by J. V. Jones
"Do you think there's a chance his possessions might still be in his house?"
Nabber had buried Bevlin. He'd dug a shallow grave and then dragged the wiseman's body out of the cottage to the plot that lay under the sill. He scrubbed the blood from the floor, dampened the fire, threw out all the goods that were perishable, let the hens free from the coop and the pig free from the sty, sealed all the shutters, and locked and bolted the door. "Yes," he said. "There's a chance Bevlin's things are still where he left them." Nabber thought for a moment and then added, "Why do you want to know?"
"He and I were involved in the same type of scholarly research. We shared a passion for crawling insects. Bevlin had an unrivaled collection of books on the subject, and I worry that if they were to fall into the wrong hands they might be treated badly." Lord Baralis made a small, selfdeprecating gesture. "Only experts like myself would fully appreciate their value." He looked Nabber straight in the eye. "Now, can you remember exactly how to get to his house?" Insects? He looked the sort. "Yes."
"Draw me a map," Lord Baralis' voice was as thick and tempting as honey, "and I will make it worth your while. Accompany my servant on the journey and I will make you a rich man."
Tempting though the offer was, Nabber had no intention of agreeing to it. Not only did he feel honor-bound to wait for Tawl's return, but more importantly, a long journey meant the one thing he hated most in the world: horses. No one was going to get him on one of those ugly, badtempered, flea-ridden things unless it was a matter of life and death. There was a problem with accepting the first offer, though: he couldn't write, let alone draw a map. "I could tell you exactly how to get there, but I'll do no drawing-my hand, you know, injured it in a boating accident."
"Hmm." Lord Baralis spread the sound over two skeptical syllables. "Very well. Tell me now and I will have your payment delivered to you within the hour."
Nabber didn't feel it would be a wise move to question the man's integrity. The loot would come. He had an instinct about such things. He took a deep breath. "Well, you ride east as far as. . ."
Tarissa was laughing at him. Her jaw was wide, her curls were bouncing, and her head rocked back and forth. So long and hard she laughed that the strings of her bodice gave way and her breasts spilled out over the fabric. A rough hand reached out and tucked them back in, the fingers lingering long over the milky white flesh.
Rovas! he screamed. Rovas!
"Ssh, lad. Ssh. Everything's all right now."
Jack found himself looking up into the smooth, round face of Mrs. Wadwell.
"It was a bad dream, that's all. No need to worry."
Her voice had a calming effect upon him, and the line between sleeping and waking drew itself anew. His muscles relaxed and he slumped back down against the sheet. It was wet with sweat.
Mrs. Wadwell stood up and busied herself around the room, opening shutters, stoking the fire, and pouring some broth into a bowl. "Sit up, lad," she said, "and drink this."
She handed him the bowl and didn't blink until the spoon was at his lips. "That's a good lad."
The last thing Jack thought he wanted was broth, but as soon as the spicy liquid met his tongue, he was overcome with a ravenous hunger. He had hardly eaten in a week, and it was as if his body was determined to secure some nourishment despite his brain's reluctance. Mrs. Wadwell nodded approvingly and fetched him some more food: another bowl of broth, a full crusty loaf, a wedge of cheese that would have stopped open a door, and a cold roast chicken that looked like it had been hit by one.
"I pressed it whilst it roasted," said Mrs. Wadwell, seeing Jack eyeing the flat chicken suspiciously. "If you squash a bird in the oven with decent size weights, it forces the juices into the meat. Turns right tender, it does."
"Aye, lad, no one roasts a bird like my wife." Dilburt came toward the bed, the smile on his face bright with undisguised pride. He patted Mrs. Wadwell affectionately on her bottom. "You won't find a finer woman anywhere."
"You soft old coot," she replied, winking at Jack. "Go and cut me some wood. If the fire bums any lower, I won't be able to warm the chickens let alone roast them."
Dilburt obediently left the cottage. Mrs. Wadwell straightened Jack's bed, made sure all the food was within reach, and then followed her husband outside, muttering something about not chopping the green ones.
