Fifteen

Tawl awoke and wondered where he was. As his head cleared he realized that he was still on Larn. He puzzled over how he had fallen asleep. He was in a small room, lying on a stone bench. As he rose, his aching back told him he had spent some time lying on the hard surface.

He had no memory of being brought to this place. He could recall nothing after leaving the cavern. Tawl felt alarmed. He could remember the seeing clearly, but nothing else. He realized he had to get back to the ship. Captain Quain had said he would sail after one day. Tawl had no way of knowing what time or what day it was. He had to leave immediately. As he made his way from the room, the youngest of the four entered.

“Greetings,” he said. “I hope you are well rested.”

“How did I come to be here?” demanded Tawl.

“It is a natural side effect of the seeing. The one who seeks answers is usually drained of all his strength. It is nothing to worry about. Seeing takes its toll on all of us. You became tired and we brought you here so you could sleep.”

“How long have I slept?” Tawl did not believe a word the younger had said. He remembered feeling fine immediately after the seeing.

“You have slept for many hours. There is a new dawn.”

“I must go. My ship is due to leave soon.” Tawl remembered the earlier talk of price. “Tell me what due I must pay.”

“Oh, that.” The younger’s tone was casual. “I think the price will not be high. I believe you will be asked merely to deliver some letters on our behalf in Rorn. You are sailing there, I take it?” There was something about the man’s voice that made Tawl suspicious. He had been given the impression earlier that his due would be much greater than acting as a messenger.

“Is that all?” he asked.

“Why, of course. You should not believe all those fireside stories you hear about Larn. All we ever ask in return for a seeing is some small service. We looked upon you with benevolence and decided you should not pay too dearly. If you follow me, I will give you the letters.” The man turned and walked from the room and Tawl followed.

He was given two letters, both sealed with wax. He was told where and to whom they should be delivered. He was then led by a hooded man down through the cliffside. As he walked, Tawl found he could not shake off his uneasiness. Something was not right. He could not believe the four were letting him off so easily—letters to deliver in a city he would be in anyway? The most disquieting thing to Tawl, though, was how he had managed to lose the greater part of a day and night.

Tawl was forced to focus on other matters as he approached the beach. He must row fast if he was to reach The Fishy Few before she set sail. The fresh air seemed to Tawl like a blessing after the stale atmosphere of temple and cavern. With every breath he took, he felt his mood growing lighter. Soon he would be free from this cursed place. He decided that when he eventually returned to Valdis he would talk to Tyren about the terrible plight of the Seers of Larn. He wanted to make sure that no more young men would ever be forced into such a life.

Tawl launched his rowboat into the surf, reveling in the cold water about his waist. He jumped into the boat and took up the oars, glad that his feet were no longer on the island. He was soon making good time. He put all his energy into pulling the oars. It helped him to put Larn out of his thoughts.

It was difficult for him to remember the location of The Fishy Few. Mists swirled at a convenient distance from the shores of Larn, hiding its presence from passing ships. Tawl tried to keep a heading southwest, hoping to eventually stumble upon the boat. After a few hours of rowing, he became anxious: surely he would have spotted the ship by now. He stopped rowing and started listening. He thought he heard a faint call. It came again: the sound of a fog horn. The crew of The Fishy Few were trying to help him by making their presence known. Tawl immediately became heartened and started rowing with renewed effort in the direction of the horn call.

Not much later, Tawl caught sight of the ship’s high masts above the mist. His heart filled with joy at the sight. The Fishy Few had not abandoned him. He drew nearer and the mists parted; he was greeted by the sound of a cry, “Boat, ahoy!”

Tawl looked on as the crew of the ship gathered to watch his approach. He made out the form of Captain Quain, who raised his hand in greeting. Tawl heard the crew join in a loud cheer and then, as he drew alongside the ship, he heard the captain shout, “Break open a barrel, shipmates, our good friend has returned.”

“No, Bodger, it ain’t the miller’s wife who’ll tumble for a length of cloth and a spring chicken.”

“That’s what I heard, Grift.”

“No, Bodger, there’s no one better off than a miller’s wife. No, it’s the tallow maker’s wife who’ll tumble for goods. Everyone knows there’s no profit to be made in tallow.”

“The tallow maker’s wife never looks short to me, Grift. She always wears the prettiest dresses.”

“Exactly, Bodger! How can a woman whose husband barely makes one silver a month afford fine linen? She sets a good table, too, plenty of roasted chicken.”

“Still, Grift, Master Gulch told me that he managed to take a tumble with the miller’s wife by giving her one length of cloth and a spring chicken.”

“Master Gulch should have saved his money, Bodger. The miller’s wife will take a tumble with just about anybody in breeches, and for no reason other than she’s just plain randy.”

“Do you think I’d have a chance with the miller’s wife, then, Grift?”

“I’m not sure that you’d want to, Bodger.”

“Why’s that, Grift?”

“Unfortunately, Bodger, it appears that the miller’s wife has been spreading her favors so far and wide that she’s caught the ghones. And unless you fancy the idea of watching your balls slowly putrefying and then dropping off, I’d stay clear of her.”

“I’m glad you warned me, Grift, you’re a true friend.”

“I consider it my duty to keep you informed of such matters, Bodger.”

“What about Master Gulch, Grift? Did he catch the ghones?”

“Well, Bodger, all I can say is that judging by the way he’s been walking recently, it won’t be long before his plums hit the deck.”

The two guards sat back against the wall and relaxed for a while, supping their ale.

“Hey, Grift, while I was up on the battlements this morning, I could have sworn I saw a group of horsemen in the forest.”

“Whose colors were they wearing, Bodger?”

“Well, Grift, they were quite a distance away, but they looked like mercenaries to me.”

“They’ll be the ones in the pay of Lord Baralis, then. I wonder if they’ve found young Jack?”

“I didn’t spot him, Grift.”

“I hope he’s got well away by now, Bodger. The boy’s better off gone from the castle. He never fit in. Just like his mother, head in the clouds the pair of them.”

“I heard say his mother was a witch.”

“Aye, Bodger, the rumors abounded. Beautiful girl she was. Judging from her accent she came from the south, but whether she was a witch or not, I couldn’t tell you. Though I did hear a few stories.”

“What sort of stories did you hear, Grift?”

“It was said that she once turned an over-ardent suitor bald.”

“Bald?”

“As a coot.”

“It wasn’t Master Frallit, was it, Grift? He’s got a head as bald as your own.”

“My lips are sealed, Bodger.” Grift took a long draught of ale and said no more.

Maybor was beginning to wonder what had become of his assassin. He had sent Crandle to find the man, but his servant had been unable to locate him. The assassin had obviously not done his job, for Maybor had seen Lord Baralis with his own eyes that morning.

Maybor had been walking in the gardens, taking the air that the wisewoman had advised, when he had seen Baralis slithering around the castle walls, trailed by his lumbering idiot, Crope. It had suited Maybor that the man had not seen him; he had no wish to confront Baralis, he would rather stay in the background until his enemy was disposed of. Only now it seemed that the man commissioned to do that very job had disappeared.

Maybor did not even know if Scarl had been staying in the castle or the town; the assassin liked to keep his movements to himself. Perhaps the assassin decided that Baralis was so dangerous that he backed out. Maybor decided against that theory. He had dealt with Scarl before and knew him well. He was not a man to flee from danger.

Maybor was walking the length of his chamber wearing his servants’ clothes. He had insisted that every robe in his wardrobe be burnt and now found himself in the humiliating circumstance of having nothing to wear. His sons were too slim to lend him any of their clothes, and so he had been forced to don the rather disgusting and none too clean clothes of his servant, Crandle. Maybor had commissioned the castle robemaker to fashion him some new robes, but they would not be ready for a week.

He, the great Lord Maybor, had been forced to walk in the castle gardens dressed like a common servant. Baralis had a lot to answer for!

Maybor was understandably beginning to develop a deep fear of being poisoned. What might Baralis try to poison next? His bedclothes? His shoes? Maybor had tried to force Crandle into testing his food and wine for him, but the thankless servant had adamantly refused. If Baralis was not out of the way soon, he would be forced to spend good money hiring a food taster and their services did not come cheap. It was, Maybor grudgingly supposed, a risky profession to be in.

He was not pleased with his assassin; he had waited too long to make his move. He decided that when Scarl finally did his job, he would have absolutely no qualms about having the man’s throat slit. There was no way he was about to give up thirty acres of his orchards to a man who was so slow about his work.

Crandle entered the chamber with a brief knock.

“What do you want? Have you managed to locate the man named Scarl?”

“No, sir, it appears that no one knows where to find him.”

“Where has that damned man disappeared to?” Maybor stamped his foot.

“Well, your lordship, a thought has occurred to me. Of course, I might be wrong.”

“Get to it, man, do not dither.” Maybor picked up his sliver of mirror and examined the sores on his face.

“You know, sir, that a fire occurred in the banquet hall after you left.”

“Yes, yes.” Maybor was becoming impatient.

“Well, there was one man killed in the fire. He was burned to death.”

“What on earth has that to do with you not finding Scarl?” With great satisfaction Maybor squeezed a pus-filled boil.

“Not one person could identify the body, your lordship, and nobody came forward to report anyone missing.”

Maybor grew still. He knew what Crandle was saying. He thought for a moment and then asked, “What state was the body in?”

“I heard the poor soul was burnt to a cinder, nothing of his face left.”

“Was he found with anything on him?”

“I’m not sure. I heard his knife was the only thing that held up to the flames.”

“His knife?”

“That’s what I heard, sir. Right funny knife, too, by all accounts. Not your usual hand knife.”

“Be gone!” Maybor spoke calmly, and watched as his servant left the room.

He had never seen Scarl’s knife, but Maybor knew it would be something special: it was the only tool of an assassin’s trade. He sat on his bed and pondered the implications of what Crandle had said. Maybor had last seen the assassin the day before Winter’s Eve, he had not heard from him since, and Scarl had not carried out his commission.

Maybor shivered involuntarily. What if Scarl had attempted to murder Baralis and had failed? Baralis might in turn have killed the assassin and started the fire to cover up any evidence. Maybor had heard the strange rumors about the fire. Crandle had even said that a squire saw a man in black walk away from the flames. Baralis was known to be a man who liked to wear black. Maybor rang for Crandle. He could no longer call, his throat would not take the strain.

“Yes, sir,” said Crandle, reappearing.

“I would speak with the squire you mentioned. The one who saw the fire start.”

“Oh, you mean Squire Tollen. He met with a terrible accident just the other day.”

“What happened to him?” Maybor grew chill.

“Well, it appears that he fell on a wheat scythe and ripped his guts open. He died instantly.”

“Does it not seem strange to you, Crandle, that a man would fall on a scythe?”

“Now you mention it, it does seem rather odd. Squire Tollen was no farmer.”

“Leave me now, Crandle. You have given me much to think on.”

After his servant had left, Maybor paced his room. No one, farmer or otherwise, falls on a scythe. This was Baralis’ doing, thought Maybor. He’d had the squire killed to avoid any possible link between himself and the fire. Baralis had somehow managed to kill his assassin. And Scarl was not just any fool with a knife; he had been the best in his profession. The assassin had been right to be wary of his mark. Baralis was becoming too ingenious. Maybor paced for a long time, thinking about how best to eliminate his problem.

Bringe surveyed the huge expanse of orchards. From his position on the hilltop he could see hundreds of acres of the low and leafless apple trees laid out in neat lines as far as the eye could see. Lord Maybor’s orchards. Bringe smiled knowingly to himself and felt in his pocket for the letter. His rough hands curled around the smooth sheet and a tremor of anticipation ran through him.

Bringe knew the great wealth that the orchards represented: they were home to the finest apple trees in the Four Kingdoms. The best cider in the Known Lands was produced from these succulent and sharp-tasting apples. Cider that was exported to countless cities and towns where discerning drinkers were willing to pay the highest prices for a mug of the honey-colored brew.

