Twenty-two

No, Bodger, the quickest way to bed a woman isn’t to tell her she’s got a fine pair of melons.”

“But Longtoad swears it works for him, Grift.”

“Then Longtoad’s women must all be stone deaf, for that sort of remark don’t work on any wenches I know.”

“What does, then, Grift?”

“Sophistication, Bodger. Sophistication. You go up to a wench, smile right nice and then say: how’s about me and you doing a spot o’ rollickin’? I’ve had many women before and not one of them’s complained.”

“Hmm. I can see that might work, Grift.”

“Never fails, Bodger. A woman likes a man to put his cards upon the table. It does you no harm to hint that your manhood’s a fair size, too.”

“Won’t she be able to tell that already, Grift?”

“I should hope not, Bodger. Generally speaking, it’s best not to pull it out until she’s said yea or nay.”

“No, Grift, I was talking about the whites of a man’s eyes. Didn’t you say that’s how you can tell a man’s size?”

“Oh, aye, I did indeed. It’s gratifying that you remembered my wisdom, Bodger.”

“I never forget a word you say. You’ve taught me everything I know.” Bodger frowned and scratched his head. “Come to think of it, Grift, since I met you, I’ve had no success with women at all. They won’t even look my way.”

“Aah, Bodger, you’ve got much to learn. When they won’t look your way, it’s a sure sign that they’re interested.”

Bodger attempted a scathing look, failed miserably, and settled for a loud burp instead. “There’s been a lot of coming and going in the palace these past two days, Grift. The duke’s been dashing backward and forward from his hunting lodge, taking all kinds of doctors, priests, and supplies. I wonder what he’s up to.”

“Aye, it’s mighty strange, Bodger. He took Bailor and his personal physicians with him yesterday, and now he’s back again. The head groom says he was ordered to ready fresh mounts, so the duke’s obviously intending to return to the lodge later.”

“It must be something serious, Grift. I heard that it’s a six-hour ride to the lodge.”

“Aye, Bodger, a man like the duke doesn’t ride twelve hours in one day unless it’s a matter of life or death.”

• • •

The sun slanted sharply across the room, fading the rich colors of the tapestries and sending a million motes of dust dancing into the air. Baralis was sitting up in his bed sipping on mulled holk. His hands ached as usual—even to stretch them around the cup was a strain—but apart from that one, solitary complaint he’d never felt better in his life.

The burns to his chest had completely disappeared. The only sign that anything had ever been wrong was a pale, raised line, which ringed his chest like the seam of a dress. He could feel where the sorcery had worked. Indeed, he could feel it still; its vestiges prompting old flesh to bond with new. The sensation was not unpleasant; a fertile burgeoning that tautened the skin and played upon the nerves like a fiddler, sending countless tiny impulses directly to his brain.

Three days he’d slept. Three perfect dreamless days where the only thing that he was aware of was the gentle hands of Crope. His servant was here now, stoking the fire as quietly as he could. He owed more than he could ever repay to the great hulking giant.

They met the year after he left the Great Plains. He had a purpose then and even knew his ultimate destination, the Four Kingdoms, but he wasn’t ready to visit them yet. He needed to prepare, to learn, to plan. So first he went to Silbur.

Silbur, the shining jewel that sparkled at the center of the Known Lands. And that was exactly what it was: a jewel. A beautiful multihued city that had no purpose except for show. Religious councils met there, thousands made pilgrimage to visit the holy relics, He Who Is Most Holy sat upon his gilded throne, and every scholar who’d ever brought quill to parchment boasted about spending long hours on hard benches in its famous libraries. Silbur was a dead city, as much a relic as the bones and hair and teeth of long-dead saints and saviors that it depended upon for its income. There was no blood or flesh to the bone, no muscle to make it move. Great once, it had been unmatched in its arrogance and power. Towers were built tall to pierce the sky, walls were built low to scorn invaders. Silbur had no equal except for God.

The vision of its leaders had shaped the Known Lands. No one, they argued, should have more power than the Lord. Systematically, their armies tore apart the kingdoms and empires that made up the map of the civilized world. Emperors were evil, kings had commerce with the devil; the might of country took away from the might of God. They had to be broken. Bloody, terrible wars, the likes of which have never been seen before or since, ripped the continent asunder. Wars of Faith. A hundred years later only city-states remained. Silbur was mother to them all.

Gradually, as the century turned and religious power declined, great lords began to challenge the power of the Church. Harvell in the northwest had been the first to forge himself a new kingdom. Borso of Helch soon followed his neighbor’s example, spending a lifetime claiming the land that became known as Halcus. Silbur, now weak, rotting from the inside, its leaders a series of weaklings and fanatics, could do nothing to stop them. Not that they’d ever been that interested in the north.

Now, two hundred years on, Bren sought the same recognition. The duke would have a kingdom where a city had been before. Baralis smiled into his cup of holk. There would be no sovereign in Bren, no king upon a throne. For the first time in four centuries the Known Lands would have an empire.

Another sip of the holk brought him back to the pale sunny mornings of Silbur. His first meal of the day was always a cup of holk and a pastry baked around a peach. He’d taken lodgings in the scholars’ quarter and paid his way by scribing and healing. In many ways it was the best time of his life. Up every morning at dawn, a long walk down to the library, and then a whole day spent in study. He went unnoticed, one of thousands of black-robed scholars who came to read the ancient texts. Just another young man engaged in that most noble of pursuits: scholarship.

At nights he would go healing. Silbur did not tolerate sorcery under any guise. Practitioners were burnt at the stake. He had to be careful: discreet in his employment of potions, restrained in his use of magic. One night, returning home from a house where a young girl lay dying, Baralis came across a group of youths beating up a man. The victim was on the ground, whimpering as he was kicked continually by the youths. A thin man with a stick was directing the beating.

This was none of his business. Baralis lowered his eyes and stepped into the road to avoid coming any closer to the scene. The person on the ground cried out: “Please stop. Me sorry, me sorry.” The thin man stepped forward and brought the stick cracking down upon his face.

“Shut up, you half-witted bastard,” he said. “It’s too late for mercy now.”

Looking back, Baralis couldn’t say what made him turn and face the men. The arrogant voice of the one with the stick? The pathetic plea from the victim? Or was it something else: the gentle push of fate?

Anyway, turn he did. Straightaway the beating stopped. “What are you looking at?” said the stick-man. “Bugger off, this isn’t your concern.”

Baralis knew better than to look afraid. “Leave him be,” he said, looking at each man in turn, using his flint gray eyes as weapons. Two of the youths backed away—even then his voice had that effect on people.

“What will you do if we don’t?”

Slowly, Baralis put down the sack containing his potions and scrolls, careful to pick a spot that was free of dirt. “I’ll burn the hearts from your bodies and leave the skin untouched.” It was said simply, with no boast—and that was what made the men afraid.

The two that had already backed away ran off. That left two others: the stick-man and his friend. One last kick to the victim’s groin, and the friend was off. Baralis raised an eyebrow. “I think you’d better follow your little playmates. It wouldn’t be wise to face me alone.”

The stick-man’s gaze met his. Slowly he sneered, then walked away.

From the ground came a small, soft voice. “Thank you, master. Thank you.” The man stood up and Baralis couldn’t believe his eyes: He was a giant, broad as a wagon, tall as a building.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Crope, master.” The man had been badly beaten, and not just once: his face was a mass of bruises and scars. He held his head low in a pathetic attempt to disguise his height.

“Come, follow me home, Crope,” said Baralis. “Those wounds of yours need tending.” And so the man had come to his chambers, and they’d been together ever since.

There was nothing Crope wouldn’t do for him. An outcast from birth, he was ridiculed and hounded, blamed for everything from kidnapping to rape, from murder to thievery. Crope’s only defense to accusations was simply to say he was sorry. Most of the time he didn’t even know what he was saying sorry for. No one had ever shown him kindness. He lived in a world of fear, where his greatest concern was staying away from people who might pick on him: young boys, drunken men, fight-hungry soldiers. He only went out at night. Baralis had changed his life. He was his protector, his savior, his only friend.

Baralis stirred himself from his memories. He never liked to spend too long reminiscing. The future was what counted, not the past. “Crope,” he called. “Has the young lady been asking about me?”

“The beautiful one with golden hair?”

“Yes, you fool. Catherine, the duke’s daughter.”

“She was here yesterday, master. She wants to come and see you as soon as you are well.”

“Good. Good. I will see her next time she calls.” Baralis put down his cup and rubbed his chin. He and Catherine had a lot to talk about: sorcery, sex, and treason. She owed him her life, and he wasn’t a man to let such a precious debt go uncollected.

• • •

Maybor was busy teaching his dog to kill. He had taken a pillow, stuffed it with the shredded remains of Baralis’ undershirt, tied it to a piece of rope, and hung it from the rafters at man height. He was now in the process of getting Shark to jump up to the place where Baralis’ throat would be. The dog was learning fast. Maybor called the dog over, patted it rather warily, and gave it a huge chunk of bloody meat. “Good boy. Good boy.” After a minute he stood up, went over to the pillow, set it swinging, and then backed away to a safe distance. “Kill, Shark! Kill!” he cried.

The dog leapt like a warrior, teeth drawn like knives. This time it went straight for the throat, and it didn’t let go. Its grip was so great that it hung, suspended in the air from the pillow. Shark swayed back and forth, neck thrashing from side to side, feet kicking air, until the rope gave way. Dog and pillow came crashing to the ground. Even then Shark didn’t let go. The dog worried away at the pillow until there was nothing left.

Maybor was distracted from this gratifying spectacle by a loud rap on his door. Who dared knock in such an arrogant manner? His question was answered immediately as the duke let himself in the room.

“Ah, Maybor, I’m glad I found you here.” Looking around at the sight of feathers flying and linen shredded to ribbons, he said: “Training Shakindra, I see.”

Maybor shrugged. “Personal protection, nothing more.”

“Have you reason to need protection, Lord Maybor?”

“Probably less reason than you, Your Grace.”

The duke laughed. “Well said, my friend. A man’s power can be measured by the number of his enemies.” He slapped his thigh and Shakindra came toward him. He bent down and stroked her ears. “Good girl. Good girl.”

Maybor was glad of the chance to gather his thoughts. There was only one reason why the Hawk would come to his chambers: to discuss Kylock’s invasion of Halcus. It wouldn’t be right for him to broach the subject first: he had been told the news in confidence by Cravin. In reality, pigeons were only a day or two ahead of people, and he wouldn’t be at all surprised if half of Bren knew about it by now. Still, playing ignorant suited him best at the moment. “To what do I owe this honor, Your Grace?”

The duke walked over to the table and poured two cups of wine. He handed the first one to Maybor, the second he left sitting untouched. “I was wondering if you would like to invite your family to Bren for the marriage ceremony.”

Maybor nearly choked on his wine. It went down his throat, heading straight for his lungs. He coughed, he spluttered, he turned as red as a beet. Marriage! What was this? The duke was speaking as if the marriage between Kylock and Catherine was still going ahead. It made no sense. There was only one conclusion: no one had told him about the invasion.

The duke waited for Maybor to compose himself, his lips drawn together in a faint look of distaste.

“Are you aware, Your Grace,” said Maybor, wiping wine from his chin, “that Kylock has invaded Halcus?”

The duke nodded. “Of course.” He spoke in a manner that invited no questions.

Maybor was confused. Surely the duke would be furious over the news? The people of Bren would not like the idea of their precious heir being married to a king with a taste for blood. When the duke died, Catherine would rule Bren, and now, by invading Halcus, Kylock had shown that he was not the sort to sit passively by and let his wife rule alone. Indeed, the way things were progressing at the moment, it looked as if Bren might be destined to form one small part of Kylock’s northern empire. Yet here was the duke, calmly making wedding plans. It made no sense.

“You never answered my question, Maybor,” said the duke. “Will you bring your family to Bren?”

“My eldest son, Kedrac, is a great friend of the king. I’m sure Kylock would insist upon him attending the wedding.” Maybor couldn’t resist the exaggeration. Besides, if the marriage was going ahead, he needed to be seen to support it. Kylock would confiscate the lands of a traitor in an instant. Cravin was right, the best thing to do now would be to assassinate Baralis. The man wielded too much power and had too much influence over events. Once he was out of the way, the marriage would become less of a threat.

“And your daughter?”

Maybor was thrown off guard for the second time. “My daughter, Your Grace?”

“Yes, you do have a daughter, don’t you?” said the duke. “What’s her name, now?”

“Melliandra.”

The duke spun around. “Aah, so she was probably called Melli as a child?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I heard that she is a beautiful girl. Do you happen to have a portrait?”

Stunned, Maybor nodded.

“Let me see it, then. If Melliandra attends the wedding, perhaps she can have the honor of waiting upon Catherine.”

Maybor breathed a sigh of relief: so that was the duke’s interest—seeing if his daughter was comely enough to be a lady-in-waiting to Catherine. Maybor dashed over to his desk. It would do him no harm to have Melli close to Catherine. In fact, the whole thing was perfect; when Melli was found she could take residence at the court of Bren. Not only could she befriend the woman who was destined to rule the most powerful city in the north, but also she would be a safe distance from any rumors that might cause her disgrace at Castle Harvell.

Unlocking his cedar-wood box, Maybor reached inside and pulled out his daughter’s likeness. Carefully he cleaned it against his robe. The miniature was covered in fingerprints from constant handling: it was all he had to remember her by. He held it out. “Here is my daughter, Your Grace.”

The duke took the portrait and held it so it caught the light from the window. He seemed pleased with what he saw. When he spoke it was quietly, more to himself than Maybor. “Oh, yes, yes,” he said. “She is the one.”

“So should I invite her to attend upon Catherine?”

The duke gave Maybor a shrewd look. “As you wish.” He returned the portrait and then made his way to the door, his sword glinting with every step. “I hope that you and I can become friends, Lord Maybor,” he said, pausing on the threshold. “I’ve known for some time that you have been opposed to the match of Catherine and Kylock, but let me assure you there will be nothing to worry about when it happens.” With that he bowed curtly and left.

Maybor could only stare at the space that the man had occupied. He didn’t have the slightest idea what the duke meant. In fact the whole visit was nothing short of bizarre: talk of friendship and families. A total disregard for Kylock’s flagrant aggression. What did it all mean? Maybor poured himself a second cup of wine and sat down on his bed. Shark came and lay at his feet. Cravin’s words from the other day came back to him. Perhaps the Hawk had come up with a way to neutralize the marriage.

• • •

When it came to being pests, spiders were second only to horses. Both creatures had an annoying tendency to leave things about that a man was likely to walk in. Now, spiderwebs might be less disgusting than horse dung, but they were definitely more creepy. Especially in the dark, when the only thing you could feel was their clammy threads brushing against your face, quickly followed by the scurry of tiny feet as a spider ran down your neck. Even now, Nabber could feel a handful of the eight-legged creatures busy spidering beneath his tunic. Unfortunately, nothing short of getting undressed would rid him of the pests, and he wasn’t about to do that. No, sir. No one was going to catch him in his underwear down a secret passageway. He wasn’t one of those.

The duke’s palace was turning out to be most interesting. It was amazing where a little bit of reconnaissance could lead. No less amazing was the way people turned a blind eye to a boy wandering around on his own. Nabber supposed he didn’t look like the dangerous cutthroat sort, which, while being a little disappointing, certainly came in handy. He simply didn’t exist to the world of cooks, ash maids, and butchers. Guards occasionally gave him the once over, but generally after a little verbal dilly-dally, they left him well alone.

So here he was, down in the secret depths of the palace, keeping company with the foundations. Quite interesting, really, if you didn’t count the spiders.

