by J. V. Jones
"Is Melli in love with the duke?"
Baralis recognized the glint of obsession in the mercenary's eye. He was not displeased. "No. Her father is forcing her into it."
As he had hoped, Traff was pleased with the answer. The mercenary smiled thinly. "I guessed as much. I will be there tomorrow."
"Good. Do not be late." Baralis turned and left the room. The woman who smelled of dead rats rushed to greet him, but he shook her off. He found his own way out.
Baralis was in a good mood as he traveled back to the palace. The meeting with Traff had gone better than he could possibly have imagined. The fact that the mercenary was infatuated with Maybor's daughter made everything easy. Traff had jumped at the chance to murder the duke. Events were moving in his favor once more. Picking up his pace, Baralis rushed across the city. He had much to do today; there was gold to be procured, poison to be made, and guards to be reminded of their obligations.
Mistress Greal was shin-deep in sewage. She barely smelled it. She was busy extracting a large splinter from her cheek. With her good hand, she gripped at the wooden tip and then pulled as hard as she could. The pain was excruciating. The splinter had gone deep, and as it came out, it brought blood welling to the surface. Mistress Greal counted herself quite fortunate: a finger's breadth higher and it could have been her eye. She made no attempt to stop the bleeding. What was a little blood compared to what she had just heard? Pressing her ear against a certain wood shutter had been the cause of her injury. Curiosity was what brought her outside in the first place.
As soon as the dark nobleman came to the door, she knew he was from the Four Kingdoms. When he asked to see the mercenary, her interest was piqued. While her sister went off to fetch Traff, Mistress Greal made her way outside. She waded through the filth at the side of the building to the back wall. Once there she positioned herself close to the window and listened to the conversation between man and mercenary. Her surprise at finding out that the mysterious nobleman was none other than Lord Baralis, king's chancellor, was quickly overwhelmed by the greater surprise of hearing what he planned to do.
Mistress Greal had been listening at doors, windows, walls, floorboards, and screens all her life. It was amazing . what a poor spinster woman could pick up if she had sharp ears and a good nose for intrigue. Mistress Greal had both. As a matter of habit, she routinely eavesdropped on her girls, her customers, her rivals, and most recently her sister, Madame Thornypurse. She'd heard casual gossip, lots of petty arguments, more than a few useful business tips, and many unpleasant remarks about herself. But never once in all the years she'd spent pointing her batlike ears where they had not been invited had she come across anything to match the scale of what she'd just heard.
A plot to assassinate the duke of Bren! It was a blackmailer's dream. Mistress Greal stood amidst the warm and stinking sewage and contemplated what to do next. Should she act now and prevent the murder from going ahead? Or should she bide her time until the deed was done and only then make her move? Raising her hand to her face, Mistress Greal rubbed a finger across her lips. She felt the all too familiar concavity that marked the absence of teeth. Teeth that had been knocked out by Lord Maybor. The very man who was father of the bride.
Mistress Greal's small eyes narrowed to slits. She would let the murder go ahead. Lord Maybor would suffer more that way; he would lose both his daughter, and his chance to be related by marriage to the duke. Yes, she would keep her little secret until the harm had been done. Not only was there more satisfaction to be gained that way, but also more money: everyone knew it was more profitable to be a blackmailer than an informant. Feeling rather pleased with herself, Mistress Greal headed back toward the brothel, wading slowly through the filth.
"There, boy," said Stillfox, handing him a peculiar wooden cup. "Drink some of the lacus; it will help to bring you round."
Jack's world gradually began to expand outward once more. His field of vision, which upon hearing that Helch had surrendered to Kylock had narrowed to a darkened pinpoint, now enlarged enough for him to see the cup and the hand that held it. The drink's strong but fragrant odor seemed to act like a charm, dispelling the reek of slowly decaying corpses from his nostrils and his thoughts.