The apple orchards were the most important industry in the east. If a man did not tend the apple trees, he brewed the cider, or crafted the barrels, or grew hops for the fermentation. Everyone from the youngest babe to the oldest woman in the town of Nestor helped pick the apples when they grew ripe on the tree. The elders held that the secret to fine-tasting cider was picking the apples when the color was just right: light yellow with just the beginning of a reddish blush. Too little red showing on the skin would yield a bitter brew, too much red would turn the brew too sweet.

Bringe drew forth the letter from his pocket and unfolded the document with elaborate care. He peered at the contents, unable to read a word that was written therein. When the dark rider arrived late the previous evening, delivering the letter, Bringe had been forced to take the humiliating step of having his wife read it for him. Of course, he had beaten the slovenly wretch senseless afterward, just in case she got any ideas about blabbing the contents to anyone in the village. As he brought his leather strap down upon her back, he felt he detected a glimpse of arrogance in her watery eye. Bringe hated the idea that his wife might think herself better than him just because she could read. Fueled by righteous indignation—for it was only proper that a man show his wife who was master in the home—Bringe looked around for something more brutal with which to hit her. His eyes alighted on a heavy iron pot, and with vicious enjoyment he beat his wife until she was bloody and senseless.

When he had finished with his wife he realized he was feeling aroused. His thoughts turned to his spouse’s sibling, his young sister-in-law, Gerty. On Winter’s Eve she had sat in his lap, her bottom heavy and warm, swaying suggestively against him. When his wife left the room to tend the stew, Bringe asked Gerty for a kiss. The girl willingly complied. It was no sister’s kiss. Gerty had slipped her sharp tongue between his teeth, sending a thrill of excitement through his body.

Bringe’s thoughts lingered over the abundant charms of his sister-in-law. It was, he thought, high time he took a new wife, and the young and full-thighed Gerty would do him nicely. There was, of course, the problem of his current wife to deal with. Indignation rose in Bringe’s breast. That ungrateful sow had held him back too long. She did nothing but nag and harangue him, and now, because of the letter, she felt she had something on him. He’d show her.

Bringe raised the letter to the pale morning sky. He would be going up in the world soon. There would be gold aplenty, a move to a new town, and a new wife to bed. Bringe carefully placed the letter in his good pocket and strolled down the hill toward the village, a spring in his step and a glint in his eye.

* * *

The moment the door closed behind the guard, Jack rushed across the dark chamber to Melli. She was asleep, stretched out on her side on a low wooden bench. Jack tried not to wake her as he felt the texture of the skin on her back through the thin fabric of her dress. He could feel each individual welt, the skin still raised and puckered. He shuddered to think what would have become of her if the flogging had been allowed to continue. Melli had good reason to be thankful to the mercenaries.

Jack gently pressed the skin around the welts, testing for swelling and fluid beneath. Melli’s skin felt much firmer and he drew in a sigh of relief. The infection which he’d drained some days back appeared to have abated: the skin was healing normally. Jack felt a wave of concern ripple over him. Melli would undoubtedly bear the scars of the rope for life. They would fade somewhat, but they would remain, unmistakable, indelible marks of shame. With great tenderness Jack brushed a lock of dark hair from Melli’s face. Her beauty had been made only more poignant by her sickness. He dreaded to think what horrors she’d been through in Duvitt. Jack leant forward and placed a light kiss on her forehead.

Melli awoke. Her eyes first registered panic, followed by recognition and then annoyance. “What on earth are you doing hovering over me?” she said sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

Jack immediately felt like a fool—to be caught stealing a kiss! He hastily brushed his hair from his face in an attempt to smarten his appearance. “The guard has just left for a moment, so I thought I’d come and check on your . . . ” Jack searched for a delicate word. “Condition.” Melli looked at him with barely concealed hostility.

“I’m certain my condition is just fine, thank you, and I know it’s no concern of yours.” She drew her blanket around her shoulders.

“It’s just that after your . . . er, after the incident in Duvitt, you took a fever.” Jack met his companion’s gaze and Melli was the first to look away.

“I will hear no further talk of Duvitt.” Her tone was harsh, but she seemed to regret it immediately, for she spoke her next words in a softer voice. “Please, Jack, I cannot bear to think of that place.”

“I won’t mention it again,” said Jack in what he hoped to be a gallant manner, bowing his head slightly. “We must talk of other matters while we can, though. The guard could return at any minute.”

“Where are we?” Melli looked around the small, dark cell.

“We’re about an hour’s walk from Castle Harvell. When they brought us here dawn was just breaking. I caught a glimpse of the battlements.”

“So we are in the town?”

“No, from what I could tell, we’re in some kind of underground chamber. One minute we were walking in the forest, the next we were being led down a tunnel, horses and all. You were asleep the whole time. You’ve slept a lot these past days.”

Jack paused for a second, took a deep breath, and then asked the question that had been on his mind for some time now. “Who are you, Melli?” His hazel eyes challenged her. “And what are you running away from?” Too late he realized he had laid himself open to interrogation.

“I might ask you the same question, Jack. What possible interest could a band of mercenaries have with you?” Melli spoke in the manner, and with the confidence, of a great lady. It was obvious to him that she was a noblewoman, used to giving orders and taking charge.

“I am, or rather was, a baker’s boy at the castle. I did something that I shouldn’t have and ran away to escape the consequences.” Jack hung his head low, it was better that she thought him a thief.

“I too ran away from the castle.” Melli’s voice was surprisingly gentle. He looked up and saw that she was idling with the fabric of her dress. “I ran away because my father wanted me to marry someone whom I could not bear the thought of.”

“So these men are in the pay of your father?”

“No, my father would never stoop to hiring mercenaries.” There was more than a hint of pride in her voice. She spun around at him. “You must know who these men are paid by?” Before Jack could think of what answer to give, the door opened and in walked Baralis.

“I think you have your answer, my dear,” he said in his low, alluring voice. Jack glanced toward Melli; she was managing to conceal her surprise well.

“Lord Baralis.” She spoke graciously, inclining her head. “I trust you are here to see to my release.” Jack could detect an edge of anxiety to her confident tone.

“If you would be so kind as to follow me, my lady, I will show you to more comfortable surroundings.” Baralis made a slight gesture, indicating the sparse cell. Jack caught sight of the lord’s hands. They had always been gnarled and twisted, but now they were horribly scarred. Baralis caught his glance; their eyes met. Jack felt fear as he looked into the cold, gray eyes. He looked away, unable to hold the gaze any longer.

Baralis turned his attention back to Melli. “Follow me.”

“And what if I refuse?” Her head was high and her manner imperious.

“You have little choice, my lady.” Baralis beckoned and two armed guards appeared, their swords drawn. Jack watched as Melli struggled to keep her composure.

“It appears you leave me no choice, Lord Baralis.” Jack could not help but admire her calm aloofness. “I trust you will allow my man to accompany me.” Jack did not know whether to be insulted at being called her servant or pleased that she had thought to include him.

“That unfortunately, my dear, is out of the question. Your man—” Baralis left a slight pause indicating to Melli that while he was aware of her lie, he was too much of a gentleman to contradict her “—will have to stay here. Now, please, come this way.”

Melli stepped out of the room, flashing Jack one last look. Baralis waited until Melli was out of sight before turning to Jack, his voice no longer alluring. “I will speak with you later.”

Melli’s sharp ears picked up what Baralis said to Jack and she realized that her companion had not told her the whole truth. The king’s chancellor would not be interested in talking to a castle thief or minor criminal. There was more to the baker’s boy than met the eye.

Baralis led her down a long, stone corridor and Melli felt the chill dampness of being underground. Along the route she spied a pale, translucent moss clinging to the stone walls. On impulse she reached out to touch it.

“Don’t do that,” Baralis cautioned. She stopped, frightened by the warning in his voice. “One never knows with such growths, my lady, how deadly they might turn out to be.” Melli drew her hand back. Baralis turned and continued walking.

After a while his course veered off to the right and he stopped beside a heavy, wooden door. Melli watched dispassionately as Baralis struggled to draw back the bolt with his crooked hands. Something about the sight of his disfigurement stirred up a wisp of memory—a memory from long ago in her childhood. She struggled for the recollection, but it eluded her.

Baralis pushed the door open, and he and Melli entered the chamber. It was brightly lit with many candles and surprisingly warm. There were rugs on the floor and a scattering of tables and chairs.

“I trust you will find this to your liking. My servant Crope brought these things from the castle. They are not much, I am afraid.” Melli was aware that Baralis was playing the room down; he had obviously gone to a lot of trouble to provide her with comfort.

“I have also taken the liberty of having some food prepared for you.” He indicated a low table where a tray of cold food was laid out. Melli’s heart warmed at the sight. There was roast fowl, veal sausage, plover eggs, hearty red cheese, a round loaf, and a selection of hothouse fruits. She looked quickly away, determined to hide her keen interest in the food from her captor.

“It will do for now,” she said icily, hoping he would leave her soon so that she could eat.

“You will probably wish for a bath and a change of clothes. I will arrange to have them brought to you.” Baralis moved to leave, but Melli halted him.

“Why have you brought me here?” she demanded. Baralis paused for a moment, considering whether or not to answer. He looked at her and took a thin breath.

“Let me say this, my dear. We have a mutual interest.”

Something in his voice struck a chord within Melli and his motives became clear to her. “You mean, Lord Baralis, that you do not wish me to marry Prince Kylock either?”

“You are indeed a bright girl, Melliandra.” He smiled faintly. “So much brighter than your father.” He issued the slightest of bows and then withdrew from the room. Melli heard the scrape of metal as the bolt was drawn on the other side.

She rushed over to the food, her mind racing. It was all falling into place. Baralis hated her father; he would not want Lord Maybor to be father-in-law of the future king and grandfather to a future heir. So he had captured her before her father could. She wondered what Baralis’ plans for her were—she could not believe that he would harm her. He surely would not have provided her with such an agreeable chamber if he intended to kill her. Melli decided she would think on the subject no longer. The food looked too tempting and she did not care to ruin her appetite with apprehension.

She settled down upon a small footstool and poured herself a glass of light, red wine. Out of habit she reached for the water jug to dilute the wine—then stopped herself, deciding that she would take her wine whole. The customs of the fine ladies of court seemed trivial to her now. She raised the wine to her lips and drank deeply. It felt good to be flouting customs. Her eyes alighted on the delicate silver paring knife that had been so thoughtfully provided for her. She disregarded it and tore at the roast fowl with her bare hands, neatly twisting a drumstick off with a pleasant snapping of bone.

Baralis rubbed his hands together, massaging muscle and sinew. Since Winter’s Eve he had been unable to open them completely; his fingers curled in toward his palms. Every day he rubbed therapeutic oils into the red, shiny flesh, hoping that their condition would improve and he would regain some flexibility. He was finding it more and more difficult to perform simple tasks: the mixing of compounds, the writing of letters, the drawing of a bolt.

Baralis turned from the door and walked a few steps down the passageway. Facing the blank stone, he brushed his thumb against a section of the wall. The wall slid noiselessly back. Crope stood up guiltily as he entered, his face reddening. Baralis looked to see the cause of his guilt. The dimwit had been petting a small rodent.

“Crope, I have told you before not to take my creatures from their cages; they are not pets to be stroked and fondled.” It was his servant’s responsibility to feed the animals that he kept for his various purposes. Crope, however, tended to get attached to the unfortunate creatures.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” he muttered. “I’ll take it back to the castle right away, see that it’s locked up tight.”

“The creature is of little importance to me now, you lumbering simpleton. I want you to heat up some water and bring it to our guest. Take those to her also.” Baralis indicated a small heap of clothes and linens.

“Very well, master.” Crope moved to leave, gathering up the delicate fabrics in his huge arms.

“One more thing, Crope.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I do not wish to be disturbed for the rest of the day. Go back to my chambers and make yourself useful there once you have finished your task.” Crope nodded. “And take that wretched rodent with you. I have no mind to sit here in the company of a large rat!” Baralis watched with growing impatience as Crope struggled to catch the creature while holding on to the linens. Finally his servant pocketed the sickly looking rodent. Baralis made a quick mental note of the state of the creature—the particular poison he’d been trying out on it obviously worked more slowly than he thought. He’d expected the animal to be already dead.