It had all happened by accident. Two days ago he’d been walking along a harmless-looking corridor on his way to the nobles’ quarters when he was approached by two guards. These men had obviously been drinking and were looking for a little amusement. They questioned and taunted him, and then began prodding his chest with their spears. Just before they left, the smaller of the two had punched him hard in the chin. Nabber went slamming into the wall. As the guards walked away, happy with the success of their bullying, Nabber became aware that something had happened to the wall behind him. His shoulder blade had fallen against a tiny protrusion in the stone. He didn’t dare move until the guards were out of sight. Only when their footsteps had faded into the distance did Nabber feel safe to lift his weight off the wall. As soon as his shoulder came away from the wall, a series of near silent clicks sounded within the stone. Nabber was torn between dual instincts: fear and curiosity. Curiosity won and he stayed and watched the wall swing open.

Borc, did that passage smell when the wall moved back! The stench of decaying rodents combined nicely with the strong reek of mold. It was like being in Swift’s hideout all over again—made him feel quite nostalgic for a moment. Of course, there was nothing to do but step into the dark. The instant his feet landed on the inside stones, the wall fell back into place. Nabber had to admit that it was a little scary to find himself in total darkness. Rorn’s alleyways by midnight were pleasantly shady compared to this. Still, Swift’s words gave him comfort. “There’s nowhere as profitable as the dark,” he would say as he watched the sun set over the city of Rorn. And so, with that maxim in mind, Nabber began to make his way along the tunnel and into the depths of the duke’s palace.

The past two days had proven very illuminating indeed. The possibilities for nefarious looting were almost unlimited. Swift would have wept with joy. You could never tell where you’d come out: meat larders, nobles’ chambers, armories. There was even a tunnel that led outside to an open sewer in the city. The whole palace was practically asking to be robbed!

Nabber quickly decided on his best course of action. He would stagger along the passages, arms stretched out, spiders adangling, until he came to places where the light seeped in through tiny hairline cracks in the stone. Then he would step on all the surrounding flagstones until one gave way and the wall opened up. He had to be careful, of course, for there was a chance there would be people on the other side.

The first time he’d emerged from the tunnels he’d surprised a rather noble-looking lady kneeling down to help a guard untie his britches. Nabber had tipped his cap respectfully and said, “If you’re having trouble with those ties, my lady, I always find that a little pig grease does the trick.” Well, the lady had run away screaming and the guard had just stood there as if he were nailed to the floor. Nabber was back in the tunnel in no time, lesson well learned: listen carefully before making an unexpected entrance.

Some of the tunnels were too narrow for full-grown adults, and even he’d had a little difficulty squeezing through them. Many of the lower ones were waterlogged and more than a few were impassable, with water levels reaching high above a man’s head. Nabber supposed it was because the palace was built on the shore of the great lake, and anything that lay below water level had long since been flooded. Sometimes Nabber would come across places that were well lit. Portcullises on the lake side let both light and water in—probably built so that invaders couldn’t swim under the lake and into the castle. Rather clever, really. One of the portcullises had nasty spikes which jutted out into the lake: one decent wave and a diver would find himself impaled. Nabber was full of admiration for the man who’d thought of that particular modification.

He’d been just about everywhere by now and was wondering whether to share his newfound knowledge with Tawl. The tunnels would be perfect for slipping in and out of the palace unnoticed. Of course, the only way he’d found so far was through the sewers, so a man wouldn’t smell too good at the end of it, but the benefits of a quick escape far outweighed the hazards of a wall of sewage.

Nabber was worried about Tawl. The knight needed watching in case he did anything irrational. Just as he seemed to be sobering up and coming to terms with his newly spoken oath, in stepped the Old Man’s cronies. They’d stirred up all the old memories, and with them the guilt. Trying to get the knight to take a mysterious letter from the very man whose death had caused all the madness in the first place: Bevlin. Tawl hadn’t mentioned the incident and neither had Nabber. The letter, which was currently safe from water and sewage in the little room they shared just off the kitchens, was on his mind constantly. There was no point in opening it; he could only read a few words, so the message would have no meaning. But it was more than that which stopped Nabber from breaking the seal.

Somehow it had become his solemn duty to bear the letter for Tawl until he needed it. Nabber didn’t doubt for an instant that a time would come when Tawl would bitterly regret discarding the letter. His job was to be there when he did.

Nabber made his way upward through the tunnels with remarkable ease. He was quite sure by now that he could see in the dark—and not a single carrot in his life! He was hoping to get Tawl to agree to move out of the castle. The guest-host relationship was wearing a bit thin, and Nabber was anxious to do some prospecting. Never since learning about the importance of contingency had his been so low. Not one gold piece, not half a weight of silver, not even a brass ring. A man could get nervous just thinking about it. He needed to be out there, or rather, back here, with no guest-host obligation to hold back his hand. Figuratively speaking, it wouldn’t be pocketing, it would be thievery, but he judged himself ready for the promotion. Swift would be proud of him!

Now all he had to do was get Tawl to go along with his plan. There was no way he would leave the knight on his own; where the knight went so did he. Therefore, his only hope was to come up with a good reason why Tawl should move out of the castle. Nabber hadn’t thought of one yet, but he was a great believer in thinking on his toes and he was quite sure one would come to him as soon as he saw the knight.

The quality of the darkness gradually changed and Nabber knew he was close to the entrance. Quite by accident he’d stumbled on one not far from the kitchens at all—in the chapel. This wasn’t the same as the rest of the entrances, as it was hidden behind a wooden panel. It spiraled upward, ending in a single door. Whoever built the tunnels must have intended that it be cut off from the other passages, as it was self-contained with no other entrances. Nabber had gained access by spotting a likely looking ventilation tunnel and managing to squeeze himself through it. Tempted by the look of the upper doorway, he followed his newly learned lesson and crouched down for a while to listen to what was on the other side. Guards, by the sound of it. Footsteps could be heard pacing back and forth at regular intervals, which meant that someone or something important must be on the other side. It didn’t take a Silbur scholar to guess that there was trouble waiting behind the door, so Nabber backed quietly away.

Forcing his reluctant body through the ventilation tunnel, Nabber found himself right by the chapel entrance. He placed his ear against the wood. All quiet on the other side. One firm push and the wooden panel swung backward. As predicted, the chapel was empty. Nabber stepped out, replaced the panel, and took off his cap. If anyone came across him now he’d be just another boy praying for Borc’s guidance.

He slipped out of the main chapel door and was just about to make a run for freedom when a voice piped up. “Hey, you, boy! What you doing in the chapel?”

It was a guard, but not a regular one, judging from his dress and his accent. Nabber smiled a little sadly and looked down at the floor. “Praying for the souls of my dearly departed family.”

“Hmm,” said the guard. “I didn’t see you go in there. Did you see him go in there, Bodger?”

“Can’t say that I did, Grift.” A second guard emerged from behind a pillar. “Though I don’t think we should bother the boy in his time of grief, Grift.”

“You make me ashamed of myself, Bodger,” said the first guard. “Go on, boy, get going. Here.” He handed Nabber half a skin of ale. “Take this with you, it might ease your loss.”

Nabber took the skin of ale and bowed to both men. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “My mother, Borc bless her soul, would weep to see such kindness from strangers. She always said that a man who would give away his ale one day, would give away his heart the next.”

“Well spoken, my friend,” said the older of the guards. “It’s nice to see a young man who respects his mother’s memory, ain’t it, Bodger?”

The one called Bodger sniffled loudly. “Right nice, Grift.” He blew his nose into the polishing cloth. “Right nice, indeed.”

Nabber patted the man lightly on the shoulder and took his leave. He liked those two guards; they were a lot easier to get along with than the others he’d encountered around the palace. Bodger and Grift, eh? It wouldn’t hurt him to befriend those two, especially as they guarded the nearest tunnel entrance to the kitchens.

A short walk brought him to the room he and Tawl shared. Not bothering to knock, he walked straight in. There was no sign of the knight. His weapons were gone. His pack was gone. A sinking feeling overcame Nabber. Tawl had taken off. Whirling around, Nabber took a more detailed scan of the room. Most of the knight’s clothes still lay in a heap by his pallet, and various pots and pans were strewn across the floor. Even his bedroll had been hung above the fireplace so that the smoke would ward off the moths. Nabber rejoiced to see it. Tawl might be gone, but he was obviously planning on coming back.

 

 

Twenty-three

Wake up, my dear. Wake up,” came a voice, a little less distant than the last. Melli even thought she recognized it. Not a great friend, or a family member, but someone who cared nonetheless.

A part of her wanted to wake up, but it was such an effort. Her eyelids were as heavy as lead and she knew that the niggly, uncomfortable feeling in her side would show its teeth and turn to pain if she came around. At the moment she could experience the sensation without being aware of the hurt. It was better this way. If only the voice would leave her alone. But it kept on and on, by turns encouraging and cajoling, worried and then, if she moved a little, ecstatic. There was touching, too. Her hands were patted, her forehead was rubbed, her mouth was opened like a trap. Truth be known, she didn’t move to give them encouragement, but to pull away from their prodding, prying hands. She wanted to be left alone.

It wasn’t to be, though. The next assault was cool water; Melli felt it trickle along her hairline and then down her neck to her chest.

“Wake up, me dear. Everything’s all right now.”

This really was becoming too much. What would they do next? Hot oil? Magic potions? One thing was certain: they weren’t going to give up. There was only one thing to do.

With a great effort Melli rallied the muscles about her eyes. Funny, she’d never even known they existed before. She supposed her eyes just flapped open and shut of their own accord. The muscles now seemed to be making up for nineteen years of anonymity. They were doing a good job of it, too. A delicate, needle-pulling pain accompanied the opening of her eyes.

“She’s awake! She’s awake!”

A blurry form slowly focused and a name, like a gift, came to match the likeness. “Bailor.”

“She’s lucid. She recognizes me.”

The figure seemed rather excited about something. Other people crowded around, and Melli would not have been at all surprised if they’d burst out in applause. Her reflexes were tested, her pupils were stared into, fingers were held out for the count. Melli dutifully said, “two” or “three,” but already she was getting a little bored. Life had been simpler when she was asleep. The final insult was when they began to force some foul-tasting liquid down her throat. She raised her arms in the air, slapping wildly, and shouted, “Leave me alone!”

That certainly seemed to have the desired effect. They all backed away, nodding and tutting and clucking like hens. Bailor ushered them out of the room and came to stand by her bedside. He squeezed her hand and said, “You are a very lucky lady, my dear. You nearly died the other day.”

Melli decided Bailor could stay; his voice was kind and he wasn’t looking at her as if she were a newly dissected specimen. Besides, if she was lucky she wanted to know about it. “What do you mean?”

“My dear, you fell off your horse. Don’t you remember?”

It all came back to her: the horse, the mountains, the jump. She shuddered at the memory. How could she have been so stupid? There was no excuse for reckless riding. “What happened after I fell?”

“Well, that’s what I want to ask you about,” said Bailor very softly, kneeling down by her side. “You hit your head on a rock and knocked yourself clean out, but that wasn’t what caused the most damage.” He paused a second and squeezed her hand gently. “There was a knife inside your bodice and you fell right onto it. It went straight through your side. You almost bled to death.”

Melli couldn’t look into Bailor’s eyes. The unspoken question—what was she doing with a concealed weapon?—lay heavily between them. It was ironic, really; for months she’d carried that knife with the sole intent of defending herself with it, and now it had nearly killed her. To make matters worse, Bailor and the duke probably thought she was an assassin. The strange thing was that she wasn’t being treated like one. Surely it wasn’t normal for a gaggle of physicians to tend to an assassin in a bedchamber fit for a king? “Where is the duke?” she asked.

“Alas, my dear, His Grace had to leave early this morning. There are many things to see to at the palace. He should be back before nightfall, though. Yesterday he got here so late we didn’t think he was coming at all.” Bailor’s face lit up as he spoke. “He is going to a great deal of trouble for you, my dear. Bringing physicians and medicines and maids. He insisted that I ride out here immediately, and only last night he turned up with a bodyguard for you. His Grace values you very highly, indeed.”

“Why?” None of this made any sense. What was she to the duke? A possession, nothing more; a girl to dally with until he grew bored and moved on to the next. He might be attracted to her, but that could hardly explain all the trouble he had gone to.

Bailor stood up, joints creaking, and found himself a chair to sit on. Settling himself down, he turned his face away from the fire. His features were hidden in the shadow as he replied: “Melli, my dear, I think he’s in love.”

“With me?” This was preposterous, she hardly knew the man. Why, on the few occasions they’d met she’d done nothing but insult him!

“Yes, you. I’ve never seen His Grace so devoted to a woman. He’s worn out a team of horses riding back and forth. He’s even given up his bedchamber for you to stay in.” Bailor leaned forward a little and his face caught the light. “Personally, my dear, I don’t think he’s ever met a woman who treats him as badly as you do. I think it sparked his interest. Most women just fall at his feet.”

There was a small part of Melli that was quite pleased at what Bailor said. She did think of herself as less docile than most ladies of the court and it gratified her vanity to think that the duke had noticed this. The fact that he obviously appreciated a little backbone in a woman was further cause for pleasure. Melli chided herself; the bump on her head had obviously made her quite silly. The duke couldn’t be interested in her, not a girl bought from a flesh-trader who had said she was a bastard. No. There must be more to this.

A worrying thought occurred to her. “Was I delirious at all?” Perhaps she had said something that she couldn’t remember, something that might have given away who she was.

“No, my dear,” said Bailor, making himself busy in the corner of the room. “This is the first time you’ve spoken in three days.” He seemed uncomfortable with the subject, for he changed it abruptly. “By all accounts, His Grace was quite frantic. There was a moment on the first night when you’d lost so much blood that everyone thought you were going to die. Apparently the duke blasted the physicians, threatening to have them all killed if they didn’t save you. You’re very lucky, indeed.”

Melli tried to sit up, but pain shot through her side.

“Easy, my dear. You’ve been stitched, so you’ll be tender for a few days.”

Feeling suddenly tired, Melli settled herself amongst the pillows. “So the duke will be here tonight?” she asked, more concerned with falling asleep than getting an answer.

“Most probably. He’d be here now if there hadn’t been a spot of trouble in the west.”

“Trouble?”

Bailor nodded. “Kylock invaded Halcus about a week back now and apparently he’s smashed right through the border forces. The duke received a report today that said Kylock’s now heading for Helch, slaughtering women and children along the way.”

“I always thought the forces of Halcus and the kingdoms were evenly matched.” Melli suddenly didn’t feel sleepy anymore.

“Well, my dear, from what I’ve heard Kylock has brought in bands of mercenaries. He sends them ahead to torch villages and then moves his forces in to finish the job.”

“Those are dirty tactics,” said Melli. “King Lesketh would never have done anything like that.”

Bailor smiled at her as if she were a child. “King Lesketh never won any wars.”

That seemed rather a harsh statement coming from Bailor. Melli didn’t believe it told the whole truth. “Why is Kylock killing women and children?”

“It creates terror. Word spreads that Kylock is ruthless and men become afraid for their families, so they surrender.” Bailor sighed heavily. “The fact is it won’t make any difference. Kylock will have them killed anyway.”

“How can you be so sure?” Even though she asked the question, Melli already believed what Bailor said was true.

“He did it three days ago in the village of Shorthill, just east of the border. Two hundred women were given in payment to the mercenaries. They raped and then murdered them. Afterward they rounded up all the children in an enclosure and slaughtered them like cattle.”

Melli felt a single shudder pass down her spine. For the first time she understood what she had known all her life: Kylock was evil. In the past she had called him cruel, brooding, and scornful, yet until now the full picture hadn’t been clear. The warning signs were there, though. That was why she ran away from Castle Harvell in the first place; not because her father was making her do something against her will, but because the idea of marrying Kylock was loathsome to her. She’d had a lucky escape. Unlike the women and children of Shorthill.

Unwilling to think about the subject any longer, Melli said the first thing that came into her head. “What does the duke think of it all?”

Bailor brought his chair close and spoke in a low voice. “Well, that’s the strange thing. His Grace looked very worried a few days ago; he wasn’t at all happy about marrying his daughter to a king who looks set to conquer Halcus, but now he seems to have come to terms with it.” Bailor shrugged, clearly puzzled. “When I spoke with him this morning he was almost cheerful. He was even making wedding plans.”