Jack wasted no time; he tore into the food the moment the door banged shut. It was the most delicious meal he had eaten in his entire life. The bread was chewy and tasted of nuts, the cheese was cream-heavy and bright with herbs, and the flat chicken was so tender it fell off the bone. With each bite the memory of eels and their gravy receded into the distance.
The memory of last night was not so easy to eat away. The more full his belly became, the more freedom his thoughts seemed to have to soar where they pleased. Everything came back to him in terrifying detail: the fire, the sparks, the creaking of timbers, and the low rumble of moving earth. The screams were the worst thing. The terrified screams of people burning, or choking, or just plain afraid. Suddenly the room filled with the sound of their screams. It was a visible force, whipping the air round like a whirlwind. The food turned to ashes in his mouth and he brought his hands up to his ears, desperate to stop the sound.
He had done this! People were dead because of him. The fault was his and his alone. Tarissa and Rovas had played him for a fool, lying about Melli's death, lying about the tunnel, lying about how much they cared. Yet rather than take his anger out on them, he had turned it toward innocent people instead.
The screams died away, as if content for a while that he had acknowledged his guilt.
He needed to make sure something like this never happened again. The power within him was too dangerous to be used in anger. It caused him to lash out uncontrollably, making itself his master. He had been right in the Halcus cell to try and force the sorcery to do his bidding, but he had come nowhere near success. He doubted if he could on his own. Who was there to help him, though? Even a powerful man like Baralis was forced to keep his powers hidden. The world condemned sorcery. People who used it were branded as demons and burned at the stake. And after last night he knew why.
Was that all that sorcery was good for? he wondered. Destruction?
Jack swung his feet onto the floor and tested the strength of his legs. Hardly good enough for standing, but he needed to relieve himself badly and he wasn't about to take a pot to his bed like an invalid. He'd rather fall on his face trying to make it outside. Taking a deep breath, he transferred his weight to his legs, groaning like an old man as he hauled himself up. Nausea fluttered around his belly and he was forced to swallow hard to keep it down. A grim smile stretched his lips. He didn't fancy seeing the pressed chicken again; it hadn't looked too appetizing the first time around, no matter how good it had tasted.
Once his legs felt sure enough to take his weight, he risked stepping forward. Muscles in his chest, his abdomen, his behind, and his legs protested violently, and then finding their cries ignored, they set to quivering like eels in jelly. Finding the quivering ignored, they actually shaped up and did his bidding. Jack knew that his muscles were unhappy, but plodded on regardless.
Opening the door, he discovered a bright beautiful day scented with the full promise of spring. Flowers bloomed on either side of the door and flies, lazy after a morning's work, sunned themselves on the broad green leaves. At the far end of the garden Mr. and Mrs. Wadwell were deep in conversation with a small dark man. As soon as Dilburt saw Jack emerge from the cottage, he practically pushed the man away, diverting his attention by leading him down the muddy lane. Mrs. Wadwell came rushing forward, a plump finger on an even plumper lip. "Inside, lad, inside," she hissed.
Jack obeyed her immediately. Not content with closing the door, she took the precaution of bolting it. "In bed now, this instant. I'll bring you a pot if need made you stray."
Too embarrassed to say anything, Jack merely nodded. "Now, lad, if anyone should happen to come
here, you're Dilburt's sick nephew from Todlowly." Mrs. Wadwell thought for a second. "And the ague has taken your voice."
So she knew he was from the kingdoms. In that case, he might as well speak freely. "Who was that man in the garden?" he asked.
"A friend of Dilburt's from the garrison." Mrs. Wadwell handed him the largest chamberpot he'd ever seen in his life. The sides were painted with waterfalls. "My sister makes them herself," she said.
He took it from her and placed it on the floor. Relieving himself would have to wait. "Do they know anything more about how the fire started?"
Mrs. Wadwell wasted no words. "A prisoner did it. A man from the kingdoms with chestnut hair and an arrow wound in his chest."
"I'll go now," said Jack.
A heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder. "You're in no fit state to go anywhere, lad. At least stay another night until you're strong enough to leave." Courage gleamed softly in the darkness of her eyes, and the lines of her jaw suggested a formidable depth of determination.