Once Crope had left, Baralis’ attentions quickly turned to other matters. He was due to have an audience with the queen in the morning to deliver the new batch of the medicine for the king. He hoped that during the meeting he would be able to find out what progress the Royal Guard had made tracking the girl. It was important that they did not follow her trail back to him.

Baralis’ thoughts lingered over the girl: such a tempting young morsel. True, she was a little worse for wear than when she had first run away, but he only found that more appealing. Perfection held little interest for Baralis. He had not decided what to do with her yet. There was no rush; her presence here could not be detected. The haven, as he liked to call it, was known to no one, although there was a tunnel running from it to the castle. Baralis surmised it had been built hundreds of years back as an escape route in times of siege and, like so many other things, had long been forgotten.

Baralis allowed himself to feel a little smug. Events were moving in his favor once more. Not only had his mercenaries found Maybor’s daughter, they had also found the boy. Of course, the treacherous ingrates had insisted on a bonus for finding him. He decided he would let Jack sweat for a few days before he questioned him concerning the incident with the loaves. Two or three days left alone in a dark cell with only crust and water would serve to make the boy more compliant.

Baralis moved toward a faded tapestry on the far wall. He pushed the moth-eaten fabric aside. His gnarled hand resting upon the cool stone, he found what he was looking for—a small gap the size of a thumbnail chiseled out of the stone. Baralis leaned forward and pressed his face to the wall.

He could see every detail of Melli’s chamber. He smiled to see the girl was heartily gulping down her food, biting lustily on a large sausage and swilling wine down her slender throat. The girl obviously had a piece of food stuck between her teeth, as she picked at it unashamedly with a thin pheasant bone. Having loosened the persistent morsel, she spat it out with gusto and then downed more wine.

Baralis could clearly hear the knock that drew her attention. He heard her bid enter, and watched as Crope lumbered into the room carrying a huge pail of boiling water. It amused Baralis to see the fear and revulsion in Melli’s face as his servant crossed the room. With delight, he noticed her eyes alight on the open door, assessing her chance of escape as Crope filled the wooden tub with hot water. The girl casually stood up and inched toward the door. Crope turned around, his hands grasping the pail of hot water.

“I wouldn’t do that, miss,” he said so softly that Baralis had to strain to hear the words. Maybor’s daughter was clearly surprised at his servant’s gentle voice. She sat down again. Crope finished filling the tub. “Be careful, miss,” he warned. “Be sure to put plenty of cold in before you take your bath. This water could scald the skin off your back.” He left the room and returned seconds later with the clothes and linens. He placed them with great care on the bed. The servant then took his leave of the girl, bowing awkwardly.

Baralis watched as the girl looked over the clothes that had been brought; he could see her pleasure in what had been selected. Judging by the tatty red dress she was currently wearing, she had not known the pleasure of fine clothes for some time.

The girl crossed the room and tested the bath water, then quickly withdrew her finger. Satisfied that Crope had spoken the truth, she poured the contents of the cold pail into the bath. Baralis wetted his lips as the girl began to unlace her dress. He had seen many women disrobe in his time, but it was always more interesting when the person in question did not know she was being observed. A woman with a lover will preen and strut, holding in her stomach and thrusting out her chest. A woman alone has no need of such show; she will slouch and scratch and fart.

Melli quickly took off her skirt followed by her bodice. Baralis admired her high, white breasts. She turned to her bath and Baralis took a sharp intake of breath. On her back were six deep, red welts. They were obviously only a few days old, for dried blood was caked around two of them. What is this, he wondered? The mercenaries never mentioned a beating. Baralis could not tear his eyes from the sight; such perfection, such beautiful, creamy skin, such fine legs and buttocks, all thrown into magnificent relief by the presence of the vicious, red scars. Instead of detracting from her beauty they seemed, by their very hideousness, to magnify it. Baralis felt a stirring in his loins.

Melli gathered the soap, brush, and linen swab that she needed for her bath and gingerly lowered herself into the water. She soaked for a while, her head barely above water. Baralis looked on as she began to lather up her brush, she scrubbed her feet and her legs with the brush and then swapped to the cloth rag to clean her more tender areas. She then began to rub her back with the soapy cloth; she winced as it touched the welts. The girl put down the cloth and carefully felt the wounds on her back. She looked afraid of what she felt there. She stood up from the bath, water running in rivulets down her slender frame, and stepped out. She glanced quickly around the room. Baralis could guess what she was searching for: a looking glass. He was pleased that he had thought to provide her with one.

She rushed over to the mirror, her body scattering droplets of water onto the fine rug. She placed her back to the mirror and twisted her head and neck around so that she could see the cause of her distress. Baralis watched the girl’s frightened face crumble into tears at the sight of her scarred back. She fell onto the floor, sobbing quietly.

Baralis moved away from the stone. He had seen enough for the time being. The sight of the girl crying had left him unmoved. He carefully replaced the tapestry and sat down in a comfortable chair, pouring himself a glass of wine.

He turned his attention to other matters, calculating if his letter to Bringe would have been delivered by now. He was anxious to go ahead with his plan to mutilate Maybor’s orchards. Bringe, Baralis mused, was just the sort of man he liked—a greedy one.

 

 

Sixteen

Tavalisk was down in the palace wine cellar testing the various vintages. “I will try a cup of this one,” he said to the young boy who was shadowing him.

“If Your Eminence pleases, I am not allowed to touch the barrels. I will call for the master cellarer.”

“You will do no such thing, boy, I cannot bear the sight of that sanctimonious toad. He knows nothing about wine.” Tavalisk smiled pleasantly. “Come boy, a glass of the red.” The boy reluctantly tapped the barrel, filled a cup, and handed it to the archbishop. “See, boy,” he said, “you have already pleased me more than the cellarer ever did. He only pours me a mere quarter cup when I’m tasting.” Tavalisk held the liquor up to the lamplight, admiring its rich color. A flicker of annoyance crossed his brow as he saw Gamil walking up to him.

“If Your Eminence would be so good as to forgive this intrusion?”

“What now, Gamil?” The archbishop swirled the wine around the glass.

“I have news for Your Eminence.” Gamil eyed the young boy.

“There is no need for me to dismiss this young man, Gamil. I’m sure he can be trusted, and besides, he is being most helpful to me.” Tavalisk favored the boy with another smile.

“I have delicate matters to speak of,” persisted Gamil.

“Do not contradict me!” The archbishop’s voice was icy cold. He turned to the boy, who was now red-faced, and said sweetly, “Fetch me a glass of the Marls white.” The boy rushed off to another barrel. “Now, Gamil, tell me your news.”

“Well, Your Eminence, I have confirmed that there was a fire at Castle Harvell the night of Winter’s Eve—the same night you felt the drawing. I have heard reports of strange things happening at the time the fire started.”

“Let me guess, Gamil. Metal objects warm to the touch? A wave of heat and force?” The boy had returned with another cup of wine and Tavalisk took a mouthful.

“Yes, Your Eminence.” The archbishop savored the wine then spat it it out.

“Sorcery follows the same rules, whoever the practioner. It takes a strong aftermath to warm metals, though. Sounds to me like Baralis acted out of desperation, not cunning. He was trained at Leiss and should know the dangers of using such an indiscreet amount of force.”

The archbishop paused to take a mouthful of wine. “This Marls white is quite delicious; here take a sip.” Gamil lifted his arm to take the glass; Tavalisk ignored the gesture and handed the cup to the boy. “I’d be glad to hear your opinion of it.” The archbishop averted his eyes so not to see the look of malice that momentarily passed over Gamil’s features.

“Your Eminence has a wide knowledge of many subjects.”

“I have a practical knowledge of sorcery, Gamil. As you know, I dabble from time to time; the odd ensorcelment here, the briefest of drawings there, but it is far too physical a pursuit to keep my interest long. Even simple things like the laying of a compulsion upon a dumb creature can make one weak for the day. Sorcery uses a man’s strength as much as his mind, and can leave one’s muscles as well as wits sorely strained.”

Tavalisk beckoned the boy to bring him a glass from another barrel. “People make the mistake of thinking magic comes from the land and the stars, but it comes from within, and when it is drawn out, it makes its loss felt—a man could hardly be expected to lose a quart of blood and then carry on as normal, could he? The same for sorcery.” The archbishop took the fresh cup from the boy. “Sorcery is too debilitating for everyday use. I will use it when necessary, but on the whole I prefer to conserve my strength for the good of Rorn. Sorcery is a poor substitute for cunning.”

Tavalisk grimaced, finding the wine harsh and sour. “Here, Gamil, try this,” he said proffering his aide the cup. “Any news of our friend the knight?”

“He is back in Rorn, Your Eminence. The first thing he did on leaving his ship was to make his way to the whoring quarter.” Gamil sipped cautiously at the wine.

“Probably looking for his own little whore. Come now, Gamil, drink it all up. It’s a fine vintage.” Tavalisk watched as his aide was forced to drink all of the bitter wine.

“Well, he won’t find her, Your Eminence.”

“Not much chance of that, considering where she is.” Tavalisk took the cup from Gamil. “Of course, I do not want the girl harmed in any way.”

“Of course, Your Eminence.”

“I’m merely holding her on the off chance that she might prove a useful gambit to use on our knight at some point. I understand he was quite attached to her?”

“By all accounts he was indeed, Your Eminence.”

“The whore will prove the least of our knight’s worries before long.”

“What does Your Eminence mean?”

“I mean, Gamil, that it’s high time I took some action against his brethren. I’m considering expelling them from the city. The Knights of Valdis have irked me too long and I feel the need to chasten their movements. I’m sick of them manning our harbors and interfering with our trade. Ever since Tyren took over, they’ve stepped up their patrolling—looking for illegal slaves, indeed! Only last week they seized a cargo of spices, worth over a hundred golds it was. Said it was pirated stock!

“The situation is intolerable. They hide behind noble motives when all they’re after is trade. They undercut our prices merely to gain a foothold in the market. They have a near monopoly on the salt trade, and I need not tell you how dangerous that is to our deep sea fishermen—they depend upon salt to preserve the catch. I’m all for a man making a few golds, but let him not be a hypocrite when he does so.” The archbishop thought his last words had a gratifying ring to them and ordered Gamil to write them down for the benefit of the masses.

“You may go now,” said Tavalisk when Gamil had finished writing. He beckoned the servant. “Fill a flagon of the last wine for my aide, boy. I can tell that he enjoyed it enormously.”

“There is no need to bother, Your Eminence.”

“Nonsense, Gamil, it is my pleasure. Think of it as a reward for your scribing.” The boy returned with a large pot of the sour wine and handed it to Gamil. “Be sure to drink it soon; it may lose its distinct flavor if left too long.” Gamil withdrew, struggling to carry the large pot.

“Now, boy,” said the archbishop, addressing the young servant, “let’s move on to the next barrel.”

After a few moments there was a soft patter of feet and a tall, thin man approached. “Ah, Master Cellarer, it is always a delight to see you. I was just telling your boy how much I value your opinion on wine.”

Tawl picked his way around the filth on the streets. The stench of excrement and putrification was overpowering. The people of Rorn relied on the rains to wash the sewage from the streets, but the skies had not unburdened themselves for many weeks, leaving the city displaying its waste for all to see and smell.

He had taken his leave of The Fishy Few earlier that morning. He’d been sorry to bid farewell to the crew, for they had become his friends. Carver had told him he’d turned out to be a better cook than the one they’d left behind. Captain Quain had grasped his hand warmly and offered him help if he ever needed it. “Come down to the harbor any time,” he’d said. “I’m usually here. ’Less I’m at sea o’ course. You’ll always find a measure of rum and a helping hand.” Tawl did not doubt the offer for an instant, the captain was not one to promise his help lightly.

Tawl first made his way to the whoring quarter, hoping to see Megan one last time and perhaps stay with her overnight before leaving the city. He needed to talk to her. Ever since leaving Larn, her words had played upon his mind: “It’s love, not achievement, that will rid you of your demons.” How had she known so much? Achievement was all that mattered. It was all that he lived for, his personal curse. It was this longing for achievement—this need for fame and glory—that had marked him all his life. Searching for its elusive source had proven his downfall.