“I don’t understand,” said Melli. “If the marriage goes ahead, then surely Kylock will end up ruling Bren when the duke dies.”

“Well, judging from when I last saw the duke, that’s no longer a concern.” Seeing Melli yawn, Bailor stood. “Well, my dear, I must be on my way. You need to get some rest. I’ll look in on you later.” He made his way to the door. “If I send the physicians to examine you,” he said, dark eyes twinkling merrily, “will you promise not to slap them this time?”

Melli smiled. “I promise.”

• • •

“Master, the Lady Catherine is here to see you.”

Baralis immediately stood up. He brushed down his robe and looked around his room. Everything was acceptable. “Show her in, Crope.”

Two flickers of a candle later in walked Catherine of Bren. Baralis, who had long thought himself immune to beauty, took a sharp intake of breath. She was ravishing; her golden hair more glorious than any crown, her blue eyes more magnificent than any jewel. If he wasn’t mistaken, she had made a special effort to look her best; the dress she wore was too fine by far for the light of day. Good. It was a sign of supplication.

“Well met, my lady,” he said, bowing low. “May I offer you some refreshment? A little wine, perhaps?”

Catherine raised a beautifully arched eyebrow. “And will you be having one yourself, Lord Baralis? Or perhaps you’re like my father—you will take a glass but not a drink.”

Baralis inclined his head slightly and then walked over to the chestnut cabinet. He poured two cups of wine. Before offering the second cup to Catherine, he raised the first to his lips and drained it dry. “I am not your father, my lady.”

Catherine took the second cup from him, her hand brushing against his wrist as she did so. “No, I can see that.”

Baralis felt a little out of control. Catherine’s nearness, together with the thick and heady wine of Bren, combined to make him a little lightheaded. He cautioned himself. Now was not the time to make mistakes. He turned his back on her. “Tell me, my lady. How safe is it to talk near walls?”

“You disappoint me, Lord Baralis. You are more like my father than I thought, for you match him in suspicion.” She drew close to him again.

Her odor was distracting. She smelled like a child. “And you never answered my question,” he said, refilling her cup. This time there was no mistaking the delicate pressure upon his wrist.

“If you mean secret passageways, Lord Baralis, then I’m aware of one or two.”

Baralis concealed his excitement. “I expected as much. Are there any particularly interesting ones?”

“You mean is there one leading to my father’s chamber?”

He was caught off guard by her frankness. Cursing the glass of wine that he had been forced to drink, Baralis said, “Would you tell me if such a passage existed?”

“Yes.” Her blue eyes looked straight into his, and it was defiance that gave them their luster.

He began to realize that Catherine was dangerous. Her lover had been brutally murdered and her father had exalted the man who had done it. Revenge was what she wanted. He needed to know whether she sought it against her father or the knight. It was best to leave the subject of the passageway behind—it existed, there was little doubt about that, but now wasn’t the time to press the matter. Better to let her think he had different priorities.

“Did Blayze know you could perform drawings?”

Catherine flinched at the mention of her lover. “Yes. But he won all his fights on his own. Never once did he ask for my help.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Baralis judged it was time to remind Catherine of her debt. “For you would be dead by now if he had.”

Catherine attempted to challenge his words with a disdainful gaze, but she couldn’t quite keep the fear from her eyes.

Baralis continued, his voice low and alluring. “My lady, sorcery is a dangerous weapon. One should never wield it lightly.”

“Lightly, Lord Baralis!” said Catherine, as quick as a whip. “I never wielded it lightly. Blayze’s life was in danger, I had no choice.”

“You were a fool! If I hadn’t intervened there would be no skin on that pretty chest of yours. I took the impact for you.”

“You look fine to me.”

Baralis grasped the fabric of his robe and ripped it apart. The silk tore like parchment, parting to reveal his chest beneath.

A tiny noise escaped Catherine’s lips and her hand fluttered to her chest. Slowly, she shook her head. “No, no.”

“Yes, my sweet Catherine,” said Baralis, purposely dropping her title. “This is what your drawing did to me.”

His words had the desired effect. Catherine turned as pale as a sheet. She drained her cup and went to sit down on the bed. “I had no idea. No idea at all.”

Baralis drew the silk over his skin, covering the seams where old flesh met new. “Little girls shouldn’t play with fire.”

Catherine was clearly nervous now. Her thumb was in her mouth as she chewed upon the nail. “Will you tell my father?”

This was what he had been waiting for. “No. It will be our little secret.”

“And what do you expect in return?”

“Friendship, my sweet Catherine. Nothing more.” Baralis spoke like a suitor, using his voice to coax and caress. “You and I could do much for each other. We have the same plans and we want the same things. There is nothing we couldn’t do together.” He leaned forward and ran his hand down the perfect smoothness of her cheek. Catherine’s first instinct was to shy away, but after a moment’s hesitation she seemed to accept the touch, even tilting her head forward as he withdrew.

“What do you mean when you say we have the same plans?”

Baralis knew he had her. All he had to do was say what she wanted to hear. “We both want to see the knight dead.” Even as he said it, he realized it had to be so. The drawing that had smashed into him on the night of the fight had told him much about the man who had repelled it. The knight was dangerous; powerful people stood behind him. He was meant to become the duke’s champion. It wasn’t just a lucky win: fate had led the dance. Where she might lead was hard to tell, but she never picked partners lightly. Tomorrow he would know more.

For today, though, his priority was Catherine. She had to leave this chamber firmly on his side. “We should help each other,” he said.

“And what’s in it for you, Lord Baralis?”

How much to say? It wouldn’t be wise to give his ultimate plan away. Catherine probably hated her father at the moment, but would she want him dead? Baralis found the strength of family ties hard to judge, and so tended toward caution in such affairs. “I want the marriage to go smoothly.”

“Is that all?” There was a shrewd look on Catherine’s beautiful face.

“All, my sweet Catherine. The greatest union in the history of the Known Lands should not be dismissed so casually.” Baralis made his voice ring like a fanfare. “You will be ruler of the vast territories of the north. Men and armies will wait upon your bidding. Jewels and riches will be yours beyond compare. More than a queen, you will be an empress.”

Two bright bursts of red shone high on Catherine’s cheeks. Her soft lips trembled and then hardened to bone. “An empress?”

She was his. He had judged right: she craved glory as much as her father. The ruling house of Bren was as ravenous as its emblem, the hawk. Ambition ran in the blood: that and lechery. The maiden’s belt that Catherine wore was not for show. Too many of Bren’s daughters had shamed themselves with lust. They were like cats in heat. Even now she sat there, legs a fist too far apart for decency, bodice cut a finger too low for good taste. Baralis turned his back on her; he could not afford to let her beauty distract him.

“You will surpass your father in the breadth of your vision. He sees a kingdom, you will survey an empire. Your name will move the lips of generations. Catherine, Empress of the North, will be remembered throughout history. Your deeds will be spoken of long after your father’s name has been forgotten.” Baralis wheeled around to face her once more. “By helping me, you help yourself.”

“What would you have me do?”

As Catherine said that one, delicious sentence, Baralis felt the tension drain from his body. He walked over to the cabinet and poured himself a half cup of wine. Only when he had drunk its measure did he speak. “To start with, I need to know exactly what your father is up to at all times. Who he meets with, where he goes, what intelligence he receives, even what he’s thinking. At a later date I may need to know about the passageway to his chambers; the knight will be spending much time there and it will make for a convenient assassination. Lastly, I need you to reinforce to your father how strongly you feel about the marriage. Tell him you have been out in the city and have met with nothing but encouragement from your people. Perhaps you might throw a tantrum and threaten to throw yourself off the battlements if your father looks set to forbid the marriage. Use your own judgment.”

Catherine nodded obediently at everything he said.

Baralis noted the familiar light of intrigue upon her face and continued. “Now, before you go, tell me what you know about Kylock’s invasion of Halcus.”

She spoke breathlessly, like a little girl eager to please. Baralis listened to what she had to say. He was worried about the content, but more than happy with the delivery.

• • •

Cold water was thrown against Jack’s face. The bucket followed after. “Wake up, you kingdoms’ bastard.”

Jack opened his left eye—the right one refused to do his bidding—and looked at his surroundings. At first he thought he’d gone to hell, for everything was tinged as red as the devil. A second later he realized he was seeing everything through a crimson haze. His good eye was filled with blood. Which was a little unfortunate as it was the only one he had working at the moment. Still, one red eye was better than none.

The man who’d thrown the bucket looked about as mean as Frallit on a feast day. He was the same color, too. However, the master baker managed to look red about the jowls regardless of bloody eyes.

“What you smirking at, boy?” A quick kick to the kidneys added force to the question.

Jack tried hard to change his facial expression. It wasn’t easy. His jaw refused to do whatever it normally did and his lips proved too thick to move.

“Don’t you be playing me for a fool, boy. ’Cos I’ll wipe that smirk right off your face.” The man slapped Jack hard against the cheek and sent him reeling backward.

Jack felt a single knifepoint of pain in his chest and then the floodgates opened. Every muscle, every bone, every cell of his body cried out in protest. Four limbs throbbed with separate hurts. Back and belly were afire, and he felt as if there was a huge crack running down the middle of his skull. There was so much pain, in fact, that after the initial shock of discovery, it all blended into one, canceled itself out, and then settled upon the original piercing spot in his chest as its sole representative.

“Not smirking now, eh?” prompted the guard.

Jack’s thoughts were clouded by pain. He wasn’t sure how to react. By turns he tried nodding and scowling. Luckily, nodding came easier and the guard appeared to back off a little. Feeling relieved but decidedly unheroic, Jack breathed a sigh of relief. Another mistake, as his chest protested strongly at the exertion. A sickening warning pain swelled up from his lungs. Blood came with it. Leaning forward, he spat a froth of saliva and blood onto the ground.

“I wouldn’t be worried about that, boy,” said the guard. “In my experience, hanging is the greatest of healers. Better than any physician for curing the ailments.”

Jack was getting heartily sick of the guard. He scanned his brain for a suitable insult, could only come up with, “you Halcus sheep-lover,” but decided to use it anyway.

Crack! A well-placed boot smashed into his chin. Another followed straight after. And then another.

“Here, Gleeless! Leave the boy alone,” came a second voice. “The hanging’s not for a week yet, and there’s no pleasure in putting a noose around a corpse.”

Gleeless grunted, gave one final kick to Jack’s side, and then followed his friend from the cell. There was a clink of metal, a turn of key, and then a patter of hard feet on even harder stone.

Jack now knew better than to sigh in relief. Lying on the floor, looking up at the low, barreled ceiling, he tried to relax all his smarting muscles. He could deal with everything, even the new blows from the guard, except for the pain in his chest. It was like a whirlpool in his center, drawing in his strength and his awareness, and he had to fight it all the way. He had a distant memory of a jutting arrow and dogs with blades for teeth. No, he didn’t want to think about that. He had to focus on something, though, to keep his mind from the gaping, swirling trap that was sculpted from pain in his chest. He could lift up his head and take a proper look at his body, but he had a feeling he wouldn’t like what he saw, so he dismissed that idea on the grounds of his own squeamishness.

There was one thing left for his mind to grasp at. One thing that would distract his thoughts from the arrow wound to his chest: Tarissa. She would have been waiting for him in the woods that night. Hours and hours alone in the dark and he hadn’t come through for her. Jack thumped the ground with his fist. He had let her down. Thinking about it was torture. At what point had she given up on him? Midnight? Dawn? He could see her now: chestnut curls escaping from her hood, face tight with worry, hand upon her knife. She would have stayed till dawn, he was sure of it.

What must she be thinking? That he was captured, dead, or, worst of all, that he had just taken off and left her once the job had been done.

This was Rovas’ doing. The tunnel was blocked and he’d walked straight into a trap. The smuggler had no use for him now that Vanly was dead. It was so much easier to let the soldiers have him. This way Tarissa and Magra would think that he had been captured, not betrayed. Again and again, Jack brought his fist down on the stone. How could he have been so stupid! Rovas had led him forward, laughing all the way. It was the perfect plan: get someone else to do your dirty work and then have them hanged for it.

Right now Rovas was probably comforting Tarissa, his hands resting a little too low around her waist, his mouth a little too close to her ear.

Jack felt pressure building within his head; the picture of Rovas touching Tarissa was unbearable. A sharp tang in his mouth and then the cell began to shake. A stone came hurtling down from the barreled ceiling and crashed right by his feet. It acted like a slap in the face, shocking and sobering in one. He worked quickly to control himself, imagining the sorcery like bile that had to be swallowed. He took it back into his gut and forced it to stay down. Blood coursed from his nose as the pressure in his head sought release. He felt a warm trickle from his ear a moment later.

“What in Borc’s name was that?” shouted someone.

Jack was shaking from head to foot. The sorcery, the falling stone, and the image of Rovas and Tarissa together was too much for him. He wanted to cry, only heroes didn’t do things like that, so it was a point of honor that he wouldn’t either. Besides, the way his face was at the moment, crying would only bring him more pain.

He felt so weak, so out of control. For the first time his mind had shown him what he had unconsciously known since his first week at the smuggler’s cottage: Rovas wanted Tarissa. He was in love with her and would let no one else have her. It explained so much. That was why Magra had pushed them together; not because she wanted to see him and Tarissa become lovers, but because the alternative was so much worse. She couldn’t let Rovas take her daughter. The man had been like a father to Tarissa for nearly twenty years, his desire for her was almost incestuous. Magra, a noblewoman of the highest order, would rather see Tarissa with a baker’s boy than the man who had once been her lover and second parent to her daughter.

Jack’s head was spinning. Tarissa had to be saved from Rovas. It wouldn’t be long before the smuggler came up with another heinous scheme to bind her more closely to him. He would stop at nothing. Murder, blackmail, coercion—anything to keep control.

Jack pounded his fist against the stone floor. Rovas wanted Tarissa. Why hadn’t he admitted it to himself sooner? If he had he wouldn’t be here now, locked in a Halcus dungeon whilst Rovas offered a wide shoulder for the woman to cry on. He’d been so easily fooled. He should have checked the tunnel out before he went ahead with the plan. Jack did not doubt for one moment that the tunnel had been blocked off long ago—and that Rovas was well aware of it. The smuggler had knowingly sent him to his death.

Jack cursed his own stupidity. He’d been as pliable as newly kneaded dough. Not anymore, though. A part of Jack hardened as he lay on the floor of the Halcus cell. For too long now he had allowed himself to be domineered and manipulated by others. Frallit bullied him, Baralis beat him, and Rovas had betrayed him. It was time he took his life into his own hands. No longer would he let himself be led like cattle to pasture. From now on the future would be his.

There was one thing that was his alone, one advantage that he had tried to deny and ignore for too long. Sorcery was in his blood. It was making him shake now; it had made the stone break free from the ceiling. Already he had moved buildings and people and changed the way things were. What else could he do? At the moment it was a product of rage, called up in anger, dormant for months at a time; he needed to control it. If he could command the power properly, no one would dare take advantage of him again.

Jack clenched his fists hard. Rovas had sent him running into a wall of dirt and he wasn’t going to get away with it. The guard said that the hanging was a week off. Good. That would give him plenty of time to plan his escape. He needed a few days to regain his strength. Right now he doubted if he could stand, let alone make a run for it or snatch a blade. More importantly than that, he needed the chance to practice using his power. He would master the sorcery inside.

Ignoring the protests of a bevy of muscles, Jack pulled himself up to a sitting position. The wound in his chest reasserted its presence by racking his body with a deep and stabbing pain. Jack fought against it, willing away the hurt. He had more important things on his mind. The stone by his feet seemed the natural place to start. He was going to make it move. Clearing his thoughts of all matters except the stone, Jack began to concentrate upon its center. Slowly, he forced his will against the surface, imagining he was pushing it with his mind. Nothing. No flutter in his stomach, no pressure in his head. He tried again, this time envisioning himself entering the stone and shifting it from within. Not a single movement, no matter how hard he concentrated.