Jack was overwhelmed by her offer. Here he was a stranger, an enemy and a murderer, yet she was prepared to put herself at risk by harboring him. He couldn't let her.
"No, I must go," he said. "I owe you and Dilburt too much as it is." He took her hand and kissed it gently. "Though I thank you from my heart for your kindness."
Mrs. Wadwell snorted dismissively. "Dilburt's never wrong about anyone. If he says you're all right, then it's good enough for me." She smiled, a little sadly, and ruffled his hair. "Well, if you're set on going, then you might as well know the worst. The whole county is teeming with soldiers who are looking for you. Every man, woman, and child is on the alert and your description has been circulated far and wide. In a day's time you won't be able to show your face within a fifty-league radius of the garrison. A week from now there'll be nowhere you can hide."
"What do they know about me?"
"Apparently, the prisoner who you shared a cell with told them that you were a plant, sent here by King Kylock on a special mission to infiltrate and destroy the garrison." Mrs.
Wadwell gave him a hard look. "He also said you were a mighty sorcerer who had the elements at your command."
"Do they believe him?"
"You know folks, never want to believe anything that smacks of sorcery, so they've come up with all sorts of theories to explain the fire and the explosions. Still, people talk, and what can't be said freely in public is whispered soft and long in private."
Jack opened his mouth to speak.
"Nay, lad," she said quickly, "I don't want to know the truth. I look at you and I see a young man who's ill and confused, nothing more." She smiled brightly. "Let's leave it at that, eh?"
A soft tapping at the door stopped Jack from giving his thanks. There was a tense moment whilst Mrs. Wadwell drew back the bolt, but Dilburt stood there alone.
"Did he see the lad?" she asked.
"He did, but I told him what you said and he seemed happy enough." They exchanged a brief, telling glance, and then Dilburt said, "I'm sorry lad, but I think it's better that you go. If it was me alone, you could stay here until they knocked down the door. But, the wife..." Slowly, he shook his head. "I'd be a broken man if anything should happen to her."
Jack nodded. "I know, Dilburt. Your wife is the bravest woman in all of Halcus, and I would not see her harmed for the world." As he spoke, he realized he meant every word he said.
Dilburt came and put his arm around Jack. "You're a good lad, truly you are. I'm glad I brought you home."
A noise escaped Mrs. Wadwell's throat that sounded suspiciously like a sob. From her sleeve she pulled out a handkerchief the size of a small tablecloth and blew into it loudly. Having finished this, she turned to Dilburt. "Well, what are you waiting around for, husband? If the lad's going, you need to get him some supplies."
Dilburt smiled ruefully at Jack and then busied himself about the cottage, wrapping cheeses and meats, filling skins with wine, and pulling clothes from a trunk.
Mrs. Wadwell slapped her broad hand on Jack's forehead. "Still some fever there," she pronounced. "I'll have to give you some medicine." Pulling a silver flask from her tunic, she urged him to drink, "down to the last drop."
Jack had only tasted brandy once before in his life. Master Frallit had been given a bottle one Winter's Eve by the poulterer's widow-an amorous lady who had her eye on a quick second marriage--and he promptly hid it amidst the flour sacks. Jack found it there the next morning, and by the time that Master Frallit discovered him, half of the brandy was gone. He was so drunk that he never felt the beating. Which was, he now realized, a sign of good medicine. Anything that could numb the sensation of Frallit in full frenzy must be very powerful indeed.
Whilst he drank the brandy, Mrs. Wadwell inspected his various cuts and bruises. Every now and then she would shake her head and make soft clucking noises. She redressed his shoulder wound and rubbed his legs and arms down with the last of the good wine. When she was finished, Dilburt stepped forward with several choices of clothes for him to wear.
Mrs. Wadwell became a military commander, choosing the clothes that would best blend in with the surrounding countryside. Unfortunately, size and fit were not on her mind.
The brown tunic she chose was so long that it prompted the appearance of the large scissors-Jack was beginning to realize that everything in the Wadwell home was done on a grand scale--and a good length of fabric was cut from the bottom. The breeches presented a similar problem, but a length of rope so thick it could have docked a ship was quickly tied about his waist to keep them up.