From the earliest he could remember he’d wanted to be a knight. Every day while fishing, his mind would soar eastward to Valdis. Knights were noble: they saved princesses from towers and fought long battles with demons.

To become a knight required money for training, and Tawl had started selling any surplus he caught. Four extra fish a day meant a copper penny a week. One morning he calculated it would take him fifteen years to make up the required sum. It made him more determined than ever.

He hid his stash at the bottom of the salt barrel. On many an occasion, when they were short of bread or tallow, he’d been tempted to hand it over. By the time his mother died, he had a cup full of coppers. Things were so bad for so long after her death, that he was eventually forced to spend it. Anna caught wet-fever, and the baby, by this time well over a year old, needed to be baptized. There was no choice but to use his savings. Oh, he’d been furious, taking his anger out on his sisters, storming and sulking and making everyone’s life a misery. They didn’t realize how important it was to him, and how, by giving up his stash, he was saying good-bye to more than money alone.

His sisters won him over with tenderness. Sara did the fishing for a week and Anna painted him bright pictures from her sick bed. Perhaps they had understood after all—he just didn’t see it at the time.

It was so hard to see things clearly then. There was the family and nothing else. The responsibility was so great. He took whatever labor he could find: as a farmhand, a tavern boy, a peat cutter—there was always work for someone willing to take his pay in goods, not coinage. The hours were long and grueling. He’d go weeks without seeing the cottage by daylight.

The only time he had to himself was the early morning. His stash might have gone, but the dream still remained. He was strong; he’d known that for as long as he could remember. His fishing hole was precious and he’d defended it many times against newcomers. No one dared bother him anymore. The village cleric had told him that strength alone wasn’t enough to be a knight. So each morning there’d be a book in his pocket as well as a knife. He could never manage to make much sense of old Marod, but if it was important that he could read, then read he would. Even after his coppers were gone, he still took his book along on his fishing trips. He’d tell himself it was force of habit, that the book was useful for securing his line, that old Marod would make a good weapon if he were attacked. The truth was something deeper: as long as he had the book, there was hope. If ever the chance to be a knight came along, and in his dreams it always did, he would be ready for it.

His memory of that time was marked with the sound of taunting. The village boys would never tackle him one-on-one but formed gangs, and when they spotted him going to market—sisters at his side, baby in a basket—they’d laugh and call him the “good housewife,” and tell him to go home and suckle the baby. Sara and Anna would pull on his arm, begging him to come away. The fear in their voices was the one thing that stopped him from taking them on.

Only one day he came alone. He could still recall it now: the sky was blue and full of flies, the ground underfoot was firm. A leg of mutton was his downfall.

Summer Festival was approaching and he’d promised his sisters a treat. To girls who lived on fish and goose, a joint of meat seemed an unbelievable luxury, and no matter how much they annoyed him, Tawl loved to see them excited. He’d left Sara banking the fire in preparation for the joint. She was twelve now, and Anna was eight, the baby just turned three.

There was joy in his step that day. Not only would he buy a leg of mutton, there were extra coppers for ribbons and preserves. Sara and Anna had only rope to tie their hair. He’d seen the way they looked at the village girls with bright posies in their tresses; they longed to have them, yet never dared ask. Sara and Anna both knew there was no money to spare, and would not add to his burden by asking for things they couldn’t afford. They were good girls, really. What they didn’t know was that ever since the baby had been weaned and the wet nurse’s services no longer needed, he had extra fishes to sell. It wasn’t much, just enough for a little surprise on Summer’s Eve.

Tawl bought the mutton; it was stringy and a little tough. He was a novice at haggling and paid the asking price.

He had a hard time with the flies on the way back. They buzzed and bothered, trying to land on the meat. Just as he left the town he heard a voice: “Hey, mother’s boy, best hurry home and brown the joint!” Laughter accompanied the remark. Tawl didn’t turn to look and carried on walking.

“Trouble with flies? They’re attracted to the smell of girls!” A second voice. More laughter.

“You’ll be sprouting breasts soon.”

Tawl spun around. “Say another word and I’ll kill you!” He had the satisfaction of seeing them flinch. Five of them. He knew them well. The leader smirked.

“What you gonna do, housewife, poison us with your cooking?”

Something snapped. Tawl lunged for the leader’s throat. It was in his hands before he knew it. The boy’s face turned red then purple. Someone at his back kicked him. Spinning round, he punched the attacker squarely in the face. Bone crushed beneath his fingers. A third jumped on his back. Tawl threw him off with such frenzy, the boy landed a horse’s length away. A fourth boy hovered, clearly frightened; Tawl chased him and pulled him down. He kicked and kicked until the fury left him.

There was blood on the ground and on his clothes, the leg of mutton lay in the dirt and there were four men down, one wisely fled.

Tawl was close to tears, not because of the fighting, but for the ribbons and the meat. All ruined. He hated the thought of disappointing his sisters. Picking up the joint, he tried his best to brush it free of dust. The ribbons were bloodied, but might wash clean.

He started to walk home, basket in hand, limping slightly from a blow to his leg. Seconds later Tawl heard footsteps behind. He readied himself to fight again.

“You’re strong when angry, young man,” came a voice. Tawl looked round. A man stood in his shadow, a foreigner from his coloring and accent. “That was a very impressive show you put on. You’re vicious but badly in need of training.”

“I asked for no opinion, stranger.” Tawl studied the man. He was dark of hair and eyes. A sword was at his waist and a dagger at his breast, a deep blue cloak gave bearing, and well-oiled leathers suggested wealth.

“I am a man who likes to get what he wants. And I’ll not dance around the maypole: I want you.” The stranger spread his lips in something akin to a smile. He bowed. “I am Tyren, Knight of Valdis.”

Tawl approached the whoring district. He was desperate to see Megan. More and more the past was catching up to him, and he needed her tenderness to help him forget.

He was bitterly disappointed when there was no answer at her door. Forcing his way into her room, he tore off a section of his deep green cloak as a message that he’d been there—Megan would be unable to read a written note.

He took a moment to look around. It was obvious that Megan had not been there for several days; rats scuttled across the floor, flies swarmed around a slice of rotting pie, and dust lay thick on table and chair. Megan was a girl who liked to keep things tidy. Puzzled, he searched around some more, noting that her few dresses and belongings were still there. He looked under the heavy hearth stone where Megan had kept her money; there was no sign of the gold coins. He sighed sadly. She’d taken the money and left. He could hardly blame her—he had urged her to go—it was just that he had not expected her to go so soon.

Tawl ran his fingers through his hair. It was better this way. He could only have stayed one night and they would have parted once more, bringing each other new pain. Tawl closed the splintered door behind him.

He walked for a while down the dirt-ridden streets, marveling at the warmth of the sun—at this time of year the marshlands would be bitingly cold. He took the two letters from his belt and shuddered to see that the wax seals they bore were embossed with an elaborately fashioned letter “L.” He would rest a lot easier once they were out of his possession. Never having heard of the streets where they were to be delivered, he called to a young boy who was running past, “Hey, young fellow.”

The boy looked surprised at being beckoned. “You mean me?” he said, stopping in his tracks.

“Yes, you. I wonder if you can help me. I need someone to direct me to a couple of streets.”

“What’s in it for me?” The boy looked squarely at him. Tawl could not help but smile at the boy’s audacity.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Two coppers,” replied the boy, quick as a flash. Tawl regarded the boy: he was no more than eleven summers old, poorly dressed in a torn cotton tunic. He looked as if he had not eaten in several days.

“I will give you no money, young man, but I promise you a hot meal.” Tawl could clearly see the boy sizing up his offer.

“How do I know you won’t let me swing, once I’ve shown you to where you want to go?”

“You have my word.”

“People round here say the word of a foreigner is as good as no word at all.”

“So you think me a foreigner?”

“It’s as obvious as my own left foot.”

Tawl stifled a smile. “What would you say if I told you that I’m a knight, pledged to honor my word?” He bowed slightly and watched as the boy decided what to do.

“Very well, I’ll take you where you need to go. Not that I’m impressed by you being a knight, not that I believe you either, mind. I’m only going with you because I’ve got nothing better to do at the moment and I quite feel like stretching my legs a bit. O’ course I’ll hold you to that hot meal.”

“I’m grateful for your help. Now the places I need to find are called Mulberry Street and Tassock Lane.”

The boy whistled. “You’re getting quite a bargain.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because those streets are both on the other side of town. We’ve a long walk ahead, I can tell you. You must know someone in high places.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning Mulberry Street ain’t for the likes of you and me. High and mighty that place is.” The boy was obviously impressed.

“Let’s get going then,” urged Tawl. He was not interested in the people whom the letters were for, he just wished to finish his duty as messenger as soon as possible and be off.

“What’s your name?” he asked as the boy led him down the street.

“You tell me yours first.”

“Tawl.”

“Is that all?” The boy was clearly disappointed. “I thought knights had long, fancy names like Culvin the Daring or Rodderick the Brave.”

“We’re only given the fancy bit once we’ve died a hero’s death.” Tawl’s eyes twinkled merrily. The boy seemed pleased with his answer and was silent for a while as he led Tawl through a series of alleyways.

“A word of advice, Tawl, if I may be so bold.” The boy spoke in the hushed tones of a conspirator. “If I were you, I wouldn’t go around telling complete strangers I was a knight. Knights aren’t the most popular people in Rorn these days, if you get my drift.”

Had it come to this? Had the knights’ reputation fallen so low that even street urchins warned him to hide his identity? But then what did he expect—Rorn and Valdis had long been at each others throats. Tawl wanted to believe it was rivalry, nothing more, that spurred the hate for his order. But it was getting harder for him to ignore the rumors. He knew Valdis would not answer its critics—that was not the knighthood’s way—and although Tawl respected the silence, he also saw the harm it did. Indeed, he had been a victim of the silence: the archbishop had felt free to imprison and torture him for a year, because he knew full well that Valdis would do nothing to retaliate.

The boy spoke up, distracting him from his thoughts, “I’m known as Nabber, by the way.”

“Well, Nabber, seems as you know so much about Rorn, what sort of food would you suggest I buy you for supper?”

“The best dish in all of Rorn is eel pie. I’ll have a slice of that, some fried fish ends, and some leek soup—no carrots o’ course.”

“Of course,” echoed Tawl absently, his thoughts far to the west in Valdis.

Maybor was in the process of being fitted for a new set of robes, when he was interrupted by the entrance of his servant. “What is it, Crandle?”

“A letter has just been delivered to you, my lord. A handler awaits your reply. Most excited he was, says it was flown by an eagle.”

“Who is it from?” asked Maybor distractedly. He was trying on a particularly magnificent tunic and was admiring his reflection in his new mirror.

“I can’t say, sir.”

“Tell me, Crandle, do you think this tunic a little tight? My robemaker assures me it fits perfectly.” Maybor casually slapped the unfortunate man. “Be careful with those pins, you sniveling dolt!”

“I think the tunic looks most becoming, sir.”

“Well, Crandle, I’m inclined to think you are right, I do look rather . . . what’s the word I’m looking for?”

“Regal,” ventured Crandle.

“Yes, that’s the one. Now tell me more about the letter.” He turned to the robemaker. “You can go now. Remember I want more embroidery and jewels on all of them; they are far too plain at the moment.” The man backed out of the room, taking his work with him. “Damn fool, he has no idea how to make fine robes. I’ll have to send to Bren to get some decent attire and that will take nearly two months. If Baralis was here this moment, I would gladly squeeze the life out of his treacherous frame with my bare hands. Now, where were we?”

“The letter.”

“Yes, yes, let me have a look at it, man. It must be something pressing to be sent on the leg of a bird.” Crandle handed it to Maybor, who examined it carefully. “Go now!”

Maybor was beginning to feel a little excited. The letter had obviously come a great distance; the writing on its exterior was crafted in a style unfamiliar to him. He broke the seal and unraveled it. Maybor was not an accomplished reader and that, combined with the unusual handwriting, caused him some difficulty deciphering its contents. Once he was sure he understood what the letter said, he sat down on the side of his bed, rubbing his chin reflectively.