Disappointed, but not really surprised, Jack shifted his position. He knew what he had to do next. He flashed an image up in his mind: a picture of Rovas comforting Tarissa, his large red hands resting gently upon her back as he leaned forward to whisper lies in her ear. It was all the help Jack needed. Instantly, he felt his saliva thicken with sorcery, felt his brain pressing against his skull. There was a brief instant where he worked to focus the energy, and then the stone shattered into a thousand pieces. Fragments of stone shot against his body like arrows and a halo of dust blew up from the floor.

The dust settled to reveal a small mound of debris at the center. Jack felt sickened, not triumphant. Tired to the point of collapse, he lay down again on the ground. The shivering, which had never quite stopped from the first time, suddenly became much worse. Raising his knees to his chest, he curled up in a ball to keep warm. Weakness swept over his body like a cool breeze, and it wasn’t long before he fell into a fitful sleep, head resting close to what remained of the stone.

 

 

Twenty-four

Tawl was worried about Nabber because he knew Nabber would be worried about him. He knew he should not have left without a word to the young pocket, but he’d been given little choice in the matter. One minute he was sitting in his room, greasing his blade, and the next in walked the duke requesting that he accompany him on a trip to the mountains. He couldn’t refuse. He was oathbound to obey the duke at all times. Of course, Nabber was nowhere to be found—only Borc himself knew what that one got up to during daylight hours—and time was of the essence. A team of horses was waiting in the courtyard and the duke was not a patient man. A note was of little use, for the pocket couldn’t read; the only thing he could do was to leave behind as many of his belongings as possible, that way Nabber could be certain he was intending to return.

Nabber was a bright boy, too bright by far for his age, and Tawl had little doubt that his resourcefulness would stretch as far as finding out where he had gone. Yet he would be worried all the same. Tawl smiled as he thought of the boy. Nabber considered himself to be his personal nursemaid; tending his ailments, watering his ale, and monitoring his every move. Like a pesky fly, no amount of swiping could make him go away. With loyalty like that he would make a fine knight—as long as they kept him away from the gold!

It was a good feeling to know that somewhere someone would be thinking of him. Nabber had saved his life, walked by his side for hundreds of leagues, and never once given up on him. Tawl didn’t know what he’d done to deserve such friendship, but he was glad with all his heart that he’d met Nabber that fateful day when the Fishy Few landed back in Rorn. He had sworn an oath to the duke and that would always come first, but he owed a great debt to Nabber and he would be there if the boy ever needed him.

The problem was, whilst he was in the mountains watching over the duke’s latest dalliance, Nabber was probably getting himself into all sort of mischief in Bren. The boy had a genius for trouble. He’d probably be all right, though: he was resilient as well as resourceful.

Tawl stood up and stretched his aching muscles. All night spent on a hard bench had done them no good. Still, it had been a long time since his biggest complaint was sore muscles, and a wooden bench in a fine lodge was better than a blanket on the ground. He was healing quickly: it was always the way; no matter how much he misused his body, it never let him down. That at least he could be thankful for.

Two physicians came to the door. Tawl recognized them, so he let them pass. He wondered what was so special about the woman inside the duke’s chamber. Doctors, maids, dressmakers, and priests: they had all been in to see her. “Watch over her,” the duke had said, not mentioning why, or for how long. Tawl never questioned him once during the six-hour ride. As a knight he had learned to respect orders and now, no longer a knight, orders were all that he had. They gave structure, if not meaning, to his life. The duke was a worthy leader, a military man who had fought in his own campaigns. To serve him was not such a bad fate. Better than spending his days drinking himself senseless and his nights fighting in the pits.

A serving woman came up to him with a tray of food and drink. She handed it over and then waited for him to take a taste. They had gone to a lot of trouble for him in the kitchens: fine meats and cheeses and a pretty lady to bring them. He smiled his thanks and the woman smiled back a proposition. Wide hips sent her skirt flaring, and fine shoulders challenged the seams of her dress. “I’ll be in the kitchens if you need anything more, sir,” she said.

He had gone without lovemaking for too long. Now that his blood was free of ale and his body free from pain, he felt the familiar need for passion, the desire to lose himself in the curves and folds of a woman’s body, and perhaps, if he was lucky, forget his demons for a while. He spoke gently, “My lady, I would see you later if I may.” Taking her hand, he brought it to his lips. It smelled of butter and parsley.

“I will be waiting,” she said. Bowing deeply, she withdrew, hips swaying like only an older woman’s could, confident in the power of her charms. Tawl watched her walk down the long corridor, admiring her all the way. A figure crossed the woman’s path and she dropped to the floor in a low curtsy. It could only be the duke. Tawl stood and waited for him to approach.

“Well met, my friend,” said the duke, clasping his hand. “When I said you were to watch over the lady, I didn’t expect you to wait outside her door.”

Tawl returned the handclasp firmly and managed a wry smile. “Your Grace should know that I take my orders seriously. Though I might have murdered the first man I saw with a cushion—this bench is harder than stone.”

The duke grinned, but when he spoke his words were serious: “Tawl, I didn’t bring you here as a guard. I brought you here because I need someone I can trust.” Gray eyes regarded him coolly. “I think I can trust you.”

Tawl met the gaze full on. “I will not break my oath.”

“I know.” The duke rested his hand on the carved door. “Inside here is a lady who will soon find herself in a very dangerous position. People will want to murder her. I will tell you more later when everything has been finalized, but one thing is certain: she must be kept safe at all costs. Guards are of little use except for show. Men with spears will not stop a determined assassin. I need a man with initiative, someone who will be alert day and night and who won’t flinch at handling a sudden threat.”

The duke paused for a moment, assessing the effect his words were having on Tawl. “When I watched you that night in the pit, I saw a man who was determined to win, no matter what the cost. I also learned that you were a knight, so your skills and loyalty are beyond question. I think you will protect the lady with your life.”

“I will.”

“I am well satisfied,” said the duke. He turned away from Tawl and ran his hand over the carving of the hawk on the door, fingers feeling out the talons. “Of course, protection takes many forms.”

Tawl felt a shift in the mood of the conversation, yet said nothing, preferring to let the duke speak on.

“There will be many people who will want to talk to the lady. People who will try and fill her head with lies, or manipulate her thoughts. She must be kept away from such influences. I want her totally isolated from the goings-on of the court. No one must see her without my permission, and she must be told nothing of politics or matters of state. She needs to be monitored closely at all times.”

Tawl didn’t like the sound of this. “So you would have me the lady’s keeper?”

“No,” said the duke quickly, “I would have you her friend.”

“I choose my own friends, Your Grace.”

“Then it is only fitting that you meet the lady in question.” The duke pushed against the door and beckoned him forward.

They walked through a large dining room and then into a dimly lit bedchamber. A thin, dark-haired girl sat up in the bed. Her eyes were large and dark, and her chin was as blunt as a spade.

“Tawl,” said the duke, “may I present the Lady Melliandra.”

• • •

Melli was not in a good mood. She was heartily sick of being prodded and poked, and force-fed curds and whey. Her father had been right to hate physicians; not content with a patient being sick, they had to make them miserable as well. She wanted a leg of beef—a whole one, barely roasted—a jug of decent claret, and a chamberpot that didn’t cut into her bottom like a knife.

Another thing she didn’t like was the constant comings and goings. Ever since she came around yesterday, people had walked into her room as if the door, and the custom of knocking upon it, simply didn’t exist. Physicians physicianed her, priests prayed for her, and dressmakers measured her: all united in their total disregard for her privacy. To top it all off, no one would answer her questions. No matter what she asked, they just smiled and nodded and said, “We’ll see.” She had just worked herself up into a satisfying fit of self-righteous anger when in walked the duke.

There was someone with him, a tall golden-haired man who looked like he’d stepped straight from a legend.

“Melliandra,” said the duke, “I would like you to meet my new champion, Tawl of the Lowlands.”

The man bowed graciously, his back broadening to a curve. “My lady.”

Melli wasn’t sure how to react. This stranger before her didn’t deserve to be the target of her wrath. As he straightened up, she noticed there was a bandage around his chest and a second one around his arm. His blue eyes met hers and what she saw there destroyed her anger instantly. “I am pleased to meet you, Tawl,” she said.

“What’s this, Melliandra? Has the fall from the horse knocked the ire from your tongue?” The duke smiled. He made his way over to the window, drew back curtains and shutters, and then turned to look at her. “You have lost color and weight.”

“And you, sir, have lost none of your ability to insult a lady.” Something was niggling at Melli. She couldn’t remember having told anyone at Bren her real name, yet for the past day everyone had been calling her Melliandra, and “Lady,” at that! Perhaps Bailor was telling the truth about the duke being in love, for people were treating her with new respect since the accident. A touch of pride settled itself in Melli’s brow. It was only fitting that a man such as the duke should see her true worth, after all she was the daughter of the greatest lord in the kingdoms. Obviously her breeding showed through her present disguise.

“Leave us now, Tawl,” said the duke. “Go and take some rest. I will talk with you later.”

The golden-haired man bowed a second time and made his way from the room. Melli noticed that he didn’t make a sound as he walked. As soon as the door was closed, she said, “Why was it so important that I meet your champion? Is he one more person to watch over me?”

“You flatter yourself, Melliandra,” said the duke, coming to sit on the bed. “But not without reason. Yes, I would have him look after you.” His lean, dark face was unreadable, his eyes bright like a hawk’s. “When I value something highly, I make sure I keep it safe.”

“So you value me highly?” Melli felt a little nervous at the sudden change in the conversation. The duke was so close she could smell him.

“I do.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips.

His touch was rough, pleasing. Unnerved, she pulled away. “Why this sudden change of heart? Last time we spoke I remember no such consideration.”

“When I was told you might die, I realized I didn’t want to lose you.” The duke spoke smoothly, but the words didn’t quite fit the man.

“Me, an illegitimate daughter of an impoverished lord?”

Abruptly, the duke stood up. For the first time Melli noticed he wasn’t swearing his sword. Strange, she had never seen him without it before. It made her a little wary.

“Melliandra, since my wife died twelve years ago, I have kept women from my life. Yes, I took comfort—I would hardly be a man if I did not, but I only sought pleasure, not company.” The duke turned to face her. “Until now. You have not been out of my thoughts since the day we met. Your pride and wit are matchless; you infuriate and beguile all in one. My wife was the last woman who challenged me so, and I had long forgotten what it was like to be with a woman who was my equal.”

Melli was reeling. The last thing she had expected was such a magnificent declaration. My equal, he said. For the first time in her life, Melli knew what it was like to be valued for herself, not for her title, or her beauty, or the greatness of her father’s wealth. But for what was inside. For what formed her words and shaped her actions and made her who she was. This man before her wasn’t wooing Maybor’s daughter, he was wooing a girl with no money and no prospects, yet he was treating her like a peer. Melli was thrilled.

The duke stood, waiting upon her response.

She was unsure what to say. Quickly she tested a few sentences in her head, but nothing seemed right. “You have caught me by surprise, Your Grace.”

“I am not displeased.” The duke smiled sharply, skin stretched over the hook of his nose. “But I am concerned lest I tire you. The physicians advise me you need rest.”

“I feel fine.” Melli was reluctant to let him go. “Though I’m worried about the horse. What became of him?”

“He is dead. He died by my own hand: a lame horse is no use to me.”

Melli felt ashamed. Her pride, which moments earlier the duke had praised her for, had been the cause of the horse’s death. “I am sorry,” she said.

The duke nodded gently. Reaching into his tunic, he pulled out a package wrapped in silk. “I have something I would give you.”

It was the pig farmer’s knife, she was sure of it. With trembling hands she took the bundle from him.

“Open it.”

Melli unraveled the silk and something heavy glinted and then fell onto the bed. It was a knife, but not hers: an exquisitely carved blade worked in silver and gold, with rubies and sapphires studding the hilt. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

“Do you like it? I thought perhaps you would need a new one, seeing as you bent the last one out of shape.”

Melli searched for warning in his voice, but could find only irony. She took the knife in her hand and it fit like a glove. The jewels danced with the sun, sending colors flying like sparks.

“It is a lady’s blade, wrought five hundred years ago for a beautiful empress in the Far South. ’Tis rumored she only wielded it once, to kill her husband’s mistress.” The duke began to make his way to the door. “Tomorrow I will bring you a scabbard, then you will have no excuse for keeping it close to your chest.” One quick shrewd look, one curt soldierly bow, and he was off, leaving the room larger by his absence.

Melli drew the knife across the bedsheets, slicing them clean apart. She was confused, excited, disappointed that he’d gone.

• • •

Garon, Duke of Bren, known as the Hawk by his enemies, walked down the long corridor and into the small chambers that were temporarily his own. He was anxious for his sword. He missed its reassuring weight around his waist and the coolness of the blade down his thigh. A newly purchased maiden waited in a state of undress. He had requested her presence earlier and now found he had no taste for lovemaking. He dismissed the girl with a single wave of his arm. She scurried away like a rat, a tiny cry of disappointment escaping from her lips. The duke barely heard it.

His visit with Melliandra had gone well. Very well. The unusual thing was, that at some point during his seduction, he had actually begun to believe what he said. She had captured his interest: her tongue was quick and her spirit was lively. She was an exceptional woman indeed.

He poured himself a half cup of wine and, after checking to ensure that his manservant was not in the room, he drank it. The idea of giving Melliandra a jeweled dagger had been inspired. He must remember to thank Bailor for the suggestion. The head of his household was a perceptive man. He had guessed that broaches and earrings would not have caught the lady’s interest. And he was right: Lord Maybor’s daughter could have any adornment she chose and a few trinkets more would fail to impress. Of course, the question was what she was doing with a knife stuffed down her bodice in the first place. The duke was inclined to look upon it kindly, perhaps even admiringly. She was a lady prepared to actively defend her honor.

He rubbed his hands across his chin. The beginnings of stubble caught the rough skin on his fingers. It was almost time for his second shave of the day. The duke went over to the table, picked up his sword, and hooked it on its loop. No scabbard for him; he liked his blade naked. Not only was it more threatening, but it also forced him to think before he made a move. The need to prevent a gash to leg or hand kept his reflexes well honed.

As he rubbed a soft cloth across the blade, his thoughts were with Melliandra. A beautiful new wife was just what he needed. And a bouncing baby boy for his heir.

He would marry Melliandra and she would provide him with an heir. It was a brilliant plan. Perfect in every way. At this point in time Catherine was committed to marrying Kylock; the betrothal had been settled by proxy, so it was as good as set in stone. The problem—and Lord Baralis knew this very well, though he wasn’t about to admit it—was that Kylock seemed set to conquer Halcus. This would not only make Annis and Highwall very nervous, but it would eventually lead to war. The crux of the matter was that Catherine was his only child, so on his death Bren’s leadership would pass to her, and by implication her husband as well. The duke did not like this fact one little bit. It had kept him awake at nights, especially after he received news of Kylock’s successful invasion of Halcus.

To back down from the marriage at this point would be disastrous. It could lead to another war in itself, as the kingdoms would take it as a grievous insult. To make matters worse, there was currently some rumor that Catherine’s wedding dress had been seized and then burned by a coalition of southern forces. So now it was almost a matter of pride that the wedding go ahead; he wouldn’t let the southerners think they had intimidated him into backing down. The duke drew the polishing cloth taut against the blade. The Hawk backed down for no one.

The whole situation was too dangerous. His alliance with Tyren and the knighthood had long worried the south, but they had been content to leave matters well alone until the announcement of the union between Bren and the kingdoms. He knew what everyone was frightened of: the emergence of a single power that encompassed the north. Anchored by the kingdoms in the west and Bren in the east, it would be an empire the likes of which had not been seen in centuries. That was what Kylock and Baralis wanted. Oh, Baralis was ever the diplomat, denying and then minimizing the threat, but he had his eye on the prize, and a very clever and calculating eye it was. The duke began to pace around the room. By taking a wife himself and fathering a legitimate male heir, he would confound the plans of Baralis and Kylock, diffuse the growing tension in the north, and still appear resolute to the south.