He had been there! To the Halcus capital. He had stood amidst the carnage that Kylock had created. There, and so many other places, whether in the future or the past, he did not know. He had seen the truth of war. It was not the sum of glorious fights and flashing blades and men bound by honor. It was bloody, dirty, and disorganized. Flies, fever, infection, mud, tainted water, and starvation. Victory came to the most ruthless, not the bravest. Jack had seen the bodies of young children, their mothers raped and mutilated by their sides; he had seen young men bleeding to death from the groin, their manhood and testicles hacked off; he had seen old women wandering aimlessly through a city whose streets were red with blood. Jack had seen enough to know that Kylock was the most ruthless of all.
Yet what difference did it make to him? He had no part in anything.
Feeling weary and confused, Jack brought the cup to his lips. The silvery fluid reached out to meet his tongue. It tasted sharp and pungent, strange and yet familiar in one. He felt its progress as it slipped down his throat and nudged itself into his belly. Once there it grew heavy like a manycourse feast.
"Don't fight it, Jack," said Stillfox. "It wants to make you sleep."
"Why?"
"The lacus likes to work on a slumbering body and a still mind." Stillfox ran his hand over his cleanly shaven chin. His expression was serious. "Drink up lad, you are very weak."
Jack drained the cup dry. There was something about the liquid that caused it to tingle against his gums. It left a metallic aftertaste in his mouth. "Is there sorcery within the drink?" he asked.
Stillfox nodded, a faint smile gracing his pale lips. "Not my doing, though. We have the nomads of the Great Plains to thank for that." He stood up and began to busy himself about the cottage, hanging herbs and putting pots on to boil.
Jack yawned. He could still hear the sound of shouting from outside. "How long was I . . . "
"Entranced?" Stillfox looked up; he was pulverizing bark with a pestle. "For the best part of an hour, I would say. You completely withdrew into yourself. Your eyes were open, but they were not seeing what was before them. Your skin became cold and the color left your cheeks. You were no longer in my home." The man who was almost, but not quite, old gave Jack a questioning look.
Jack wondered how much to tell him. Who was he? Could he trust him? Since arriving in the herbalist's cottage the day before, Stillfox had said very little. He had been too busy to talk: tending wounds, making medicines, cooking food, and seeing to his herbs. Jack appreciated the silence. Stillfox had asked no questions, and he was grateful for that. Normally Jack would have trusted the man completely, judging his intentions by the kindness of his actions. Things were different now. His time at Rovas' cottage had taught him that appearances could be deceptive, and that even a smiling face could be a treacherous one.
"What did you mean when you said you recognized one of your own?" As Jack spoke, he realized how tired he was feeling. The lacus nestled in his belly, slowing his blood and thickening his thoughts. He fought against it, in defiance of Stillfox's advice.
"I am a sorcerer like you," said Stillfox.
Jack had quickly learned that the herbalist had two voices: a lilting country voice which he spoke with most of the time, and a strong plain-speaking voice which he only used when the conversation took a serious turn. It was the second voice he spoke with now.
"I am a modest practitioner. Occasionally I enhance the healing properties of my herbs, but not often. Sometimes I communicate with wisemen far away, and once in a while I am forced to draw in self-defense." Stillfox shrugged. "I am not a powerful man like you."
Jack felt the quick flare of anger. "I'm not powerful, and I'm not a sorcerer." He squeezed the wooden cup between his hands, determined to ruin its perfec
t smoothness.
"Don't make a liar of yourself, Jack. You know I speak the truth." Stillfox's voice had a matching edge of anger. "The longer you insist on denying what you are, the more damage you will do. Look what happened at the garrison. You were out of control. You didn't have the slightest idea how to stop what you started. Sheer desperation-nothing more-put an end to the destruction." The herbalist was trembling. "You're dangerous and it's time you learned how to control yourself."
Jack felt the cup break in his hand. "What makes you think you know so much?"
"I felt it. I felt the blind unfocused rage. I felt wave after ceaseless wave of drawing." Stillfox's hand was up and pointing. "Don't flatter yourself, Jack. You might be strong, but you have no skill whatsoever. What you did at the garrison was unforgivable. You let your emotions form the drawing: the most foolish thing any sorcerer could do. You acted like a spoiled child-making others pay for your pain. Your power is matched only by your ignorance."