Maybor sat for some time, deep in thought. After a while there was a knock on his door. He was about to tell his servant to go away when in walked his eldest son, Kedrac.

“Father, you look pale, what is the matter?”

“Nothing is the matter, my boy. I am feeling quite well.” Maybor looked down at the letter and then to his son. He made a decision. “I have just received an interesting proposal.”

“From whom?” His son’s tone conveyed studied disinterest.

“I’m not sure . . . I could hazard a guess, but I won’t. Suffice to say I believe it to be from someone with great power and influence.” Maybor watched his son’s face become more attentive.

“And what does this person of power and influence propose, Father?”

“He proposes an alliance of sorts.” Maybor picked his words carefully. “He suggests that we have mutual interests and that we would do well to combine our resources.”

“You speak in riddles, Father.”

“Baralis!” Maybor shouted angrily. “The man who sent this letter seeks to keep that foul upstart in his place.”

“Surely, Father, we have no need of such an alliance. Can we not arrange for Baralis to be done away with ourselves? Say the word and I will slit his slippery throat myself.”

“No,” warned Maybor, his thoughts darting to the fate of the assassin. “I order you to stay clear of him.” His tone invited no argument on the subject. The eyes of father and son met for a brief instant, and the son relinquished.

“So, Father, what will you do about the letter?”

“I will reply that I am interested in an alliance. I will be careful not to appear too eager and will insist that the sender names himself.”

Kedrac nodded his approval. “How will you know where to send your reply?”

“There is a handler waiting upon it. I will pen it this very day.”

“The person in question must be anxious to have used a pigeon.”

“An eagle,” corrected Maybor. Both men were silent for a moment. It was rumored that sorcery was the only thing that could compel an eagle to act as a messenger. Maybor thought it wise to change the subject:

“Tell me, is there any news of your accursed sister?”

“That is what I came to talk to you about. The search is not going well. She’s been gone twenty-four days and her trail is cold. The Royal Guard have swept the forest and the nearby villages. They have found no sign of her.”

“Melliandra cannot have vanished into thin air. She must be somewhere.”

“There have been rumors.”

“What rumors?”

“A girl fitting her description was said to have been whipped in Duvitt.”

“Duvitt! Why, that treasonous town is five days hard ride from here; she would surely have not made it so far on foot.”

“We already know she bought a horse in Harvell the first day she escaped.”

“Still, Kedrac, no one would dare to whip a nobleman’s daughter. It must be nonsense made up by idle minds.” Maybor considered for a moment. “Look into it, anyway. Do not leave it to the Royal Guard, send one of your trusted men to Duvitt to check out the rumor. Time is rushing on, she must be found.”

“Very well, Father, I will see to it right away.”

Maybor watched his son leave the room, and once the door was closed he read the letter once more. A ghost of a smile played at his lips, this was indeed a most interesting development. He sat down at his writing table and started the painstaking task of penning a reply.

Baralis was making his way from the meeting chamber; he’d just had an audience with the queen. He had given her the medicine for the king—much watered down, of course—and he was now feeling quite pleased. The queen had reluctantly admitted that the search for Melliandra was not going well; not only was there no trail leading back to him, there was no trail at all. He should have expected no less. All the Royal Guard was famous for was looking good in uniform!

It had been many days since he and the queen had struck the wager, and now all he had to do was hold the girl for a further few weeks to win the bet. And what a prize! His plans would at long last start to come together—he would force the queen to marry Kylock to Catherine of Bren, the duke of Bren’s only child. It would be the greatest match in the history of the Known Lands. Kylock would rule over the two largest powers in the north. With the great military might of Bren and the Four Kingdoms combined, Kylock would be able to crush the other northern states. The Halcus were already weak—he had seen to that. Annis and Highwall, and as far east as Ness—they would all fall. Kylock would rule over the mightiest empire ever known. He, Baralis, son of a farmer, would be kingmaker, shaper of an empire.

Kylock was his creature. With more subtlety than a courtesan’s smile, he’d drawn him in. A tantalizing conversation here, a glimpse of greatness there, a provocative use of power, and the boy was his. Kylock’s mind, so like his own, craved intimate knowledge of those forces that could neither be seen nor touched. It had been so easy; the boy was set apart from birth—and he knew it—a loner, incapable of making friends, gradually retreating to a world of inner torment. Kylock was on the edge of madness. ’Twould be so easy to guide him along—he was born to it!

Baralis made his way into the castle courtyard. Once he was sure he was not being observed, he slipped into the concealed entrance of the passageway that led to the haven. Thinking about the future was one thing, making it happen was another. He would let no one, no matter how small and inconsequential, stay his path. It was time he questioned the boy.

Jack was sitting on the wooden bench, his legs drawn up to his chest for warmth. He had no cloak, as he had torn it up and used it to bandage Melli’s back. There had been much time to think over the past days. He’d been entirely alone except for the occasional guard who came to taunt him.

So much had happened since that fateful morning with the loaves: it wasn’t worth denying the incident; it had happened and he was responsible. What it made him varied according to who he spoke to. Tradition would call him a demon. Falk would call him a man capable of making his own choices for good or evil.

Too many times now for denial he’d felt the buildup of power within. It set him apart, but was there a purpose behind it? Or was it random, like a scattering of autumn leaves? There had always been a part of him that felt different from everyone else. For so long now he’d thought it was due to a lack of background in his life. With a mother full of secrets and a father unnamed, it was a form of escape to believe he was special. In his mind his father had been a spy, a knight, a king. His mother was a gypsy princess in hiding from her family. Such romances were his greatest conciliation as a child.

Yet one of them had given him this. Did his power come with some obligation? Was it meant to be used, or hidden?

Jack had worked as Baralis’ scribe for several years and knew some of the powers the man possessed. Was his fate to be like Baralis? A man who concealed more than he showed, a man who frightened small children and provoked warding signs when his back was turned?

Jack looked up as the door creaked open. Standing on the threshold was Baralis. He was not surprised to see him, and in fact felt relieved that he had finally come. Jack had not enjoyed the waiting. It was time they sorted things out. He started to stand, Baralis raised his arm.

“No, Jack, do not rise.” His voice was smooth and commanding. “You know why I am here?”

“You are here to question me.” Jack stood up in defiance. He would not look up to his captor.

A flicker of annoyance registered on Baralis’ face, but he remained unprovoked by Jack’s action. “I am here to find out the truth.” Baralis stepped forward, his shadow falling upon Jack. “What are you, Jack? Who do you work for?” His voice was almost a whisper. “What happened that morning in the kitchens?”

Jack shook his head. He was frightened, but nothing in the world would make him show that to Baralis.

“You refuse to tell me, boy?”

“I can’t tell you what I do not know myself.”

“Don’t play games with me, boy. You will regret it if you do.” Baralis continued, his voice menacingly low. “The loaves, Jack. You and I both know those loaves had been . . . altered. Tell me what happened. Were you practicing your skills of drawing and lost control?”

“I don’t know.” Jack struggled to keep his voice level. “If I made anything happen, it was not by intention.” He’d spoken the truth, but it held no charm of protection. He was more afraid than ever.

Baralis thought for a moment, his gray eyes the color of blades. “Tell me, boy, has this happened to you before?”

“No.”

“Come, come now.” Baralis’ voice was a silk sheath with a dagger at its center. “A trick to please the maidens? A prank to annoy Frallit? What have you done before?”

“Nothing. The loaves were an accident.”

“An accident! Power is never drawn by accident.”

Jack felt the stirring of something, the same pressure as before, only minutely different. It took a moment to realize it came from Baralis, not himself. Fear consumed Jack’s consciousness, leaving barely enough space for thoughts of survival.

Baralis’ voice became louder. Jack had never seen the man so riled. “Look at me, boy.” The weight of Baralis’ will pressed against him, and he looked into his eyes. “Tell me the truth. Where did your power come from?” Jack’s head began to feel heavy, burdened with a force he could not name. He felt in danger of losing himself, of his mind being crushed by the strength of Baralis’ will.

“I don’t know.”

The burden lifted a little. Jack felt his stomach heave with nausea. Baralis held him in his thrall. “Oh yes, you do, Jack. All the answers are there within you. If you choose not to tell me, I will be forced to pry them out.”

Strangely, amidst the turmoil, Baralis’ words stood out like glowing embers in the dark: was the man right, were the answers within him?

A sharp stab of pain followed by unbearable pressure stopped all thought of answers. It felt like a hundred tiny incisions were being made in his brain. Baralis was the surgeon.

“Who are you working for? Tell me.”

“I work for no one.” Pain made Jack strong. “Leave me alone!” There was something growing, something of his own. Bile came to his throat. Such sickness it made him dizzy.

For an instant, Baralis backed away. A second later Jack was in agony. Pain coursed through his spine. His eyes were drawn into their sockets; he felt as if Baralis were wringing the power from him.

“I will have the answers from you,” he said.

The man was in his mind, searching, burrowing deep within his being. The pain was all consuming; it blazed away, kindling his very soul. His thoughts collapsed downward to a place where they’d never been. Through suffering came peace. Everything was clear. He knew what he was and what he must do. His mother was there, her secrets revealed; she’d been so much cleverer—and braver—than he had ever known. The figure in the shade was his father. Jack strained to make him out. A spasm wracked his body, and he fought against it—he would not lose himself to the force of Baralis’ mind.

The pain was so terrible it pushed the breath from his lungs. The visions fled with the light at their side, and left him to darkness. Alone, he struggled till he knew no more.

“Didn’t I tell you Mulberry Street was grand?” Nabber looked to Tawl for confirmation.

“You did indeed.” They were in a part of Rorn that Tawl had never seen before. Fine buildings lined the street, elegantly pillared, sided in marble and gleaming white stone. The road was tastefully thread with trees and bushes, not a piece of rotting vegetation in sight; even the air smelled fragrant. Tawl had just delivered the first of the letters from Larn. He was anxious to deliver the second one.

“The archbishop’s palace is not a stone’s throw away,” said Nabber. Tawl had found the young street urchin to be a wealth of information regarding Rorn. Their journey to Mulberry Street had been marked by Nabber waving hellos at every dodgy-looking character they’d passed. “Now, if you think that place you delivered the letter was fancy, you should set your eyes on the palace. I could take you there next, if you like.”

“Another time. Lead me on to Tassock Lane, Nabber.” Tawl didn’t know what it was that made him so eager to be free of his debt from Larn. It was as if as long as he held their letters, they had some claim upon him. “How far away is it?”

“Not far, but it’s not as nice as this place.” Tawl was glad to hear it; he had not liked the feel of Mulberry Street one little bit. It seemed to him that beneath all the splendor lay something rank and furtive.

Before long the district changed. People walked on the streets, vendors sold their wares, tempting passersby to purchase hot chestnuts or toasted onion cakes or rolls stuffed with fragrant lamb. Tawl could see that Nabber was hungry, and he admired the way that the boy ostentatiously ignored the food on display; he was determined to show Tawl that he would complete his part of the bargain before expecting the payment.

The two walked a little further, and then Nabber slipped down a little side street. “Tassock Lane,” pronounced the boy. It was a dark street, the buildings blocking out what little light was left of the day. It was home to many traders: boot repair, sign painting, saddlers, none of whom appeared to be doing much business.

Tawl bid the boy wait and walked down the lane alone. The priest had told him to deliver the letter to a man who lived above a small bake shop. He was beginning to think the priest was mistaken. He had walked nearly the full distance of the street and had found no such place. He could see a dead end looming ahead, but as he drew nearer he saw that the last building was indeed a bakery. Tawl walked into the small shop; what few items it had on offer looked neither fresh nor appetizing.

The tired-looking woman behind the counter was openly hostile. “What d’you want?” she demanded. Tawl thought that it was rather an odd way for a shopkeeper to greet her customers.

“I have a letter for the man who lives upstairs.”

“Oh, have you indeed? And who might this letter be off?”

“I’m afraid, madam, I cannot say.” The woman snorted loudly and Tawl decided not to leave the letter with her. “If you please, I would be grateful if you could direct me upstairs.” The woman snorted again, but stood up.