It was nothing short of magnificent. By fathering a son, Catherine would no longer be his heir, so the union between her and Kylock would not be seen as a threatening coupling of might, but rather a traditional royal marriage sealed with bonds of friendship and trade. The wedding would no longer have a sting.

Let Kylock do what he would with Halcus; as soon as Melliandra was with child, it would not be Bren’s concern. He would go to Annis and Highwall and promise neutrality. That would ensure the war didn’t escalate, for there was no way the kingdoms could take on the might of Highwall alone. Even now, that city with the infamous granite battlements was preparing for war. The duke received daily reports from Highwall, and its leaders were taking the situation seriously. Just last week they passed a law stating that every man must practice archery for twenty hours a week, and that a fifth of all income was to be contributed for defense.

The duke sat down at his desk. In the half hour he’d been away, more reports had arrived. Briefly he read one. Kylock had taken the town of Nolton, a strategic gain, for it lay halfway between the border and the capital, Helch. Five thousand women had been slaughtered in its sacking. There was no death count given for the men. Brushing his hands over his shortly cropped hair, the duke wondered exactly what Kylock was up to. Killing women was simply uncalled for. The duke was a military man; he’d taken many towns and villages over the past twenty years and never once had he ordered women killed. Of course, it was a hazard of war that some would die and many be raped, but there was no benefit to be gained by actively pursuing them. In fact, killing of innocents usually had the effect of hardening enemy resolve.

Whatever his motives, Kylock was certainly doing something right. He’d cut through the Halcus defense as easily as if it were butter. He was actively recruiting mercenaries, too. Four days ago a whole battalion of them had crossed through the Bren pass on the way to the front. The duke stood up again; he was restless. He needed to be in the city. Events had to be monitored closely and he felt cut off here in the hunting lodge.

The ironic thing was that his plans required that he be here. Melliandra couldn’t be moved at the moment, and he needed to woo her fast. The marriage had to be announced before everything got out of hand. And judging by the rate Kylock was thundering through Halcus, that wouldn’t be long at all.

Melliandra’s safety was another consideration. As soon as Baralis learned of his imminent marriage, he would be furious. It would be a bludgeon to his plans. His first instinct would be to murder the bride-to-be, or the groom. The duke was not worried about himself, but Melliandra would need watching day and night. He was already happier knowing that Tawl would be guarding her. He had a good feeling about the knight. A man like that would lay down his life to protect a lady. Still it wasn’t wise to underestimate Baralis. He was a silken viper with poison on his tongue. He craved power on the grandest of scales and was not the sort to sit and watch quietly whilst it was stolen from under his nose.

Things would have been so different if old King Lesketh hadn’t taken it into his head to drop dead before the marriage had taken place. It was a blessing, really, for it had given the duke a chance to realize he was making a huge mistake. Kylock did not want a bride, he wanted Bren.

Sitting himself down in front of a small silver mirror, the duke took out his knife and began to shave. He enjoyed the twice-daily ritual. He would let no manservant with soap or pig lard near him. He preferred to shave dry and alone. The blade was so sharp it cut without pressure, skimming over his flesh like a calm-water skiff. Not once in ten years had he drawn blood.

He would stay here tonight and depart at midmorning. That should give him at least one more chance to talk with Melliandra. He had to be so careful with the girl. Bailor was right: she was playing a game of her own. A game called: “I can do fine without my father’s name or wealth.” She had to be flattered, but not in the traditional way; poetry and compliments would have little effect. What he had said earlier about equal partners seemed to please her, so he would give her more of that. His long-dead shrew of a wife had finally come in useful, too, adding a pleasing air of tragedy to the whole proceedings. Well, in a way, their relationship had been tragic: she had certainly done her best to put him off marriage for life.

The duke nearly ruined his ten-year record by smiling at a crucial moment. His hands were quick, though, and the skin remained unbroken.

Yes, Melliandra would need a quick but subtle courtship. He would not reveal to her what he knew of her identity, best to let her think he was in love with Luff’s bastard daughter, that way she would be wanted for herself alone. He supposed he could marry any one of a number of women at court, but he hadn’t avoided a second marriage for twelve years to jump quickly into a wedding with politics as his only motive: Melliandra was the only woman who had engaged the interest of his mind as well as his loins. Besides, by taking a girl from Castle Harvell for his bride, he just might retain the goodwill of the kingdoms.

Of course, he would never have dreamed of marrying her if she hadn’t been Maybor’s daughter. As it was, it had all worked out beautifully; he would gain a powerful friend in Lord Maybor, neutralize the marriage of Catherine and Kylock, and nip the threat of an empire in the bud. Perhaps as a dowry he would ask for the stretch of land west of the River Nestor. That would please his people greatly, as eight hundred years before the same ground had belonged to the king who ruled Bren’s territories. It would be most satisfying, not to mention profitable, to have it back within the fold.

Shaving finished, he rapped the knife against the table to clean it. The amount of hair that fell from the blade was barely visible; another man would not have bothered for such a tiny crop. The duke did because he knew that discipline and ritual mattered.

• • •

Baralis brought a fingertip to his lips and tasted the bead of honey upon it. A sweet stinging that owed little to the bee. In the background, Crope moved a sturdy chair close to the fire and then raked the coals to make them dance. This time when he left his body behind he would not come back to find it as cold as a stone.

Blood still flowed from a finger that looked bloodless, coming to the surface like a glossy red jewel. The cup captured its measure and a drawing made it move. Baralis’ brow furrowed in anticipation of the burn. Across his forehead he made the line of the horizon, and then bent low to inhale the drug that would send his mind above it. His lungs fought the poison all the way. Immediately he grew lighter. Too light to be held by a heavy body, too restless to be bound by four walls. Up and up he rose, making for the highest point, the clank of earthly chains in his ear.

The heavens had no power to tempt him tonight. They were a woman whose charms had long faded.

East and south he traveled across the darkening sky, over the listless land and then above the skittish sea. They knew he was coming and sent out a beacon, yet he would have found his way regardless of guidance. Larn glowed like a pearl in the dark.

A chamber awaited, four men around a stone table. Eyes closed, minds ready for the meet.

“Welcome, Baralis,” came the first voice that was not really a voice at all, more a sliver of pure thought. “We are glad you are here. What do you want from us?”

Baralis styled himself a trace of a body and cast it to the wall like a shadow. There was tension in the room: Larn had its own agenda, its high priests were afraid. He would speak for now, though. It was up to them to say if their paths would cross in purpose.

“You have an interest in a knight named Tawl. I would know what it is.” Baralis felt a collective indrawing of breath.

“He came here for a seering. We showed him the way.”

“What way was that?”

“To the kingdoms.”

Now it was Baralis’ turn to inhale deeply, only he had no body nor breath to breathe. His shadow wavered. “What did he seek?”

“A boy.”

“Why?”

His question was met with silence. A candle guttered and the flame died away. A stream of liquid wax shot down its length and ran onto the hand of one of the four. The man didn’t flinch. Baralis grew impatient. He knew they were communicating amongst themselves, intriguing, calculating, deciding the risks. Something was worrying them and, if he wasn’t mistaken, they were about to ask for his help.

Finally a voice spoke up. “It might have been an error to give the seering. Since the knight left us many of our seers have been tormented by dreams; they see our temple collapsing and the seering stones sundered. We feel the knight may hold our fate in his hands.”

“And where does the wiseman Bevlin fit in?”

“His life wish was to raze our temple to the ground.”

“Was?”

“He is dead now.”

Baralis kept his surprise well hidden. There was little point in asking how the wiseman died: Larn had a way with murder. “So the knight was his disciple?”

“Perhaps. What is your interest in him?”

“He is now the duke of Bren’s champion. His fate lingers like an aftertaste on my tongue.”

“And does he still seek the boy?”

For an instant Baralis’ mind alighted upon something remembered in the distant past: a nursery rhyme that spoke of three bloods. Just as he grasped it, it was gone. The incident unsettled him; it was like a warning. The knight and the mysterious boy: they both had some bearing on the future. His future. So what was their connection to Larn? The very fact that the high priests were worried was alarming enough. With power and resources such as theirs, it took a strong threat to cause them anything more than a moment’s distress. Baralis had the feeling that everything was connected: the marriage, the empire, the knight and Larn, but a common thread eluded him.

“Why do you ask about the boy?”

“We would like to make sure the knight never finds him. If you can help us with this, then we will be prepared to help you.”

“How?”

“We know your plans, Baralis. We knew what you were born to do. Even before your mother’s womb took the seed, we were aware of that you would be. Our fate is connected with yours. As you rise, so do we.”

Although he was hearing this for the first time, the words seemed familiar; they played upon his eardrums like a well-remembered song. Fate hadn’t chosen him to let him dance alone. Powerful allies were needed to ensure his success. He would like to question the priests further, but he had the feeling that Larn couldn’t see the complete picture, either. He would only get riddles for answers. No matter. He could find things out on his own.

“If you wish I can keep an eye on the knight,” he said. “And if he makes a move to leave the city, I will stop him before he reaches the walls.”

“What do you ask in return?”

“Knowledge of your seerings. A great war will soon be upon us, and I would like all the advantages of foretelling on my side.”

“Our seers seldom give facts, Baralis. Only guidance.”

“I need no lessons from you, high priest.”

“So be it. We will feed you whatever information we deem necessary.”

Already the games had started. Men of their kind loved nothing better than to mince and parry words. “I hope my diet will not be found wanting meat.”

“Seeing that you are such a cynical man, Baralis, we will give you a sample of our fare to seal the pact.”

“Go on.” Baralis felt himself weakening. He had been here too long and traveled too far. His shadow rippled and thinned away. Then the contractions started. Over hundreds of leagues his body began to exert its powers, sucking him back with all the pull of the grave.

“Two days ago one of our seers spoke of you. He said that for now your greatest threat is a girl with a knife at her side. Is that meat enough for your plate?”

Baralis gave in to the unbearable pressure of body, the power of the physical world. The pull created a vacuum and he had no choice but to fill the void. He bade the priests farewell, yet already he had diminished in their thoughts. They sent him one final reminder: “Watch the knight for us.” He scarcely heard it. A great rush filled his ears as he was forced from the temple.

The sea salt had taste and the bird droppings stank of vinegar, and then the acceleration started and he knew nothing more.

 

 

Twenty-five

Jack was kicked awake. Without conscious thought he retaliated; hand thrusting out to catch his attacker’s ankle.

“You kingdoms’ bastard,” came a familiar voice, quickly followed by a familiar sensation as Gleeless the guard kicked him once more for his impudence.

Jack hardly cared about the impact of the kicking—at some point yesterday pain had lost its power over him and he now existed in a state of fevered calm—but he did take offense at the insult of the kick. Gleeless needed to be taught a few jail-side manners. Now if only he could pick himself off the floor, he’d be the man to do it. At the moment, though, his left arm seemed to be the only part of him that was functioning properly, whilst all of Gleeless’ limbs appeared to be in working order—though he did favor his right leg—and odds of four to one were a little discouraging, to say the least.

Gleeless backed away and returned a moment later with a cup of ale and a bowl of eels. Jack’s stomach turned at the sight of them. In Baralis’ books the heroes were always given stale bread and water, but since he’d been here they’d fed him nothing but eels. The Halcus knew how to use food as a weapon. A spinning sensation rounded up his thoughts like cattle and Jack’s head became heavy with the load. He drifted to a world where sausages held knives and hams aimed crossbows at cheese.

When he came to next, the grease on the eels had congealed. The light from the arrow loops had shifted across the cell floor and was now highlighting a trail of beetles that were making their way to the bowl. Jack pushed the eels in their direction; they were welcome to them. The ale was his, though. He found it hard to pick up the cup, his hands were never quite where they should be, and they were trembling so much that getting a firm grip was nearly impossible. To make matters worse, every few seconds two cups would appear, and he was never quite sure which one to go for. Rolling onto his stomach, he brought his head down toward the cup; his vision betrayed him again and another appeared by its side. He had the bright idea of aiming his mouth in the middle of the two cups. It worked. The ale was warm and there was something unpleasant floating in it, but he lapped it up like a dog. As he drank he noticed a tapping noise, and it took him a few seconds to realize that it was the sound of sweat dripping from his brow into the cup.

The eels were now alive with beetles. The eels moved more lethargically in death, borne on the current of a hundred hungry mandibles chomping away at their flesh. The sight of it sickened Jack. He rose up from his cup and began to concentrate on the bowl. He was getting better at summoning sorcery. Imagining his stomach was a skin of water, he squeezed upon the muscles, forcing the fluid to rise. At the same time he distilled his thoughts, losing all but one: the desire to destroy the bowl. The kindling was in place, but he still needed a spark to make it catch. Jack flashed an image of Rovas through his mind, a picture of the smuggler leaning forward to whisper words of comfort in Tarissa’s ear. So close he left saliva on the lobe. The sorcery rushed through his body to his mouth. He felt it alight upon his tongue and an instant later the bowl of eels exploded outward.

Beetles and parts of beetles rained down upon his body. Eels and their gravy were thrown against his skin, and shards of pottery punctured his shaking flesh. A wave of nausea rose up in him and he was helpless to stop it. Leaning forward, he lost the contents of his stomach into the rushes. It wasn’t the insects, or eels, or sorcery that made him sick, it was how low he had to stoop to call the power from within. He was ashamed of using Tarissa as his catalyst. In Castle Harvell there had been a plain-looking laundress called Marnie. One day she had invited him to the small dark room where she kept her stocks of lye and fuller’s earth. She placed her firm fleshy hand upon his arm and brought her thin lips forward to meet his. He hadn’t wanted to kiss her, but in his mind he conjured up an image of Findra the table maid and superimposed it over Marnie’s face. Feeling an instant flare of excitement, he kissed her and fondled her heavily muscled breasts. Afterward he felt remorse. Not only had he used Marnie, but Findra as well. Although he never went near the laundry again, he never forgot his guilt. Even now, the smell of freshly laundered clothes was enough to make him redden with shame.

He had used Tarissa’s image as surely as he’d used Findra’s.

Jack felt his consciousness slipping away. He fought the sensation; he didn’t want to lose any more hours to fevered fancy. He brushed the refuse from his skin, careful not to look at his arms. Over the past two days he had become adept at not seeing his body. The sight was too appalling. Tooth marks bloated by pus had caught his eye once, and he was determined it wouldn’t happen again.

The only thing that caused him any real discomfort was the arrow wound in his chest. Situated high up by his right shoulder, Jack could feel it pulling at the surrounding flesh. The arrowhead had been removed—by whom he’d never know, certainly not Gleeless—but apart from that nothing had been done. No hot iron, no stitches or ointments had been used, and his tunic was attached firmly to the wound. Jack had come to the conclusion that if he were to pull his tunic away from the newly forming scab, he would probably bleed to death.

Jack began to lose himself in the thickness of his thoughts. Marnie the laundress appeared before him, demanding that he take off his tunic so that she could wash it. Master Frallit was behind her, scolding him for getting pus in the dough, and Grift filled Bodger’s glass with beetle-colored ale, whilst telling him why washer women were better in bed.

“You lazy, good for nothing villain.” And then:

“Come on, you foul-smelling vermin, get up on your feet and show some respect.”

It took the impact of several kicks to convince Jack that the voice wasn’t part of his dream, as the words seemed to fit right in with the rest of the content.

He opened his eyes just in time to see Gleeless swinging a bucket, the contents of which ended up in his face. “Thought that would wake you,” said Gleeless, nodding like a surgeon in mid-diagnosis. “Got a little friend here for you.” He made a beckoning gesture with his hand and in walked a second guard, pushing a man before him. “He’s from your homeland, so you two should get on just fine.” Gleeless turned to the man. “What’s your name again, mate?”

“Bringe,” said the man.