By the time they had finished with him, Jack was loaded up like a packhorse and armed to the teeth. Three knives of deadly sharpness and varying size were concealed about his person, together with a bag full of small caltraps that could bring a charging horse to a halt. The fact that Dilburt had a supply of siege foils in his house did not surprise Jack in the least: the Wadwels were a couple who liked to plan ahead.
Mrs. Wadwell leaned forward and planted her plump lips on Jack's cheek. Her massive bosom was squashed against his chest. "Farewell, lad, I'll be sorry to see you go."
One firm bone-crushing squeeze and then she backed away, instantly changing from earth mother to general. "Now, when you leave, go by way of the back woods. Keep under cover whenever possible. Spring's come early so there's enough foliage to cast some decent shadows. After about half a league of heading due south, you'll come to a brook, follow it upstream for about . . ." She paused, considering. "How far would you say, husband?"
"No more than four leagues, wife."
"Right you are. After four leagues, you'll come to a fork, follow the stream that leads up into the hills-you should be facing northeast by this time-and from there you should be able to make your own way. The woods are pretty much deserted, but keep your eye out for poachers, just in case."
Jack obediently nodded to all the instructions. The brandy had set his blood afire and the weight of all the food and supplies was making it difficult for him to stand. He didn't have the heart to tell them they had given him too much to bear. He would have to lose some bundles later, when he was alone. Which was sad, because he valued their gifts. His legs would have it no other way, though. He knew they would give way if he asked too much of them; they were already trembling now, just standing with the weight.
Dilburt took his hand and clasped it firmly. "Take care, lad. And remember my wife's directions, no one knows the country round here like she does."
They led him to the door, checked that no one was outside, and then let him through. As they accompanied him to the back of the cottage, Jack noticed they were arm in arm.
The sight of such casual, everyday affection affected him deeply. He had imagined such moments with Tarissa: moments where they linked arms without conscious thought, or where they exchanged kisses as easily as smiles. All gone now. He was alone, his dreams shattered like glass, leaving splinters to pierce his soul. How could she have done it?
How could she have betrayed him so completely?
There was no anger now, only sadness and, as Mrs. Wadwell had wisely guessed, confusion. Tarissa said that she loved him, and everyone, even Bodger and Grift, had told him it was wrong to hurt the one you love. So it was a lie. And amongst a catalog of falsehoods and deceit, it was still the one that hurt the most.
"There you go, lad," said Mrs. Wadwell, breaking into his thoughts. "The woods are over yonder. They're quite a walk, but you'll be all right once you reach those first set of trees." She smiled at him kindly, her large face almost completely free of wrinkles.
They had already said their good-byes, so the only thing left was to give his thanks. He turned to face the couple who were his enemies. Halcus was now at war with the kingdoms, yet these two people before him had shown him more kindness in the last day than anyone at home ever had. With the possible exception of an old lady pig farmer who lived just off Harvell's eastern road. Certainly they proved to him that the Halcus were not the arrogant, godless people that everyone in the kingdoms believed them to be. The idea of war suddenly seemed appalling to Jack. It was easy to hate a country, yet hard to hate its people once you knew them. Mr. and Mrs. Wadwell were happy, good-hearted folks, and they didn't deserve to be brought to their knees by Kylock.
A deep weariness came over him, settling on his shoulders like an extra burden. For some reason that he couldn't explain, he felt responsible for everything, not just the destruction of the garrison, not only the fate of the couple in front of him, but more. Much more.
"Well," he said softly. "I'll be on my way."
"Aye, lad," murmured Dilburt.
"I want to thank you both for everything you have done for me. I'll never forget your kindness." Jack looked first at Dilburt and then his wife. "Never."
Mrs. Wadwell's large handkerchief put in an appearance as the lady herself dabbed it around her eyes. "Go now, lad," she said. "I'll watch you till you're safely to the trees."
Jack smiled briefly, sent a quick prayer to Borc to strengthen his step, and began the long walk to the woods.