“Follow me.” She led him through a doorway and up a narrow flight of stairs. There was a brief passageway with three doors leading from it. “You’ll be wanting the second door,” said the woman.

“How can you be sure who I want? I have not told you his name.”

“You’ll be wanting the second door,” she repeated. “All people coming here delivering letters want the second door.” She watched as Tawl knocked on the door.

A slight, wiry man answered. Tawl saw confusion and something more in the man’s eyes. He spoke the name he had been given by the priest and the man nodded, shaking slightly.

“I have a letter for you.” Tawl pulled it from his belt. Understanding dawned in the man’s eyes. He grabbed at the letter and shut the door in Tawl’s face. Tawl looked around for the woman, but she had withdrawn. He made his way down the stairs and out of the shop, his mind trying to grasp what expression he had seen flit across the man’s features when he first set eyes upon him.

“I thought you’d skipped out on me,” said Nabber as Tawl walked up to him. “You’ve been a fine time. A man could starve to death with waiting.” Tawl smiled, knowing this was the boy’s way of reminding him about his part of the bargain.

“Fish pie and eel ends it is, then.” They both laughed heartily. Tawl was relieved to be free of his obligation to Larn.

Bringe drew his blade once more over the whetstone. The action produced a scraping noise which he found pleasing. He ran his thumb across the huge ax blade. Swords and knives were for weaklings. The ax was the weapon of a real man. No simpering lord had the balls to yield an ax. Bringe rolled his phlegm and spat in disgust. He dipped his rag into the pot of congealing pig fat and proceeded to work it into the blade; it would need to be well greased tonight. He scooped out a handful of the soft, yellow lard and wrapped it in the rag in case he had want of it later.

There was little need for him to be quiet as he left his house. His wife was drunk, and that, combined with a sound beating, had rendered her unconscious. As he passed the inert form of his spouse lying on the dirt floor, he aimed a passing kick at her chest. She groaned faintly in acknowledgment.

It was a fine night, thought Bringe as he walked down the hill balancing the weight of the massive ax on his shoulder. A crescent moon glowed weakly in the cold sky, providing just the right amount of light he needed. A full moon would have been too bright; sharp eyes could see on a full moon. His step was light and he hummed a tune to himself. A fine tune, with words that spoke of the delights of a certain young maiden. Bringe always thought of Gerty when he heard it. It was true that she had neither the golden hair nor perfect skin of the girl in the song, but she was warm and willing and he required no more in a woman. It would not be long before she would be his. With his wife out of the way and money in his pocket, he would take Gerty for his own.

After a short while he reached his destination: a secluded area of apple orchards. The portion of land lay in a gentle valley with the ground rising around it. Bringe knew the nearest farmhouse was way over the rise. He would be observed by no one. He was not a counting man, but he figured there were at least five score of trees in the valley. It would be hard work.

He rolled up his sleeves, the curve of his muscles catching the moonlight. He approached the tree nearest to him, a sturdy, low specimen with a thick trunk. Probably more than forty years growth, he reckoned. Bringe swung the huge ax above his head and brought it down with all the force in his body. The blade hacked viciously into the tree trunk, its cruel edge biting deep within the tree. Bringe swung again, bending his back low and setting the ax at a different angle. Two more blows and a large wedge of trunk fell from the tree, leaving it mutilated. The tender inner wood was now badly exposed. There would be rain and then frost in the coming days. The rain would permeate the trunk and the frost would cause the moisture to freeze and swell, damaging the integrity of the tree. Even if the tree did not wither and rot, it would be some years before it could once again bear a decent quantity of apples.

Bringe moved on to the next tree. He reckoned it would take him the greater part of the night to hack all the trees in the valley, and he had no time to waste.

 

 

Seventeen

Tawl awoke with a start. He was aware of someone moving around the room, and as a reflex he went for his knife; it wasn’t there.

“This what you’re looking for?” The boy held it out for Tawl to take.

“By Borc! How did you get in here?” Tawl was annoyed at being caught off guard—and by a mere boy no less.

“Easy as can be,” said Nabber. “After that excellent meal last night, when I took my leave of you, I got to thinking that I had no shelter for the evening, and I thought that you wouldn’t be opposed to the idea of sharing your room. So I made my way up here. You were flat out, so I just made myself comfy and went out like a light.”

“The door was locked.”

“You’re a bit green, ain’t you?”

Tawl was at a loss for words. The boy was right; he had been foolish to trust a locked door. He had, however, always thought of himself as a light sleeper, yet the boy had not only broken into his room but also managed to steal his knife. “What time is it?” he asked testily.

“Dawn’s just about to rise. Time for breakfast, I’d say.”

“Buying you breakfast was not part of the bargain.”

“Well, I’ll buy you some, then.” The boy pulled a gold coin from his tunic and grinned. Tawl checked in his belt only to have his suspicions confirmed.

“That’s mine, boy.”

“Has it got your name on?” The boy scrutinized the coin. “I don’t believe it has.” Tawl whipped across the room and over to the boy, caught his arm and twisted it.

“Give it to me this instant, you little robber.” The boy dropped the coin and it rolled onto the wooden floor. Tawl released the boy and picked up the coin. When he looked up, the boy was making a great show of rubbing his arm. “You can stop pretending I hurt you; all I did was squeeze you a little bit. You wouldn’t want me to think you were a crybaby.”

“Didn’t hurt one bit,” said Nabber with exaggerated dignity. “I was just rubbing it to improve the circulation.”

Tawl ignored the boy and made his way around the room. Gathering together his things, he checked in his bag to make sure the boy had not stolen anything else. Once satisfied that everything was in his possession, he made his way toward the door.

“Hey, wait a minute,” said the boy, chasing after him.

“Leave me be, boy. I have much to do this morning and I have no need for company.” Tawl descended the stairs of the small inn and walked into the dining area. A middle-aged woman approached him.

“What can I be bringing you, sir?” The woman smiled invitingly, adjusting the ruffle around her bosom. He had no time for a dalliance this morning. He was anxious to be on his way. Now that he’d paid for the seeing at Larn, it was time to act upon it. He needed to head for the Four Kingdoms and find the boy.

“I’ll take some mulled holk and a plate of bacon and mushrooms.” Tawl knew the cost would be high, but he would leave the city this day and this could be his last chance for a proper meal for some time.

“And for your son?” Tawl looked around to see Nabber standing behind him. The woman waited expectantly.

He relinquished. “The same for the boy. Half portion.” The woman scuttled off. Tawl spoke to Nabber, “Sit down, boy, and enjoy your breakfast. It will be your last meal that I pay for.”

Nabber sat down and began to tear at the warm bread the woman had brought. “While you were asleep, my friend,” he said, “I took the liberty of casting my eyes upon your circles. Nothing personal, mind, just testing your credentials. Anyway, I couldn’t make out what the scar in the middle was—sort of runs right through ’em.”

Tawl took a deep draught of ale. “It’s none of your business, boy.” Nabber opened his mouth to speak and then thought better of it. They ate the rest of their meal in silence.

By the time that Nabber was mopping up the last traces of bacon fat, Tawl was beginning to feel he’d spoken too harshly. To make up for his bluntness, he offered the boy a chance to show off his knowledge of Rorn. “Tell me, Nabber, how much would an old nag set me back in this city?”

“Two gold pieces,” said the boy in between mouthfuls of bread. Rorn was an expensive place.

“What could I get for . . . ” Tawl made a quick calculation, “ . . . ten silvers?”

“A sick mule.”

Tawl could not help but smile. A mule was no use to him; he could move quicker on foot. He was beginning to wish he’d kept back more than one gold coin from Megan. The Four Kingdoms was a great distance away; it could take him over two months to get there on foot. Not to mention the mountains: the Great Divide, as they were called, ran the length of the Known Lands. Tawl realized for the first time that he would be forced to cross them in deep winter. He would need warmer clothes and supplies. He decided he would wait until he’d left Rorn to purchase them, not only because they would be cheaper elsewhere, but also because the climate in Rorn was warm and he would be forced to carry any clothing he did not wear. If he was to walk, then he must keep his belongings to a minimum.

Tawl briefly pondered the idea of asking the Old Man for more money; he was sure it would be freely given. He was proud, though, and liked little the idea of asking any man for help. He would have to rely on his own resources. He was not too worried; there were always ways for a man with a strong arm to earn some money. Still, he would have to be careful with what money was left once he had paid for his food and bed.

Tawl finished his meal and paid his bill. The woman bit on the coin to test its worth, then handed him twelve silvers in return—less than he had expected. “Where can I buy some dried goods and a water flask?” he asked Nabber. “And I need to find my way to the north gate.”

“I’ll show you, if you like.”

“No, Nabber.” Tawl was anxious to be free of the boy. “I’d rather you just tell me where to go.” The boy nodded and described a place nearby.

Tawl clasped Nabber’s arm in the knightly fashion and bid him farewell. The boy gave him an unreadable look and wished him “profit on the journey,” an unusual saying, and one Tawl suspected was unique to money-hungry Rorn. He watched as the boy slipped down an alleyway. Tawl thought he detected a certain reluctance to his step, but paid it little heed. Nabber would soon be off finding more lucrative possibilities.

Quickly finding the place the boy had described, he made his purchases, and was pleased to see that they were not too expensive. He checked the position of the sun in the sky. It was time to be on his way.

It was a bright, gusty morning and the odors of salt and filth mixed on the breeze—it was a smell that summed up the city in one sharp whiff. Tawl approached the towering north gate of Rorn. He would not be sorry to leave. Too much had happened here: imprisonment, torture, the loss of a friend in Megan, and the comprehension of just how low the knights’ reputation had fallen.

Even now, though, he had things to be thankful for: a chance meeting with a fortune-teller had led him to Larn. And Larn, in turn, pointed his way west.

Was that always the way things happened, he wondered, by chance? Fate he wasn’t sure of, but chance seemed a familiar tune. Its arbitrary strains had accompanied him more than once in his life. It was playing brazenly the day he met Tyren: what were the chances of a man, whose sole objective at the time was to find new blood for the knights, being present the afternoon he’d been taunted into a fight by the village bullies?

Dragonflies courted in the shade. The breeze was warm on his skin, too warm to dry the sweat. His legs felt weak—not from the fight, but from the shock of learning that the man who stood before him came from Valdis.

Tyren looked at the leg of mutton. “Come back to the village with me and I’ll buy you another—that one’s too dirty for roasting.”

Tawl was still out of breath. Pride prevented him from accepting the man’s offer. He shook his head. “No, this will do. Sara can wipe it down.”

“Who is Sara?” asked Tyren.

“My sister.”

“I’m sure she won’t mind waiting on the joint a little while longer. Come join me for a drink, and let me tell you about Valdis.”

Tawl took a deep breath; he was still shaken from the fight. “Sir, I don’t want to waste your time. I can’t go to Valdis with you.” There! he’d done it: put an end to the matter. What alternative did he have? He couldn’t run off and leave his sisters.

Tyren seemed amused. “You mean to tell me, boy, that you’d turn your back on the chance of free training at Valdis?”

Free. Tawl could hardly believe it. The cleric had told him training cost a small fortune. It made his refusal even more difficult. “Sir, I have other obligations.”

“What obligations? Are you an apprenticed baker, or a tied fieldhand?” Tyren’s voice mocked him. “What possible obligations could you have to prevent you returning with me to Valdis?”

Blood dripped down Tawl’s chin—one of the boys had landed a decent blow. It would be so easy to go with Tyren and never return home. But he couldn’t do it: his sense of what was right prevented him. “I have two sisters and a baby to care for. My mother died three years back and they depend on me to live.”

“Ah.” Tyren rubbed his short, slick beard. “What about your father? Is he dead, too?”

“No. We don’t see him very often. He spends his days drinking in Lanholt.”

“So you do the honorable thing. It’s a shame you’re not free. We could do with more of your kind in the knights.” Tyren smiled, showing his teeth. “Not to mention the fact that you fight like a demon.” He shrugged. “So be it. Perhaps when your sisters are older . . .”