The man was in a bad way. His nose was broken, both eyes were ringed with black bruises, and his wrists bore the unmistakable mark of the rope. He had been tied to a barrel and then beaten.

“Now, Bringe here is going to be spending the night with you,” said Gleeless, making his way to the cell door with the second guard. “Don’t forget to ask him his opinion on Halcus torture, ’cos this time tomorrow the chief persecutor will be coming for you, and it might be helpful to know in advance just how mean he can get if he’s crossed.” Gleeless smiled rather amiably and then turned and closed the door.

• • •

Tavalisk ran a pudgy hand over the pale and gelatinous substance, picked a likely spot for testing, and then stabbed his finger into the flesh. Perfect. The tripe was as soft and welcoming as a young boy’s thighs. The substance quivered as if it were alive, its oyster-colored flesh giving off the subtle aroma of bile. Countless tiny glands roughened the surface, providing the only variation to the bland and bloodless gut. Tripe: the stomach lining of the pig. Not a great delicacy in anyone’s opinion, but delicious all the same. Nothing could match it for texture and taste, nothing was quite as teasing on the tongue. Most men would make the mistake of boiling it with salt and onions, but Tavalisk knew differently. It required a delicate poaching in pork broth and vinegar; only then would it reveal its true complexity of flavor. Done right, and one could almost taste every separate meal that had ever been eaten by the pig.

He cut himself a portion, marveling at the ease with which it took the knife. Just as he brought flesh to lips, a knock sounded on the door. The archbishop tutted angrily and cried, “Enter,” in such a way that the word was transformed into an insult and a warning.

“I trust Your Eminence is well today?” said Gamil, walking into the room.

“I was feeling quite well until about ten seconds ago, Gamil, then for some reason my spirits took a sharp turn for the worst.”

Gamil carried on as if Tavalisk hadn’t spoken. “I have news of Kylock’s invasion, Your Eminence. Apparently he’s sweeping through western Halcus like a brushfire. The man is a demon, ordering the killing of women and children, slaughtering cattle, and constructing dams to flood the fields. Not to mention the fact that he’s burning every hayloft and chicken coop in sight. The newly crowned king seems intent on bringing Halcus to its knees.”

“Hmm.” The archbishop nibbled daintily on his tripe. “Kylock is turning out to be quite an interesting character. I must say, I wholly agree with his decision to murder the women of Halcus—they’re an ugly and shrewish bunch, the lot of them!”

“But isn’t Your Eminence worried about the consequences? If Kylock reaches Helch, then the whole of the north will turn into one huge battlefield.”

“Now, now, Gamil,” said Tavalisk, waving a tripe-tipped fork in his aide’s direction. “There’s no need to panic. A battlefield in the north is nothing to lose sleep over. It’s the south that matters to us. The secret is to keep the south interested in the war without actively involving them in it.” Tavalisk threw some tripe to his cat and the creature greedily snapped it up. “Marls and Toolay would up timbers and run at the first sight of a soldier brandishing a halberd, and I intend to use their fear to my advantage.”

“How, Your Eminence?”

“Simple, Gamil. I will convince them that the only way they can stop the war from spreading south is to make sure that Baralis and Kylock are firmly thwarted in the north. Of course that will take resources: armaments, finances, mercenaries, supplies . . .” The archbishop made a sweeping gesture with his arms. “And the southern cities are the ones who should supply them. Not to mention the fact that they can finally rid themselves of those pesky self-righteous knights.”

“Talking of the knights, Your Eminence, Tyren and the duke of Bren have entered into an agreement where both parties now guard cargo trains from the south to the north. I think it was the rumor of the seized wedding dress that did it. The duke of Bren can hardly sit back and let his cargoes be publicly seized by the four-city force. It’s too humiliating. So now when we attack the knights, we’re as good as attacking Bren, as well.”

“Isn’t the buildup to a world war beautiful to behold, Gamil?” Tavalisk threw a second piece of tripe to his cat. This time he flung the morsel high up, so it landed atop a tapestry that was hanging from the wall. That would challenge the beast. “An insult here, a few slaughtered cattle there, and the next thing one knows, people are lining up on opposite sides, knives drawn, ready for a fight. It’s quite thrilling, really.”

The cat, who had been eyeing the out-of-reach tripe for a few moments, finally decided to make its move. It jumped up, claws extended to catch at the cloth. The tapestry, which was suspended by a chain from the wall, began to swing from side to side erratically. The cat clung onto it, four limbs spread-eagled against the likeness of Kesmont’s horse. The tripe worked its way loose and fell to the floor with a dull slapping sound. The cat tried to jump after it, but one of its claws was caught up in the fabric and it hurtled downward only to find itself suspended from the tapestry by its hind paw.

Gamil made to free the trapped creature.

“No, don’t help it, Gamil,” said the archbishop. “Even dumb animals must learn the price of greed.”

The cat squawked loudly and began to thrash wildly against the wall.

“But Your Eminence, it will hurt itself.”

“It should have thought of that sooner. Now, anything else?”

Gamil was forced to speak over the sound of the cat screeching. “Two more things, Your Eminence. First, the knight has become the duke of Bren’s champion, and second, the Old Man’s cronies are on the way back home.”

There was a loud crash as cat and tapestry went careening to the floor. Tavalisk ignored the noise. “So they didn’t manage to murder the knight?”

“No, Your Eminence. They never tried to. They were there to deliver a letter, not a knife.”

Tavalisk paused in mid-chew. “It would be most interesting to know the contents of that letter, Gamil.” The archbishop sighed daintily. “We must continue to have the knight watched closely, you never know what we might discover. Now if there’s nothing more, kindly take your leave.”

“Certainly, Your Eminence,” said Gamil, walking to the door.

“Just before you go, Gamil, I wonder if you could do me a small favor.”

“Take your cat to the physician to see if he can stop the bleeding?”

“Well done, Gamil. I see you’ve reached the point where you can anticipate my needs.”

• • •

Bringe was not a happy man. Everything had gone downhill since he hacked Maybor’s orchards. Baralis had paid him his fee promptly—nineteen pieces of the king’s own gold—so he had nothing to complain about there. Unfortunately, a few days later his wife had decided it was high time to give the brewing vat its once yearly clean. So, while he was out at the local inn sharing a cup of tavern-keeper’s best with the full-thighed Gerty, his rat-faced wife was busy discovering his hidden stash under the brewing vat, wrapped in linen, and packed with grease to stop the coins from clinking together.

By the time he’d returned from the inn she was gone. A few decent slaps to Gerty revealed that she and his wife had an aunt in Highwall. A few decent kicks to the bailiff revealed that his wife was last seen paying two golds for the protection of a merchant train that was heading east. Bringe started after her, the now miserable and wailing Gerty in tow. Four days later he caught up with the train. His wife set the guards on him. Whilst he was being shot at, Gerty was busy ingratiating herself with her older sister. When the merchant train pulled away, he found himself alone.

He continued drifting east, robbing food and money to live. His plan was to catch up his wife and Gerty in Highwall, but the Halcus put a stop to that. Two weeks back he was picked up by them as an enemy spy. Kylock’s invasion had sent them into a mad frenzy, seeking out any men from the kingdoms to torture and burn.

So here he was, stuck in a Halcus prison cell, his face a match for a squashed pumpkin, being stared at by some fever-crazy wild man. “Don’t come near me, longhair,” he warned. No one was going to give him a dose of the ghones. Or anything else contagious, for that matter.

As Bringe became accustomed to the dimness, he realized that the stranger was younger than he first thought. He was in a bad way. Down both of his arms were a series of sores that looked as if they might be bite marks, and he was shaking from head to foot. Bringe spat in distaste. “What you in here for, boy?”

The stranger sat in a heap of dirty rushes. A trickle of blood ran down his neck where the guard had kicked him. “I murdered a man,” he said.

Murder? The boy went up in Bringe’s opinion. “I’m in here under suspicion of murder myself. A merchant was killed in the tavern a couple of weeks back and everyone swore it was a foreigner who did it. When they couldn’t pin that one on me, they got me for spying instead.” This wasn’t entirely true, but it made him sound more important than admitting he was one of hundreds who’d been rounded up for no other reason than they happened to hail from the kingdoms. The part about the tavern murder was true, but it was his last cell mate who was charged with the murder, not himself.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Jack.”

Bringe didn’t like the look of Jack one bit. His skin had a sickly look to it and his eyes were bright with madness. “People call me Bringe.” That statement met with no response, so he soldiered on. “From the kingdoms, eh? Whereabouts?”

“Castle Harvell.”

“I’m from the Eastlands myself. You know, near Lord Maybor’s estate.”

At the mention of Lord Maybor, the boy turned white. He shifted himself to his knees and asked, “Did you know his daughter, Melliandra?”

Bringe had seen her ride past his cottage once or twice in her brother’s company. An uppity-looking wench if ever he saw one. “Yes, I knew her well. Course she spends most of her time at court now.”

“She was beautiful, wasn’t she?” The boy looked to Bringe for confirmation.

“Aye, breasts as firm as walnuts. She’s the type that’s hairy down below, too.”

The boy struggled to pull himself onto his feet. A kennel’s worth of bites had torn his britches to shreds, and his legs were shaking like aspic. Once upright, he came tottering toward Bringe, sweat dripping from his chin and a manic look in his eye. Too late, Bringe realized that the boy meant to hit him. The boy’s fist landed firmly on his newly broken nose. A sickening crunch was followed by the quick flare of pain. A second later, the boy reeled backward and collapsed onto the floor.

Bringe brought his hand to his nose to stop the bleeding, contemplating beating the boy, decided it would only get him into more trouble, and settled for a swift kick to the abdomen instead. The boy groaned and spit blood from his mouth. In a way Bringe respected him; a man who defended a woman’s honor was not all bad. It was the women themselves who were vicious money-grabbing mares.

“Come on, Jack,” said Bringe, offering the boy a hand. “Let’s not fall out over a woman.”

The boy refused his help, dragged himself into a sitting position, and proceeded to scowl at him.

“Of course you’ve got to give kingdoms’ women their fair due,” said Bringe, entering into one of his favorite subjects. “No one can match them when it comes to thighs. Halcus women are too skinny, Highwall women are too muscley, and Annis women are so tall that you wonder if it’s a thigh or a tree that you’re grabbing.” Bringe met with no response, but decided to continue on regardless.

“Everyone knows that kingdoms’ women are the best. That’s what the tavern murder was all about. The captain here, I forget his name, sold a kingdoms girl to a flesh-trader. By all accounts he made a fortune. A couple of weeks later a man turns up asking about her. ’Tis rumored he was her betrothed. Anyway, the next day the merchant that he questioned is found dead. Throat slit down a dark alley.”

“Was the captain named Vanly?” asked the boy.

Bringe nodded. “That’s him.”

“How long ago did this happen?” The boy’s demeanor changed. He was lucid, sharp, his whole body leaning forward in anticipation of the answer.

“I think the girl was sold a couple of months back now. During the wintertime. Apparently Vanly found her in a chicken coop.”

“What was the girl’s name?”

Bringe scratched his head and tried to remember what his cell mate had told him. “Something beginning with M, like Minnie or Melda.”

“Was it Melli?”

“Er, I’m not sure.”

“Think. Think!”

Bringe was beginning to feel a little nervous. The boy looked set to explode. “Melli, you say. It does sound familiar.”

“And this girl was sold to a flesh-trader?”

“Aye, that much is common knowledge. For weeks afterward that was all the town’s people could talk about: the killing Vanly made on the deal.” Bringe’s eyes flicked nervously to his companion. One look at the boy’s face and a primal instinct warned him to back away. He didn’t know what he was dealing with, but one thing was certain: the boy was dangerous.

• • •

It was a sham. Tarissa, Magra, Rovas; they’d all played him for a fool. Right now they were probably sitting round the fire, laughing away at how stupid he’d been.

All the time that he’d stayed in the cottage, Melli had been alive.

How could Tarissa do it? How could she have loved him and kissed him and lied through her teeth? He felt crushed by the weight of her lies.

A slow pressure began to build within him. He hardly noticed the push.

Where did the lies end? Did Tarissa really hate Rovas? Or had that been just another acting feat?

The pressure built steadily, rising upward to meet his thoughts.

Tarissa said she was the one who was supposed to kill Vanly.

She said that Melli was dead.

His head pounded in time to the list of her deceptions.

She said she would come with him to Annis.

She said she loved him.

She said she would wait for him.

LIES. LIES. LIES.

He couldn’t bear the pain.

The pressure turned to fire in his blood. It burnt a trail along his tongue and crackled forth like a whip. Jack felt the rush of sorcery. Glorious, terrible, uncontrollable, it fed off his thoughts like fuel and ate away at his soul.

She had betrayed him.

The air shimmered then thickened around him. The building began to shake. Stones and masonry came crashing to the floor. The earth jolted beneath his feet. It began to rock back and forth, the stones churning themselves to mud. The bars on the cell door buckled and the frame fell away from the wall. A warm wind carried the stench of metal around the cell. The power that tore through his body terrified and entranced him. Without stopping to think, he made his way through the opening and up into the garrison.

He heard the sound of screams through a filter of fire. People were rushing back and forth, blood marking each body like a cattle brand. All around him destruction reigned; walls collapsed as he passed, metals spat sparks, and timbers burst into flames. The ground erupted into hills of dirt and stone, sending rocks blasting through the air. Barrels exploded outward; their contents thrown hissing into the blaze.

She had betrayed him.

Sorcery danced around him like lightning.

He passed through the chaos untouched. Enthralled and helpless to stop himself, he walked through the garrison like the phantom of death.

The timber roof of the main building caught light. It flared like kindling, turning the twilight into midday with its brightness. Dark, ash-heavy smoke soon rivaled the light, screening and choking and turning the courtyard into an abyss. The huge crossbeam that supported the roof came crashing down to the floor, crushing two guards and casting sparking splinters to the breeze. The outbuildings were soon engulfed, followed by the stables and the gatehouse.

Horses and pigs squealed. Men dashed across his path, clothes on fire, terror on their faces, and screams on their lips. On Jack walked, sorcery crackling with every step.

The entrance came into sight. The portcullis was up and the postern gate was alight. Jack stopped and watched it burn. Air rushed past him, blowing hot and fast, sending his hair streaming behind him. Up in the guard tower he spied a young guard trapped by the flames, deciding whether to jump or be burned. Jack saw fear on his smoke-blackened face. The flames came closer, licking at his heels. The man made the sign of Borc’s sword and jumped. The dull thud of his landing acted like cold water to Jack. He forced himself to look at the guard’s body. Blood seeped treacle-slow from a gash in his head. His right leg bent outward at an unnatural angle, and his fingers twitched as if he were strumming a lute.

Jack knew he had to stop. This man didn’t deserve to die. He had jumped to near-certain death, yet his courage would be in vain if the sorcery didn’t end.

He reached down into himself. Down toward the source. It was like swimming against a tide of light. Fast and furious the power raged. Belly-strong and sharp-minded, it fought him all the way. The part of Jack that was still rational realized that power couldn’t exist without the pain of betrayal. Violent emotion was its lifeblood. He tried to put Tarissa from his mind. Deeper and deeper, he went, through layers of tissue alive and ringing with sorcery. Thrusting his thoughts into the source, as surely as thrusting his hand into the fire, Jack struggled to cut off the flow.

His mind was seared, and like a piece of meat, the juices were sealed within. He couldn’t release the pain. Afraid and trembling, he opened his mouth and screamed:

“No!”

The sound had a force of its own. It acted like a dagger, piercing the madness with the cool gleam of steel. Jack’s will rose up in its wake, pushing the sorcery back down to the blood. There was one unbearable moment when his body felt torn in two, and then everything coalesced, rearranging itself into a different but complete form. A wave of suction ripped through his tissue, robbing the strength from his muscles. It left Jack limp.