"And that's why I brought you here, Jack. Not because I'm in the habit of helping road-weary travelers, but because you're a danger to those around you, and it's about time someone took you in hand."
Jack was aware that Stillfox was looking at him, but he couldn't meet the herbalist's eyes. He looked down at the broken cup instead. He was no longer angry; he was ashamed. Everything Stillfox had said was true.
"I never meant to hurt anyone."
Stillfox was beside him in an instant, his arm coming to rest on Jack's shoulder. "I know, lad. I know." The herbalist's voice was soft and lilting once more. "I'm sorry I spoke harshly-"
"No, don't be," said Jack. "I deserved it. You're right, I am dangerous." He let the pieces of cup fall to the floor. It was time to place his trust in someone. He took a deep breath. "I need help. I don't know what's happening to me, or why I've got these powers. I feel as if I'm supposed to do something, only I don't know what it is."
Stillfox nodded gently. "What did you see before?"
"I saw Helch as clearly as if I were there. The blood, the flies, the bodies." Jack shuddered, remembering. "It was like a warning."
"And has anything like this happened before?"
"Yes. There have been other times in the past few months." Jack made a small, helpless gesture with his hand. "Whenever the war is mentioned, my stomach knots up, and I get an overwhelming urge to take off and be part of it."
"To go to Helch?"
"No. To Bren." Jack met Stillfox's gaze. "I think I've known all along that Kylock would win the war with the Halcus."
"He hasn't won yet," said Stillfox. "The capital may have fallen, but all of eastern Halcus is free. It could take Kylock weeks, even months, before the entire country surrenders."
"What happens when it does?" Jack thought he already knew the answer, yet he wanted to hear it from Stillfox, from a man who lived in Annis.
"The north will turn into a battlefield. No one will be willing to stand around and watch Kylock build himself an empire. The fact that he's made it to Helch has caught every one by surprise. It's nothing short of miraculous, and Highwall and Annis are both terrified that they could become victims of a similar miracle." Stillfox was back pounding at the bark with his pestle. "Kylock will soon have Bren on one side of the mountains and Halcus on the other. And it won't be long before he turns his gaze on the powers in between."
"How soon will this happen?" asked Jack.
"I can't say. It depends on Kylock. Annis and Highwall are waiting to see what he'll do next."
Jack suddenly felt very tired. The lacus was reasserting itself. He stifled a yawn. It wouldn't be long now before he fell asleep. "What has all this to do with me, though? I'm from the kingdoms. I should be glad that Kylock looks set to forge an empire."
"I think you already know the answer to that, Jack," said Stillfox softly. g"You have a part to play in what is to come."
"But why"
"It doesn't matter why. That's not important. It's how that counts. What happened at the garrison proves that you are somehow involved in the war. Without knowing it you actually aided Kylock's cause." Stillfox spoke quickly and in earnest. "What you need to do now is gain some measure of control over your powers so that nothing like that happens again. Next time you form a drawing you should know exactly what you're doing, and what the consequences are going to be. I can't tell you what your role will be-that's for you to find out on your own-but I can prevent you from making further mistakes. You need to be taught how to master what you have inside. That much I can do."
Jack looked into Stillfox's blue eyes. "Why would you do this for me?"
"Perhaps I, too, have a role. Perhaps I am meant to teach you."
"No, Bodger, if you want to get a girl randy, you don't give her oysters."
"Why not, Grift?"
"Because you can never be too sure with oysters, Bodger. They're more likely to give a wench a nasty rash around the vitals than get her feeling randy."
"Really, Grift?"
"Aye, Bodger. That's if she doesn't choke on 'em first."
"What food does get the women going, then, Grift?"
"Bread pudding, Bodger."
"Bread pudding, Grift?"
"Aye, Bodger. The strongest aphrodisiac known to man. There's not a wench alive who won't be willing to lie flat on her back after two servings of good and thick bread pudding. It takes the fight right out of a girl."
"So it doesn't exactly make a wench raudy, then, Grift. It just sort of wears them out."
"Exactly, Bodger. That's the best a man like you can hope for." Grift took a swig of his ale. "Mind they don't eat it with sauce, though."