“Sara is twelve, the baby is three.”

“Hmm. Well, give thought to my offer, and if you change your mind I’ll be staying at the Bulrush in Greyving for a week.” He bowed with grace, his dark cloak brushing the dust, and then began to walk back to the village.

Tawl raised his arm to halt him, but never said the words. The sight of the figure retreating into the distance was more than Tawl could bear. He turned away and began the journey home—down along the riverbank, across the drying mire. He grew bitter with every step. He hated his sisters. He hated his mother. He hated his father. The leg of mutton became a symbol of his duty, and raising it over his head, he threw it from him with all his strength. The ribbons he crushed beneath his feet.

His sisters were at the window, watching for his return. Disappointment at seeing he was empty-handed was quickly replaced with concern over his injuries. “You’ve been beaten,” said Sara, dampening a cloth for the blood.

“No, not beaten,” he said. “I put on a fair show.”

“You won?” asked Anna, her voice sharp with excitement.

“It doesn’t matter who won. Go and get me some ointment from the shelf.” Sara turned to Tawl. “They called you names, didn’t they?”

Her sympathy annoyed him. “So what if they did? I’m a grown man. I can fight if I choose.”

“What happened to the meat? Did it get lost in the fight?”

“Yes,” he lied.

“It doesn’t matter, Tawl.” Sara kissed him on the cheek. “As long as you’re all right, fish will be fine for Summer Festival.”

Slowly, through their gentle, good humor, they brought him round. He didn’t mention his meeting with Tyren, preferring to be alone with his loss. Three nights he lay awake, tossing and turning in his bed, his imagination tormenting him with visions of what could have been. He knew it was unfair to blame his sisters, and he made an effort not to be short tempered with them. It was easy. Sara and Anna were so pleased he was unharmed by the fight—and he suspected a little proud of his performance—that they spent the next few days spoiling him: kissing and hugging and making his favorite foods.

On the fourth day they had a visitor. Chance played its final part. Tawl returned from fishing about mid-morning. The door was ajar and a voice could be heard saying, “See, I know what my beauties like!” It was his father. Anger boiled in Tawl’s breast. He marched into the room.

“Get lost, you old drunkard. We’ve nothing left for you to steal!”

There was complete silence for an instant. Tawl took in the scene. Sara and Anna were sitting at their father’s feet. The man had two large sacks with him and was dressed like a king.

“Papa’s not come to steal,” said Anna. “He’s brought us gifts.” She held out a hand filled with brightly colored ribbons.

“Yes, Tawl,” said Sara. “Father’s had a spot of luck at the table.” She looked a little guilty, like a crewman with thoughts of mutiny.

“You mean gambling.” Tawl’s voice was hard.

“Gambling, carding, call it what you will. Luck kissed me then made me her lover.” His father’s voice was surprisingly level. Though his breath still stunk of ale. “I won a small fortune. And I’ll be putting it to good use.”

“How?” Tawl didn’t like the sound of this. He was jealous of the way his sisters were so excited—he’d saved for months to buy them ribbons, and now his father turned up and was treated like a hero.

“I’ve come home to stay. There’s no need for you to do everything anymore, Tawl. I’ll be head of the family from now on.”

Anna and Sara looked at him, silently pleading. They were so innocent; they had no idea what their father was really like. A proper family was the dream they were asking him to accept.

“You think you can just come here, after years of neglecting us, and just take over?” said Tawl. “Well, we don’t want you here.”

Anna spoke up. “Tawl, give Papa a chance. He promised us meat everyday and new dresses each month.”

“Ssh, Anna,” said Sara, looking directly at Tawl. “It’s not meat or dresses that we want. It’s Father home again.” She gave him a sad look.

“See?” said his father. “My daughters want me home. It’s my duty to be here. And here I’ll stay.”

That night Tawl made his way to the Bulrush at Greyving. Tyren came downstairs to meet him. “I’m free to come with you to Valdis,” he said. “My obligation has been taken away.”

Jack was aware of feeling sick. He lay for some time with his eyes closed, in the hazy state between sleep and waking. Eventually he opened his eyes. He was staring at the stone ceiling. Drops of water seeped in through the cracks and threatened to drip down. His eyesight seemed somehow clearer than he remembered. He could see the rainbow of colors in the tiny droplets, and the minutest detail of the stone. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. The effect had gone away; he must have imagined it.

He rose up from the bench—a little too quickly. As a wave of nausea hit him, he leaned forward and brought up the contents of his stomach. He wiped his mouth clean and began to feel a little better. His head felt strangely heavy, and when he turned it seemed to take a minute for his mind to settle back into place.

He strained to recall the events of the previous day: Baralis had come to him, questioning. He could remember neither the questions asked nor his own answers, if indeed he had given any answers at all. He did not believe he had any to give. A glimpse of a memory tantalized his mind. Something about his mother. He tried to grasp at it, almost made it out, and then it was gone. Was there some connection between the questioning and his mother? Or was it just that he was badly shaken by Baralis’ probing and wasn’t thinking straight?

He dismissed all thoughts of the day before and tried to stand up. Testing the strength in his legs, he found them a little shaky. He had a great thirst and he looked around the room. There was no water. Jack hammered on the solid wooden door, calling for water. As he waited for it to be brought to him, he made a decision: he had to try and escape—he had been weakly submitting for too long. What right had Baralis to capture him? He had done nothing wrong. One thing was clear: Baralis suspected him of being more than what he was. If he remained here, he would surely be subjected to more of whatever Baralis had done to him, or worse.

There was a noise on the other side of the door. Jack heard the bolt being drawn back. He looked around, desperately searching for something to use as a weapon. The room was bare, the wooden bench its sole contents. Quickly, Jack slipped to the side of the door. It swung open and Jack, who was now behind the door, heard a man step into the room. Before the man had the chance to take another step, Jack pushed the door back with all his strength. The heavy door slammed into the man, knocking him off his feet. The man started to cry out. Jack rushed forward; desperate to quiet the man, he kicked him violently in the head. Blood rushed from the guard’s nose and mouth. The man tried to get to his feet, but Jack kicked him hard in the kidneys and he crumpled to the floor again.

Jack wavered for a second, wondering what to do. He caught sight of the guard’s sword tucked under his belt. He grasped the hilt and pulled hard. The guard reached for his sword but he was too late; he grasped the blade not the hilt, and as Jack drew the sword the blade cut deeply into the soft flesh of the palm of the guard’s hand. The sight of so much of his own blood frightened the guard and he began whimpering. Jack’s heart was pounding excitedly: he had the sword. He stood over the guard, sword poised, and found he could not stab him—the guard looked too pathetic.

Jack knew he had little time; he could not be sure if the man’s cries had been heard. He gave the guard one last kick to the head, hoping to knock him out. It didn’t work; the man was still conscious. Jack carefully took the blade in his hand and swung the weighted hilt down on the head of the guard. He had intended to get the back of the man’s head, but the guard looked around at the last moment and the hilt hit him full in the face. Jack drew back, horrified as the man’s face turned into a bloody mess.

Jack fled from the sight, appalled at what had happened—a clean blade to the innards would have been a kindness compared to what he had done. He had intended to draw the guard’s unconscious body into the room and close the door, hoping to give himself more time for escape, but the sight of the guard’s ruined face sent him into a panic. He began to run. He paid no heed to where he was heading. Down stone passageways he fled, each one looking the same as the next.

After some time he grew short of breath. He slowed down, gulping for air. He listened to see if anyone was pursuing him, but the only sound he could hear was the blood pumping through his veins. He had not realized that he was being held in such a maze of tunnels. Forcing himself to think, he decided what to do next. He looked back in the direction he had come from; he would not return that way. By sheer luck, it seemed, he had managed to avoid the guard room.

Jack walked on a short way and was presented with a choice as the tunnel he was in branched off. The passage running straight ahead was long and dark, and was not lit by torchlight. Jack did not like the thought of walking where he could not see. He decided instead to take the second tunnel.

The path that Jack chose took a sharp turn and he found that it was no longer lit. He paused on the verge of darkness. Should he go on? His eyes strained against the blackness. He had no way of telling how long the tunnel was. He stepped forward into the dark.

* * *

Baralis was pacing his chamber. As he walked to and fro, he worked the curative oils into his hands; they were causing him great pain. The rains had come this morning and he felt the ensuing dampness working on his stiffening fingers. Baralis hoped that Bringe had managed to damage the orchard the previous night; it would be a shame if they missed the benefit of all the rain.

The oils were doing no good. He dried off his hands and went over to his desk where he kept his painkilling drug. He carefully measured a portion of the white powder and transferred it into his glass. He poured a little wine to wet the mix, raised the glass to his lips and drank it dry.

The interrogation of the boy yesterday had disturbed him deeply. It left him physically and mentally exhausted. He felt sure the boy had spoken the truth—he did after all have his own ways of ascertaining such things. There was more to this, though. There had been a point when Jack had nearly driven him from his mind. He, Baralis, forced back by a mere boy.

It meant something. The boy’s mind was closed as surely as a locked chest. For a brief instant something was there—a vision, almost a message: a woman, and behind her a man. He’d tried to dig deeper but was repelled, meeting blankness once more. Baralis had searched the minds of hundreds of men to get where he was now, and not one had resisted him like the baker’s boy.

Of course he was far too skilled for the encounter to have caused him any harm. The boy had obviously suffered badly from the incident, while he’d come out unscathed. Still, there was something disturbing about the episode. The boy had access to a great amount of power. He probably spoke the truth when he said the loaves were the first thing he’d ever done. Such untrained might was dangerous. The boy turned back time in the oven! Baralis shuddered, almost against his will. He’d never heard of such a thing being done before. It shouldn’t be possible. To hold time in abeyance for even a second took the skill of a master. He himself could barely stay a tallow’s flame. And yet this boy from nowhere had done more, so much more, than that.

Jack didn’t realize the magnitude of what he’d done. He thought it was just a case of turning burnt loaves to dough. It was time he turned, not bread. Only last week Baralis had returned to the kitchens. The aftermath could still be felt. That fool Frallit had been forced to change the baking slabs. They were acting strangely and the dough took hours longer to bake. It was Jack’s drawing that had done it. All sorcery left an aftermath of some sort: a trace of what had been. Only the most powerful kind still lingered weeks past its drawing.

The boy had set something in motion that might take years to pass. The cinders from the oven had been ground for soap. ’Twould be a lucky lady who brought that lather to her face. At worst it might help preserve her looks, at best it might make them more youthful. The baking slabs might end up dumped in the middens—Baralis couldn’t imagine what the result of that would be.

The loaves themselves had been destroyed. He’d at least made sure of that.

He would have to think carefully on what to do about the boy. His plans were running smoothly at the moment; he wanted no spoiler, no wild card. He had a nagging feeling that Jack could turn out to be one. At a different time he would have kept the boy, experimented, dissected, made it his business to get to the bottom of the mystery. He had too much on his mind at the present, too much was at stake. He would have the boy killed.

He was disturbed from his thoughts by the arrival of his servant. “Ahh, Crope. Just the person I was thinking of. I have a little job for you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you know our two guests.”

“Guests?”

“The prisoners, you empty-headed numbskull! I want you to dispose of the boy.”

“He’s gone.”

“What do you mean he’s gone? Of course he’s not gone. I saw him with my own eyes yesterday. He’s guarded by ten mercenaries, he cannot have just gone.” Baralis was shaking.

“Well, sir, I was just down at the haven, bringing some delicacies for the lady—she appreciates it when I bring her honey rolls and sweet wine.”

“Get to the point, man!” roared Baralis.

“Well, Traff comes running up to me and says the boy has escaped. Says he did some terrible damage to one of his men.”

Baralis was frantic. “The girl? She has not escaped?”

“No, sir, I saw her myself just a short while back. I made sure her door was firmly bolted.”

“Do they know which way the boy headed in the woods?”

“Traff said that they think the boy headed for the passages. He says that they would have seen him if he’d made for the way out.”

Baralis thought for a while. It was a good thing that the boy had not headed for the woods; he might still be found. “Come with me,” he ordered, and the two men rushed from the room. Before long they were heading down the tunnel that linked the haven to the castle, Baralis drawing light to illuminate the way.