Suddenly he couldn’t stand, or raise an arm, or even blink an eyelid. He slumped onto the ground. Feet away from the guard who had jumped from the battlements, Jack gathered his last remaining store of strength and reached out toward the man’s twitching hand. Pain clawed down his spine and his arm felt as if it were buried under a mountain of earth. Still he pushed on, becoming obsessed with the desire to touch the guard. It was the only thing that counted in the fiery hell that had become the night. Inch by inch he dragged his arm across the dirt until he could move no more. A finger’s length divided them. The guard, as if aware of Jack’s efforts, opened his eyes. They were a clear and peaceful blue.

Slowly, his whole body quivering with spasms, pain flaring to cloud his bright eyes, the guard reached out to meet Jack’s hand. Jack felt rough fingers touching his and his heart thrilled with joy. Tarissa was gone. The pain was gone. He and the guard, lying side by side on the scorched earth, were the only things that mattered.

• • •

Sure that the power had been withdrawn, Baralis stepped out of his bed. He was irritated to see that he was shaking. Donning a fine ermine robe, he made his way to the fire. His hands ached badly tonight. As always there was a jug of holk resting amongst the embers. Pouring himself a brimming cup, he downed the warm and spicy liquid in one swallow. Only when the holk had worked its trade upon his hands, did he feel calm enough to think about what he had just experienced.

Tonight, somewhere in the Known Lands, someone had performed a drawing that defied all reason.

Woken up from an early, fitful sleep, Baralis felt the first wave of the most powerful sorcery he had ever encountered. Terrifying in its strength, it sent spasms racing down his spine, spiking his very soul. There seemed no end to it. On and on the power flowed. First for seconds, then for minutes, then for hours. Never before had he felt anything to match it. Even now the very substance of the air crackled with the aftermath. Half the city of Bren had probably awakened in their beds. Few would know why.

Baralis was afraid. The person who had done this was powerful beyond telling.

Gathering his strength, he sent out his perception. Already weak from his journey to Larn the day before, he could do little but test the essence of the sorcery. Like a man holding a wet finger to the wind, he could tell from which direction the aftermath came: west. But, if he wasn’t mistaken, not as far west as the kingdoms. Which meant Halcus or Annis or Highwall. A terrible thought occurred to him: could it be Kylock, suddenly free from the tyranny of drugs? Baralis’ heart quickened at the thought. Quickly he tasted the air around him. The sorcery played upon his tongue with a familiar tune. Not Kylock. No. Someone else. Someone whom he had encountered before. Someone who had copied Tavalisk’s library word for word.

The baker’s boy.

Risking sanity, and with no help from his potions, Baralis’ drew the aftermath into his mind. Such lightness, such pain, such flickering flames. And then the clear blue eyes of a man close to death. It was all there, written upon the ether in a foreign tongue. There was little he could make sense of and no time for translation. One thing was certain, though: Jack was responsible for the drawing. He had not been mistaken. All sorcery had its own unique signature, and once Baralis perceived an individual’s pattern, he never forgot it. This was the third time now that the baker’s boy had signed his name across a drawing.

He exhaled deeply, eager to be free of the alien force. It left him, but not willingly. He felt it clawing away at the fiber of his brain, trying to restructure his mind to mimic that from which it came. Baralis was too much the master to let it gain a footing. No one’s aftermath was going to make a madman out of him.

Still, there was a price to pay. He was overcome with a terrible, draining weakness. No longer possessing strength enough to return to his bed, Baralis sat by the fire and sipped his holk. He knew he needed to sleep, to recuperate like an invalid, but his thoughts raced ahead, leaving his body to fend for itself.

What was the purpose behind Jack’s power? Such a gift—for talent on such a scale could be neither taught nor inherited—was not given without purpose. Baralis searched his mind, looking for connections and prophecies and patterns in the dance. Something began to niggle away at him. Something heard the day before at the table of Larn’s high priests, when they had spoken about the knight:

“He came here for a seering, we showed him the way.”

“What way was that?”

“To the kingdoms.”

The boy the knight was looking for came from the kingdoms. The hairs prickled on the back of Baralis’ neck. It was Jack, the baker’s boy. He knew it without a doubt. Larn lived in fear of his former scribe.

What did it mean? And, more importantly, how did it affect him? Baralis warmed his hands upon the holk jug as he tried to make sense of this latest development. The boy was important; he had great powers, the wiseman Bevlin had sent a knight to search for him, and Larn didn’t want him found. What was it the priests had said before he left?

“Our fate is connected with yours. As you rise, so do we.”

Then if the boy was a threat to Larn, he was a threat to him, as well. In a way Baralis already knew this. He had known it all those months ago when eight score of burnt loaves had been transmuted into dough. Jack was a thorn in his side then, and it seemed he still was now. He should have killed him when he had the chance.

The key to this mystery was the wiseman Bevlin; he alone knew the true purpose of the boy. Only he was dead, very probably due to the efforts of Larn, and his secrets had gone with him to the grave.

Or had they? The base of the jug had been in the fire and Baralis spotted ash on his fingers. Absently, he rubbed the silvery powder away. The wiseman himself might have turned to dust, but his books and his records would still remain. Yes, that was it. Tomorrow he would look into procuring Bevlin’s possessions. A man like that was bound to have consigned his thoughts to parchment. All he had to do was locate who currently held them and make him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

With a plan decided upon, Baralis felt in control once more. He would get to the bottom of this. The baker’s boy might have great ability, but experience and cunning always won in the end.

• • •

Jack woke up with a start. He was cold and his clothes were soaking wet. People were close, shouting, dashing, and carrying bundles through the dark. There was a brief blissful moment of confusion, and then he remembered all the horror of the night. The guard! What had become of the guard who had jumped? Jack looked around. He was lying in exactly the same place as before and the guard was at his side. How long had he been out? Minutes? Hours? It was impossible to say. Yet the gatehouse was now reduced to charred and smoking rubble, and the rest of the garrison seemed to have met a similar fate. Flames still flickered here and there, sparring with timbers and outbuildings, but they lacked the fierce frenzy of before.

He knew he had to get up. It wouldn’t be long before the people who were busy hurrying to and fro decided that the two men lying at the side of the gate needed moving. He moved his arms close to his body in preparation to push himself up. His muscles screamed with pure pain. A hard ball of sickness welled up in his throat, and bringing it up nearly choked him. Retching hard, he spat out a dry lump of something pink-colored. Jack quickly covered it with dirt. He didn’t want to know what it was.

Trying to stand up again, he shifted his weight to his arms. This time he was determined to ignore the pain. Everything was going well until it was his legs’ turn to play their part; they shook violently for a moment and then buckled, sending him crashing back down to the ground. He landed badly. His shoulder hit first, sending a sharp spasm straight to the arrow wound on his chest. “Damn!” he cursed, frustrated by his weakness. He took a deep breath and began again. Humming a tune, he struggled to his feet. He swayed like before, but countered his legs’ desire to crumble, by refusing to let them bend at the knee. After a few seconds of standing soldier-straight, his blood started flowing downward, and gradually Jack began to feel a little stronger.

Someone approached him. “You all right, friend? Do you need a hand?”

Jack looked at the stranger blankly. There was no accusation on his face, only concern. The man didn’t know who he was. Jack knew better than to speak, so nodded instead, making a small patting gesture at his throat, as if the fire had rendered it raw.

“How about the other fellow?”

Not once during the time he had been trying to stand had Jack seen the guard move. He raised his arms in a pulling gesture and the man came closer to give him a hand with the body. “I don’t believe I’ve met you before, my friend,” he said, as he grabbed the guard’s shoulders. “Though with all that dirt on your face, you could be my wife and I’d hardly know it.” The man smiled broadly, showing intricately crooked teeth and a fat red tongue. “Come on, lad. Look lively, grab those feet. My name’s Dilburt, by the way.”

Jack bent down and took hold of the guard’s ankles. He almost couldn’t believe what he felt: the flesh was warm. Not cold, not cool, but warm. He was alive. Jack felt a wave of simple joy ripple through his body. Buoying, invigorating, it chased away the pain.

“What you so happy about, lad?” asked the man, not unkindly. “Has all the soot gone to your head? Or are you relieved that this guy’s feet don’t smell as bad as you thought?” Not waiting for an answer, Dilburt counted: “One, two, three,” and together they hoisted the guard into the air. “Through here, lad,” he said, tilting his head toward the gate. “A camp’s been set up for the sick.”

Bearing the guard’s body was a duty to Jack. His muscles ached, his head spun, and although the stranger took the greater part of the weight, the strain on his shoulder caused an inferno of pain.

Two minutes later they came upon a makeshift camp. Campfires and tents had been hastily built, and pallets and bedrolls lined the ground. People had collected in large groups, and if anything the mood was festive; cups topped with froth caught the firelight and the smell of roasting meat filled the air. Somewhere, a woman with a fine voice was singing a song that was anything but sad, and all around people were chattering in high, excited voices about what had happened that night.

Jack did not want to join the throng. He stopped in his tracks, causing Dilburt to come to a halt. “What’s the matter, lad? Tired?” he asked. “Only a bit of a way to go now. The sick are being tended on the other side, close to the wall.”

There seemed little choice but to follow the stranger. Somehow the guard had become his responsibility, and Jack felt it wouldn’t be right to leave him until he was sure that the man was getting the help he needed. It was the least he could do. Lowering his head, he stepped forward.

“Good, lad,” said Dilburt, adjusting his grip on the guard’s body, taking even more of the burden upon himself.

At that moment Jack wished he could speak. He would like to have thanked the crooked-toothed man who had helped him and the guard without question. Instead he smiled softly.

The stranger seemed to understand. “Eh, lad,” he said, “on nights like this, a fellow can’t count himself a man unless he’s willing to do his part.”

No heads turned as they passed through the crowds. People seemed strangely excited, like they did at Castle Harvell on the eve of the big feast. There was a sheen on many a man’s brow and a blush on the bosoms of women who had loosened their laces for the sake of their health. Snatches of conversation reached Jack’s ears:

“It was an earthquake, I’m sure of it. Just two days ago the jailers reported feeling a tremor beneath the cells.”

“Kingdoms spies did it. They doused all the timbers in oil and set fire to them with flaming arrows.”

“The kingdoms dug a mine beneath the garrison and set it alight, that’s what caused the earth to shake.”

“I heard one man walked through the flames untouched, like an angel.”

“It was the devil.”

“It was Kylock.”

“The two are one in the same.”

Jack was glad when they reached the sick tent. He’d had his fill of rumors. Several rows of soot-blackened, groaning men were laid out neatly like cards. The sound of hacking and spitting filled the air.

“Dead or alive?” came the curt, efficient voice of a self-important physician.

“Alive—until you get your hands on him,” piped up Dilburt.

Jack had to bite his tongue to stop himself from laughing. He was liking his co-bearer more and more by the minute.

“Over there, then,” said the doctor, indicating a clean, linen-covered pallet. Once they had laid the guard down, he turned to Jack. “You look like you’re in a bad way under all that soot. Wait over there by the stoop and I’ll take a look at you when I’ve got a minute.” He appraised Jack coolly, his eyes taking in the chest wound and the sores running down his arms.

Jack began to feel nervous. He wondered how many of his injuries the soot had covered, but he couldn’t risk glancing down to check. He looked to Dilburt for help.

“If I were you, lad,” he said, “I wouldn’t let him near me with a maypole. You’re alive and you’re standing and Borc willing you’ll live through the night. A man couldn’t hope for more.” He came forward and put his arm around Jack’s shoulders. “Come on, lad. Let’s not waste this good man’s time any longer. If left too long his patients might start getting better on their own, and we all know there’d be hell to pay if that happened.” He smiled a gloriously disarming smile, winked at the physician, and began to steer Jack away from the camp.

Jack pulled away for an instant. He had to say farewell to the guard. Dilburt made a slight nodding movement of his head. “Very commendable of you, lad. I’ll wait over here till you’ve done.”

What was it about this man? Dilburt seemed able to read his thoughts as easily as others heard his words. Jack watched a moment as he backed a discreet distance away, bald patch shining in the moonlight like the bottom of a cup raised in drink. Walking back to the guard, Jack rested his hand lightly on the man’s arms. Sweat gleamed on the guard’s brow and his whole body was shaking. His right leg fell to one side, and above his knee the skin was white and strained where a splintered bone pressed against the flesh.

“I’m sorry,” whispered Jack.

The guard’s eyes opened. He looked at Jack for a moment, a world of compassion in his clear blue eyes, and said simply, “I know.”

Jack squeezed his arm, probably too tightly, for his heart felt heavy, and physical things became difficult to judge. “Rest easy tonight, my friend,” he said softly, and then turned and walked away.

Dilburt came to meet him, offering an arm on which to rest his weight. For the third time that night, the crooked-toothed man read his thoughts, for he didn’t say a word, merely guided Jack away from the camp.

• • •

Half an hour later, too exhausted for words or thought, Jack and Dilburt approached a small, neatly timbered building. By this time Dilburt was all but carrying him. “Here we are, lad,” he said. “Home sweet home.” Dawn was breaking, and the sun’s first rays framed the neatly timbered cottage like a halo.

A woman with a face as large and smooth as a round of cheese came out to greet them. “Husband!” she cried. “What are you doing mooning around outside with a sick man on your arm? Come in this instant and let me tend him.” She clucked like an angry hen, coming forward to take Jack’s other arm. “Really! Dilburt Wadwell! I always said you had tallow for brains, and I’ve been proven right tonight—for the fire has surely melted them.”

Jack felt himself pressed against the considerable bounty of Mrs. Wadwell’s chest. She smelled wonderfully familiar: yeasty, buttery, good enough to bake. Leading him through a doorway so low that all of them had to bow to pass, she led him into a warm bright kitchen. The rushes were so fresh they crackled underfoot.

All this time, Mrs. Wadwell kept up a good-humored tirade at her husband. “Dilburt, don’t just stand there as if you’re waiting for Borc’s second coming. Pour the lad a mug of holk—and not one of your skimpy half measures, if you please. I don’t want to see the rim of the cup.” Firm hands forced Jack down upon a cushioned seat. “And while you’re at it, bring me a bowl and some water. This boy’s in need of a good wash.”

Dilburt caught Jack’s eye and smiled ruefully. “Aye, my wife would have made a fine general if she’d been born a man.”

“Enough of your chatter, husband,” said Mrs. Wadwell, seeming anything but displeased. “This lad is suffering for want of my holk.” She rested a heavy hand upon Jack’s forehead, felt the heat from his skin, and then rolled up the sleeves of her dress. “I can see I’ll be here all morning.”

Jack leaned back in the comfortable chair and was content to let her tend him. Her touch was efficient, if a little rough, and her enthusiasm was boundless. A quarter-candle later she had given him a shave, cleaned all his “decent parts,” rubbed salve into his various dog bites, and applied a cold compress to his forehead. Lastly, Mrs. Wadwell came to the arrow wound in his upper chest. Whilst washing him, her damp cloth had skirted around the mass of clotted and scabbing blood. Now she gave it her full attention.

“Husband, put down the compress and bring me the best of the summer wine,” she said.

Dilburt promptly made his way to the far side of the cottage. Mrs. Wadwell took this opportunity to whisper in Jack’s ear, “I suspect that under all that blood, I’ll find a very nasty arrow wound.”

Jack opened his mouth to make some excuse, realized he couldn’t talk because his accent would give him away, and so was forced to settle for shrugging his shoulders.

Mrs. Wadwell leaned very close. Her huge bosom brushed against his face. “I’m glad you’re not going to try my patience with a lie, lad. For it would only upset my Dilburt. He’s a kind-hearted man, can’t see anyone sick without bringing him home. He’s got it into his head that I can care for folks better than any doctor, and if I do say so myself, he’s right.” She patted Jack’s arm. “Anyway, the point is this: if my husband’s content not to ask questions, then so am I. Oh, I know very well what caused the wounds on your arms and legs—though I doubt if my Dilburt does. But I trust his instincts. He’s never brought anyone bad to this house since I’ve known him, and I don’t think he’s started with you.”