"Why's that, Grift?"
"Sauce makes wenches uppity, Bodger. Start demanding satisfaction, they do."
"Ah, gentlemen, as talkative as ever, I see."
Bodger and Grift both swung around at the sound of the smooth, mocking voice.
Baralis was standing by the entrance to the chapel. He had managed to open the door and step inside without being heard. "You are alone?" he asked as he closed the door.
Grift nodded. "Aye, sir." By his foot lay an empty jug of ale, and he silently nudged it under the pew. He didn't want Baralis knowing how much they had been drinking.
"Good. Then I will get straight to the point. You do recall that you owe me a debt of gratitude?" Baralis didn't wait for a reply. "I could have had both of you whipped for the insolence of your tongues." A tiny smile graced his lips. "And still could, if I chose."
"We're most sorry about what we said on the journey here, Lord Baralis," said Bodger. "We meant no offense." Grift placed a silencing hand on Bodger's arm. He would deal with this. "What do you want from us, Lord Baralis?" The man was not after apologies. He had come to strike a deal.
Baralis approached the two guards. He lifted his nose up and sniffed at the air. "Ale to wash down the gossip, eh?"
"Just half a jug-"
Grift stopped Bodger in midsentence by a swift kick to the shin. "What's it to you?" he asked, meeting Baralis' eye.
"Nothing at all." Baralis was so close now that Grift had to physically stop himself from moving back. Bodger had already done so and was now pinned against the back of the pew. "In fact," continued Baralis, "I hope you will be drinking tomorrow evening. I'll even send you the jugs myselfonly the best, of course."
"Why would we want to drink tomorrow?" asked Grift. He was beginning to feel very wary.
"Because when you are drinking on the other side of the chapel doors, you will miss the passage of one man through them."
"Who is this man?"
Baralis' hand came up. "Ask no questions, my friend. Just do as I say." His voice was smooth, tempting. "Let the man pass and I will consider your debt repaid."
Grift knew he had little choice but to do as Baralis asked. The man could have them thrown out of the guard, whipped, tortured, poisoned, or worse. He cursed the day the king's chancellor had overheard them speaking. To be indebted to Baralis was the same as being ind
ebted to the devil-both would take a man's soul given half a chance.
"You leave us little choice, Lord Baralis," he said.
"I see you're a sensible man. I trust your young companion there will also be sensible." He motioned toward Bodger.
"Bodger will do as I say."
"Good." Baralis brought his hands together. "Remember, not a word of this to anyone." He began to walk down the aisle.
Grift spoke up. "Will this man you speak of be coming through again?"
Baralis wheeled around. "Yes." He stood and considered for a moment. The expression on his face turned from thoughtfulness to pure cunning. "Raise the alarm when he does. I don't want him leaving the palace alive."
THIRTY-FIVE
"No, Nessa," snapped Melli. "Not so tight. I won't be able to breathe, let alone walk up the aisle." She knew she was being a little harsh on the girl, but she was nervous. "Hand me the cup of wine." The servant dashed off to do her bidding. A moment later Melli heard footsteps behind her.
"My lady's wine." It was Tawl who held forth the cup, not Nessa.
Melli deliberately hid her pleasure at seeing him. "Where's Nessa?" she said, snatching the cup from him. "She's slipped out for a moment. I think you wore her down." Tawl's voice was gently mocking. "You will make a beautiful bride, but hardly a serene one."
"I look beautiful?"
"Breathtaking."
Melli had to look away. There was too much truth in Tawl's eyes. "Will you be attending the wedding?" she asked, raising the cup to her lips.
"Yes. I will be escorting you and your husband back to your chambers."
Husband. Melli flinched at the word; she couldn't stop herself. Everything was happening so fast. Too fast. She felt as if she were caught up in something that she was now powerless to stop. It was as if the marriage had become a separate entity; it was a force unto itself, and its momentum was so great that it carried her along with it. Melli had been genuinely shocked when the duke had proposed such a quick marriage. She had been hoping for at least a few weeks warning, but it wasn't to be. The duke had insisted on marrying her today-in secret.