“Crope, go and tell that useless imbecile Traff to search all the tunnels and rooms. Have him put two men on the entrance, in case the boy doubles back.” The first thing Baralis had to do on reaching the haven was to check on the girl. He had seen that Jack had grown attached to her, and if he was in the tunnels he might try and find her. The boy had no bearing on his plans, he was merely a dangerous distraction, but he could not risk losing Melliandra. If the girl escaped he would forfeit his wager with the queen. The bolt on her door was no longer enough. She would have to be transferred to a room that could be securely locked.

To her surprise Melli found that she liked Baralis’ huge, hulking servant. He treated her as if she were a fragile butterfly, bringing extra blankets when she was cold and special foods to eat, even rose water to splash on her face.

Melli had to admit she was living in considerable comfort. She was, however, far from satisfied. She found herself thinking more and more about her time in the forest; she had been truly free then, no one to tell her what to do or how to do it. She supposed that at some point Baralis would have to let her go. He could not hold her indefinitely, and she could not believe that he would harm her in any way. He was, after all, the king’s chancellor.

Melli popped a honey roll into her mouth, wondering what had become of Jack. She was startled when Baralis let himself into her room. She noticed that he seemed relieved at the sight of her. He caught her with her mouth full of food. She swallowed quickly and took a drink of water, slamming her glass down when finished.

“It appears, Lord Baralis, that your servant has better manners than you. At least he thinks to knock before entering a lady’s room.”

Baralis seemed to be agitated, and when he spoke his voice was lacking its usual mellifluous tones. “Does a lady usually run away from home and end up whoring in Duvitt?”

“Does a gentleman usually hold a woman against her will?”

“I don’t believe, my dear Melliandra, that I ever styled myself a gentleman.” There was something slightly different about Baralis this day: he appeared less controlled, less cultured than usual.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I’m afraid I have some bad news. You will have to forgo these pleasing surroundings.”

“Why?” Melli demanded.

“That is no concern of yours.”

“Where will you be taking me?” She was beginning to feel frightened.

“Not far. Follow me.”

“What about my things?” she said lamely, trying to forestall him. Baralis came close to her—he was barely a foot away. She could smell him: a heady, enticing scent. His fragrance drew her to him, a pull upon a thread. She leaned toward him. Their eyes met and she inhaled sharply; it was his breath that filled her lungs . . . it was potent like a drug. He raised his arm and drew his hand down her back, his fingers searching for the scars beneath her dress. The caress thrilled and stung, and her lips parted, relinquishing his breath and preparing for his touch.

Baralis seemed to resist her compulsion and spoke, his words altering the texture of the moment. “All you will need for now, my pretty one, are the clothes on your back.”

Melli stepped away from him. She felt unsteady on her feet and starved of air. Baralis held her gaze a moment longer and then turned on his heels. “Come now,” he said, his voice an impatient hiss. He led Melli a short way and then to her surprise, he stopped by the solid stone wall and felt the stone with his fingertips. Melli jumped back, startled, as the whole section of wall began to move. Baralis ushered her through the gap and into a large room. Several candles burned low and Melli could see it had been used recently; there was a flagon of ale resting on the table. There were a few chairs, a desk with manuscripts laid out upon it, and on the wall was an old, faded tapestry. The wall slid back into place and Baralis made his way across the room, pausing to take a key from his belt and light an oil lamp.

There was a low, wooden door on the far wall and Baralis opened it with a turn of the key. “In here.” He beckoned her and she came forward, trepidation growing inside of her. The room was small and cramped, lined with shelves, obviously intended as a storeroom.

Melli mustered her courage. “I refuse to step inside that place.”

Baralis turned on her, gripping her wrist cruelly. The oil lamp swung dangerously. “You will go in there.” Melli looked to the lamp—the flame was close to her dress. She stepped inside, tugging her wrist free from his grip. Baralis came in behind her and set the lamp down on a shelf, then turned around and left the room. Melli was tempted to shout out as she heard the lock turn, but her pride prevented it. She would not have that man believe her frightened.

Melli looked around the room, rubbing her arms. The place was cold and damp, water was running down the walls, and the floor was wet. There was no chair or pallet to rest on; she could not sit on the floor, so she was forced to stand.

Her heart was still pounding uncontrollably. She could hardly believe she had let Baralis caress her back, welcomed the touch of his fingers down her spine. She could still feel the subtle pressure of his breath in her lungs. She shook her head vigorously, seeking to dispel the sensation. She had actually wanted him to kiss her. Absently, she rubbed her fingers across her lips. Baralis was rumored to have unusual powers, perhaps he had used them upon her. Her fingers stole into her mouth and she sucked gently upon them. No, she knew there had been no artificial inducement. Nothing save the pull of attraction—him for her and she for him.

Her breast was rising up and down rapidly, she could not bear to think on the subject anymore.

She looked around the small, damp room. How long would she be kept here, confined like an animal? She glanced down at her wrist where he had gripped her: a red mark was forming. Melli felt the pressure of tears behind her eyes. She would not give into them. After all, had she not been in worse situations? This room was a palace compared to the pit in Duvitt. She managed a weak smile, willing herself not to succumb to despair.

She forced herself to think about more practical matters. She checked how much oil was in the lamp: it was less than half full. Melli turned it down; she had no wish to be plunged into darkness. She checked the shelves, looking for something she could use to keep warm. They were all empty save for a collection of dead and decaying insects, the unsuspecting victims of long-waiting spiders.

Melli stood, leaning against the wooden shelves, hands hovering above the lamp for warmth, and wondered what had caused Baralis to move her. Perhaps her father had found out where she was, but somehow she did not think so. Something was obviously worrying Baralis, worrying him enough to lock her in a storeroom. Maybe it had something to do with Jack.

Her mind dwelled on the baker’s boy. He had been good to her, tending her wounds, giving his portion of water for her to drink. She didn’t believe his story about running away from the castle. Jack did not strike her as a thief, and Lord Baralis did not strike her as the sort of man who would waste his time chasing one. What then was his interest in Jack?

* * *

Jack did not enjoy walking down the darkened tunnel; he had never been in a place so devoid of light. He had been forced to feel his way like a blind man. He’d walked for some time, only to find that the passage was a dead end. It seemed strange to him that a passage would lead to nowhere; he decided he must have missed an opening. He traced back his steps, all the time listening anxiously for the approach of guards.

This time Jack was careful to feel both sides of the tunnel, moving from one side to the other with every step. This method required some time and Jack was afraid he would be caught. Suddenly his hands ran over a different texture than of stone. Wood. Jack spread out his palms; it was a door. He could feel no handle, so he pushed gently. The door did not move. He fervently hoped that it was not locked in some manner. He pushed harder and this time the door gave way, creaking loudly.

Jack stepped into more blackness. His leg smashed against a sharp object and he tripped and fell forward. He landed on something soft. He rested on the floor for some minutes, rubbing his throbbing shin, glad to have some time to think. It seemed to him that all the actions he had taken this morning had been performed with little thought, relying more on instinct. He now needed to plan, to decide upon his own course of action, rather than let fate decide it for him.

He wondered how he could get above ground and out of this series of tunnels. There must be another exit other than past the guardroom.

As he was thinking, he heard a faint rumble in the distance, and a pale light began to creep under the doorway. Jack quickly jumped to his feet, he had to hide. He could see no detail of the room, the only thing he could feel was the soft material beneath his feet. He felt around the area he had been lying on, it was a mound of old clothes or curtains. He could now hear distinct footsteps. Scrambling beneath the heap of fabrics, he raced to cover his arms and legs.

The door swung open, Jack could make out light flooding the room. He heard a man’s voice: “See, Kessit, I told you there was no need to bother looking in here. No one’s been in this room for years. Look at all this stuff.”

“Should we head back, then?” said another voice.

“No rush, Kessit, let’s have a little rest, take a bit of snatch.”

“Traff won’t be pleased if we dawdle.”

“Traff won’t know if you don’t tell him.” The two men moved forward into the room. Jack could hear the sound of a tin being opened.

“Come on, make yourself comfortable. A man can’t enjoy his snatch unless he’s relaxed. Settle down on that pile of old rags for a bit, take the weight off those enormous feet of yours.” To Jack’s horror, one of the guards sat on the edge of his hiding place. His leg was only a few layers beneath the man. Jack tried to keep his breathing to a minimum.

“Course, all this to-do is Harl’s fault. Fancy letting yourself be overpowered by a wisp of a boy.”

“Well, poor Harl’s paying the price for his mistake.”

“Aye. Did you see his face? It was ruined.”

“He won’t be attracting any more ladies, that’s for sure.”

“Nice bit of snatch this.”

“There’s more going on here than Lord Baralis is letting on. Were you there yesterday after he’d finished questioning the boy?”

“No, I don’t believe I was.” Jack was trying desperately to suppress a cough—dust had got in his throat.

“Well, something happened to Baralis, let me tell you. He came stumbling out of there, white as a sheet.”

“Oh, was he?”

“Aye, you should have seen him. He could barely stand. Had to call for Crope to carry him away.”

The two men were quiet for a while, the only noise being the sound of them chewing on their snatch. After a while one of them spat. “Aah, that’s better. He’s moved the girl, too.”

“Who has?”

“Lord Baralis, you fool. He’s moved her to one of his special places. He thinks the boy might try to rescue her.” Jack’s leg had now gone numb with the weight of the man resting on it.

“D’you know how he gets in ’em?”

“I couldn’t say exactly. I’ve seen him fiddling around with the stone. Had a go myself, didn’t get anywhere.”

“I think we’d better get going. Traff ain’t in a good mood today.” To Jack’s relief the man stood up.

“I wouldn’t care to be in his place, I can tell you.” With that the two men left the room, the light receding behind them.

Jack let out a sigh of relief and then coughed the dust from his lungs. He pushed the coverings off him and stood up, trying to work out the numbness in his leg. He felt fairly safe for the time being; he didn’t think the guards would return again soon.

He was feeling hungry and thirsty. He wished he knew what time of day it was; he had no idea how long it had been since he had escaped from his cell. The memory of the guard’s bloody face returned to him, and he shuddered involuntarily. The guard had been doing him a favor—bringing him water.

Jack felt ashamed of the fact that since he’d escaped he had not given a thought to Melli’s plight. He had assumed that Baralis would have returned her to the castle. When Melli told him that she’d run away to prevent her marriage, he’d supposed that Baralis had brought her back to enable the marriage to go ahead. Now it appeared that she was still locked up. He knew he could not make his escape from the underground hideaway, knowing that she was still held prisoner. He had nursed Melli and tended her wounds; he could hardly leave her now when she could be in even greater danger.

He had to find out where she was being held. The first thing he would do, however, was find something to drink. He needed food and water and a light of some sort. He needed no weapon—for the first time in his life he possessed a real sword. He groped for the blade tucked into his belt, but felt little joy of possession.

Jack settled down to wait. The guards were obviously looking for him and it seemed wiser to bide his time for a while. His pursuers might become less watchful as the day wore on. He decided he would try the second route next time, since the first one he’d taken had proved to be a dead end.

Several hours later, Jack slipped from the room, carefully closing the door after him. He made his way down the passageway. It grew lighter ahead as he approached where it split off. He took the route to his right and was once more plunged into darkness.

He felt his way down the tunnel and soon realized that this passage was much longer than the one he had first taken. He wasted no time feeling for side openings but walked ahead, arms held out to feel for obstructions. It was deathly cold in the tunnel and Jack was beginning to wish that he had thought to bring some of the linens he’d lain under. He continued on down the passage, hoping that this one would not turn out to end in a stone wall.

After a while his eyes began to make out a glimmer of light in the distance; he rushed toward it. The light grew brighter and the tunnel came to an abrupt end. Jack found himself in a long, rectangular room which had several passages leading from it. Something on one of the stones forming the wall caught his attention and he went over to investigate. Elaborately carved in the stone was the letter “H” flanked by two serpents. Jack knew what it meant: he was somewhere deep within Castle Harvell.