you're too early," came the reply.
"I'm looking for a man, name of Tawl. He's a fighter."
Nabber was forced to shout at the wood, for the door had not been opened.
"No one here named Tawl. Now get lost!"
"He was here last night. Big fellow, golden hair, bandage on his arm."
"What's in it for me?"
Nabber began to feel more comfortable talking to the faceless voice; information for coinage was a concept he was more than familiar with. "Two silvers if you know where he is."
"Ain't worth my breath."
"Five silvers then." This was turning out to be more expensive than he hoped. Still, it all helped the cash circulate. Swift had given him long lectures on the importance of circulation.
"Done." The door was opened and a small-eyed woman emerged. Nabber recognized her at once as being the woman who had stolen Tawl's gold. "Let's see the spark of your silver."
Nabber brought ou
t the promised coinage. "May I be so bold as to ask the name of such a fine-looking woman as yourself?"
The woman looked taken aback by this request. She patted her elaborately coifed hair, and said, "I'm Madame Thornypurse to you, young man."
Powder from her head swirled into the air, and Nabber had to fight the urge to sneeze. "So, Madame Thornypurse, which way was the gentleman headed?"
"Not a friend of yours, is he?" The woman's voice was as shrill as a mating goose.
"No, madame," said Nabber. "Never met him before in my life. I'm merely a messenger."
Madame Thornypurse sniffed in approval. "The man you're looking for has gone drinking in the Duke's Fancy. It's a tavern on Skinners Lane
. Now hand over the cash."
"It was a pleasure doing business with you, madame," said Nabber with a little bow as he passed her the coinage. Swift himself would have been impressed at the speed with which the money disappeared into her bodice. Nearly as quickly, the door was shut in his face.
Nabber sneezed heavily; the hair powder finally proved too irritating to ignore. He then made his way along Bren's busy streets. He soon found the Duke's Fancy. It was a tall and brightly colored building. A group of men were dicing in the doorway. Nabber was tempted to join them, for he loved to dice more than he liked to eat, but he passed them by, pausing only once or twice to see how the dice were landing. It was really quite a pity he was on a mission, as the dice were landing with the grace of a goddess. A man could circulate a lot of coinage with dice as sweet as those.
He entered the tavern and pushed his way through the throngs of revelers. The air was thick with the smells of hops, yeast, and sweat: a fine drinking man's odor.
Nabber caught the flash of straw yellow hair: it was the woman who'd collected Tawl's money for him the night before, and then passed it on to old Thornypurse. Indignation swelled in his breast and he stepped toward her. She was calling loudly for more ale and was being enthusiastically cheered on by a group of men and women. The ale came-a whole barrel of it-and she reached into a sack to pay the innkeeper. It was Tawl's sack. The woman was buying drinks for Borc knows how many people, and paying for them with Tawl's money!