Jack felt he had to risk speaking. “Thank you,” he said.

Mrs. Wadwell made a clucking noise. “You have my Dilburt to thank, lad, not me.”

Dilburt returned with a jug of wine. He broke the waxed seal and proceeded to fill three cups with the deep, red liquid.

“No, husband, the wine’s for cleaning this lad’s wound, not for drinking.”

“That may be so, woman, but I think it’s about time we all had a drink.”

Surprisingly, Mrs. Wadwell didn’t argue with her husband. She took her cup with good grace and passed the other over to Jack.

“I think I will propose a toast, wife,” said Dilburt.

“I think you should, husband,” said Mrs. Wadwell, nodding her large head judiciously.

Dilburt raised his glass. “To a long night, a bright fire, and friends well met in need.”

“Nicely said, husband.” Mrs. Wadwell downed her wine in one draft, burping splendidly when she’d finished. “Now help me get this boy onto the bed. Once I’ve cleaned and dressed that chest wound, I’ll be sending him straight to sleep.”

 

 

Twenty-six

No, I’d have to disagree with you there, Bodger. I think that when the time comes for Nabber here to do his first spot of rollickin’, his best bet is to go for an older woman. Not a young slip of a girl with no meat on her bones and no hair on her upper lip.”

“Just how old should this woman be, Grift?” asked Nabber, a picture of an old woman with a mustache flashing through his mind.

“Old enough to know what she’s doing in the dark, Nabber.”

“I didn’t know women’s eyesight improved with age, Grift,” said Bodger.

“It doesn’t, Bodger. But their ability to please a man does. Right grateful, too, they are.”

“Grateful for what?” asked Nabber.

“A spot of male company. Mark my words, young Nabber, an older woman is not only the most experienced between the sheets, but she’ll be willing to wash them for you afterward.”

“I wouldn’t let an older woman do that for me, Grift,” said Bodger. “Clean sheets set my scroff sores running.”

Whilst Griff told Bodger the best way to dry up scroff sores, Nabber busily downed more ale. Even though it was early and dawn’s chill was still hanging in the air, he was feeling slightly tipsy. Over the past few days he had become friendly with the two guards who were stationed outside the chapel and had taken to sharing a few drinks with them on his way to and from the secret passageway. At this point, Bodger and Grift thought that he was a boy so devoted to his mother’s memory that he spent all his spare time in seclusion praying for her in the chapel. He felt a little guilty about that, but with Tawl gone he had little to do, and the secret passageways were his only diversion. That and downing good ale and bad advice from Bodger and Grift. A woman with hair on her upper lip, indeed!

“Did you feel the air last night, Grift?” asked Bodger.

“Aye. Woke me up, it did, Bodger. I was having a nice dream about being back at Castle Harvell. Everyone was there in the kitchens going about their business, when our old friend Jack the baker’s boy set the place alight. The whole building went up in flames. Horrible it was. The next thing I know, I’m wide awake and the air is so thick it’s crawling across my skin like a plague of centipedes.”

“I wouldn’t repeat that story to anyone else if I were you, my friend,” came a softly sinister voice.

Nabber and Bodger and Grift all looked around to see who it belonged to. Standing in the shadows was a tall dark man dressed in black silk. The two guards immediately stood up and brushed down their clothes.

“Lord Baralis, this is an unexpected pleasure,” said Grift, hastily throwing a cloth over the ale skin.

“Don’t worry, gentlemen, I haven’t come to check up on you, or to reclaim my debt—though a little reminder of your obligation will do no harm.” He smiled coldly, thin lips stretching over glinting teeth. “No. My business is not with you, but rather your young companion: Nabber, if I’m not mistaken.”

Nabber had the distinct feeling that this man before him was seldom mistaken about anything. “That’s me, what do you want?”

“Privacy.”

Up until that point, Nabber thought that Bodger and Grift were incapable of fast movement; they seemed to exist in a lazy, semi-drunken haze where their bottoms never left their chairs. Borc, was he wrong! At the word privacy they scooted out of the chapel so fast they could have won a race.

The man in black waited until the door was firmly closed, and then moved toward the altar. Coming to rest in front of the central panel, which marked the entrance to the secret passageway, he spun round and said, “You are a friend of the knight’s, are you not?”

Lord Baralis was no longer in the shadows, yet the darkness clung to him like a fragrance. It was difficult for Nabber to tell exactly what he looked like—except for his eyes. They glittered with the cold light of a predator.

“And if I am?”

“Don’t mince words with me, boy, for it will be to your disadvantage if you do.” Lord Baralis seemed to check himself; he rubbed his hands together and stepped forward a little. “However, it will be to your advantage to answer me promptly and with the truth.”

Nabber caught a whiff of the sweet smell of loot. “The knight and I are old friends. Go back a long way, we do.”

“Aah.” Lord Baralis issued a smile as smooth as his voice. “You’re a sensible boy, I see.”

“The most sensible in Rorn.”

“Is that where you met the knight—Rorn?”

Nabber rubbed his chin. “Just about how advantageous would it be for me to tell you that?” He couldn’t see that disclosing the information would do Tawl any harm. So why not make a little loot? It was nobody’s secret.

“Answer all my questions today and I will give you ten golds.”

“Done! If you have the money about your person.”

Lord Baralis reached inside his robe and brought out a velvet purse. Without pausing to measure coinage, he offered it out for Nabber to take. “This should be sufficient.”

Nabber took the purse. His first instinct was to count the loot, but he remembered the way Swift handled himself in similar situations, and so he quietly slipped the purse into his tunic. Of course the minute Swift was alone he’d tally the money with the skill of a professional lender. And if he found it wanting, he would quickly dispatch a man to break the offender’s fingers. Somehow Nabber doubted if he’d be doing the same with Lord Baralis.

“So, how long have you known the knight?”

“Long enough to call him a friend.” Nabber thought Lord Baralis would take him to task on the vagueness of his answer, but he let it pass.

“Has he been looking for the boy since you met him?”

“Way before then.” Only after he spoke did Nabber begin to wonder how Lord Baralis knew about Tawl’s quest.

“Did you ever go with him to meet the wiseman, Bevlin?” After each question Lord Baralis moved a few steps closer. He was now only an arm’s length away from Nabber. His breath smelled sharp and sweet.

The purse in Nabber’s tunic began to feel heavy, like a burden. “I met Bevlin once. Nice man he was, cured me of the northern shivers.”

“Where is his house?”

“Less than three weeks ride east of here.”

“Do you know if he had any relatives or acquaintances who would currently be in possession of his belongings?” Lord Baralis’ eyes narrowed. “I know he’s dead, of course.”

The purse now became hot as well as heavy. “Can’t help you there, my friend.”

“Do you think there’s a chance his possessions might still be in his house?”

Nabber had buried Bevlin. He’d dug a shallow grave and then dragged the wiseman’s body out of the cottage to the plot that lay under the sill. He scrubbed the blood from the floor, dampened the fire, threw out all the goods that were perishable, let the hens free from the coop and the pig free from the sty, sealed all the shutters, and locked and bolted the door. “Yes,” he said. “There’s a chance Bevlin’s things are still where he left them.” Nabber thought for a moment and then added, “Why do you want to know?”

“He and I were involved in the same type of scholarly research. We shared a passion for crawling insects. Bevlin had an unrivaled collection of books on the subject, and I worry that if they were to fall into the wrong hands they might be treated badly.” Lord Baralis made a small, self-deprecating gesture. “Only experts like myself would fully appreciate their value.” He looked Nabber straight in the eye. “Now, can you remember exactly how to get to his house?”

Insects? He looked the sort. “Yes.”

“Draw me a map,” Lord Baralis’ voice was as thick and tempting as honey, “and I will make it worth your while. Accompany my servant on the journey and I will make you a rich man.”

Tempting though the offer was, Nabber had no intention of agreeing to it. Not only did he feel honor-bound to wait for Tawl’s return, but more importantly, a long journey meant the one thing he hated most in the world: horses. No one was going to get him on one of those ugly, bad-tempered, flea-ridden things unless it was a matter of life and death. There was a problem with accepting the first offer, though: he couldn’t write, let alone draw a map. “I could tell you exactly how to get there, but I’ll do no drawing—my hand, you know, injured it in a boating accident.”

“Hmm.” Lord Baralis spread the sound over two skeptical syllables. “Very well. Tell me now and I will have your payment delivered to you within the hour.”

Nabber didn’t feel it would be a wise move to question the man’s integrity. The loot would come. He had an instinct about such things. He took a deep breath. “Well, you ride east as far as . . .”

• • •

Tarissa was laughing at him. Her jaw was wide, her curls were bouncing, and her head rocked back and forth. So long and hard she laughed that the strings of her bodice gave way and her breasts spilled out over the fabric. A rough hand reached out and tucked them back in, the fingers lingering long over the milky white flesh.

Rovas! he screamed. Rovas!

“Ssh, lad. Ssh. Everything’s all right now.”

Jack found himself looking up into the smooth, round face of Mrs. Wadwell.

“It was a bad dream, that’s all. No need to worry.”

Her voice had a calming effect upon him, and the line between sleeping and waking drew itself anew. His muscles relaxed and he slumped back down against the sheet. It was wet with sweat.

Mrs. Wadwell stood up and busied herself around the room, opening shutters, stoking the fire, and pouring some broth into a bowl. “Sit up, lad,” she said, “and drink this.” She handed him the bowl and didn’t blink until the spoon was at his lips. “That’s a good lad.”

The last thing Jack thought he wanted was broth, but as soon as the spicy liquid met his tongue, he was overcome with a ravenous hunger. He had hardly eaten in a week, and it was as if his body was determined to secure some nourishment despite his brain’s reluctance. Mrs. Wadwell nodded approvingly and fetched him some more food: another bowl of broth, a full crusty loaf, a wedge of cheese that would have stopped open a door, and a cold roast chicken that looked like it had been hit by one.

“I pressed it whilst it roasted,” said Mrs. Wadwell, seeing Jack eyeing the flat chicken suspiciously. “If you squash a bird in the oven with decent size weights, it forces the juices into the meat. Turns right tender, it does.”

“Aye, lad, no one roasts a bird like my wife.” Dilburt came toward the bed, the smile on his face bright with undisguised pride. He patted Mrs. Wadwell affectionately on her bottom. “You won’t find a finer woman anywhere.”

“You soft old coot,” she replied, winking at Jack. “Go and cut me some wood. If the fire burns any lower, I won’t be able to warm the chickens let alone roast them.”

Dilburt obediently left the cottage. Mrs. Wadwell straightened Jack’s bed, made sure all the food was within reach, and then followed her husband outside, muttering something about not chopping the green ones.

Jack wasted no time; he tore into the food the moment the door banged shut. It was the most delicious meal he had eaten in his entire life. The bread was chewy and tasted of nuts, the cheese was cream-heavy and bright with herbs, and the flat chicken was so tender it fell off the bone. With each bite the memory of eels and their gravy receded into the distance.

The memory of last night was not so easy to eat away. The more full his belly became, the more freedom his thoughts seemed to have to soar where they pleased. Everything came back to him in terrifying detail: the fire, the sparks, the creaking of timbers, and the low rumble of moving earth. The screams were the worst thing. The terrified screams of people burning, or choking, or just plain afraid. Suddenly the room filled with the sound of their screams. It was a visible force, whipping the air round like a whirlwind. The food turned to ashes in his mouth and he brought his hands up to his ears, desperate to stop the sound.

He had done this! People were dead because of him. The fault was his and his alone. Tarissa and Rovas had played him for a fool, lying about Melli’s death, lying about the tunnel, lying about how much they cared. Yet rather than take his anger out on them, he had turned it toward innocent people instead.

The screams died away, as if content for a while that he had acknowledged his guilt.

He needed to make sure something like this never happened again. The power within him was too dangerous to be used in anger. It caused him to lash out uncontrollably, making itself his master. He had been right in the Halcus cell to try and force the sorcery to do his bidding, but he had come nowhere near success. He doubted if he could on his own. Who was there to help him, though? Even a powerful man like Baralis was forced to keep his powers hidden. The world condemned sorcery. People who used it were branded as demons and burned at the stake. And after last night he knew why.

Was that all that sorcery was good for? he wondered. Destruction?

Jack swung his feet onto the floor and tested the strength of his legs. Hardly good enough for standing, but he needed to relieve himself badly and he wasn’t about to take a pot to his bed like an invalid. He’d rather fall on his face trying to make it outside. Taking a deep breath, he transferred his weight to his legs, groaning like an old man as he hauled himself up. Nausea fluttered around his belly and he was forced to swallow hard to keep it down. A grim smile stretched his lips. He didn’t fancy seeing the pressed chicken again; it hadn’t looked too appetizing the first time around, no matter how good it had tasted.

Once his legs felt sure enough to take his weight, he risked stepping forward. Muscles in his chest, his abdomen, his behind, and his legs protested violently, and then finding their cries ignored, they set to quivering like eels in jelly. Finding the quivering ignored, they actually shaped up and did his bidding. Jack knew that his muscles were unhappy, but plodded on regardless.

Opening the door, he discovered a bright beautiful day scented with the full promise of spring. Flowers bloomed on either side of the door and flies, lazy after a morning’s work, sunned themselves on the broad green leaves. At the far end of the garden Mr. and Mrs. Wadwell were deep in conversation with a small dark man. As soon as Dilburt saw Jack emerge from the cottage, he practically pushed the man away, diverting his attention by leading him down the muddy lane. Mrs. Wadwell came rushing forward, a plump finger on an even plumper lip. “Inside, lad, inside,” she hissed.

Jack obeyed her immediately. Not content with closing the door, she took the precaution of bolting it. “In bed now, this instant. I’ll bring you a pot if need made you stray.”

Too embarrassed to say anything, Jack merely nodded.

“Now, lad, if anyone should happen to come here, you’re Dilburt’s sick nephew from Todlowly.” Mrs. Wadwell thought for a second. “And the ague has taken your voice.”

So she knew he was from the kingdoms. In that case, he might as well speak freely. “Who was that man in the garden?” he asked.

“A friend of Dilburt’s from the garrison.” Mrs. Wadwell handed him the largest chamberpot he’d ever seen in his life. The sides were painted with waterfalls. “My sister makes them herself,” she said.

He took it from her and placed it on the floor. Relieving himself would have to wait. “Do they know anything more about how the fire started?”

Mrs. Wadwell wasted no words. “A prisoner did it. A man from the kingdoms with chestnut hair and an arrow wound in his chest.”

“I’ll go now,” said Jack.

A heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder. “You’re in no fit state to go anywhere, lad. At least stay another night until you’re strong enough to leave.” Courage gleamed softly in the darkness of her eyes, and the lines of her jaw suggested a formidable depth of determination.

Jack was overwhelmed by her offer. Here he was a stranger, an enemy and a murderer, yet she was prepared to put herself at risk by harboring him. He couldn’t let her. “No, I must go,” he said. “I owe you and Dilburt too much as it is.” He took her hand and kissed it gently. “Though I thank you from my heart for your kindness.”

Mrs. Wadwell snorted dismissively. “Dilburt’s never wrong about anyone. If he says you’re all right, then it’s good enough for me.” She smiled, a little sadly, and ruffled his hair. “Well, if you’re set on going, then you might as well know the worst. The whole county is teeming with soldiers who are looking for you. Every man, woman, and child is on the alert and your description has been circulated far and wide. In a day’s time you won’t be able to show your face within a fifty-league radius of the garrison. A week from now there’ll be nowhere you can hide.”

“What do they know about me?”

“Apparently, the prisoner who you shared a cell with told them that you were a plant, sent here by King Kylock on a special mission to infiltrate and destroy the garrison.” Mrs. Wadwell gave him a hard look. “He also said you were a mighty sorcerer who had the elements at your command.”

“Do they believe him?”

“You know folks, never want to believe anything that smacks of sorcery, so they’ve come up with all sorts of theories to explain the fire and the explosions. Still, people talk, and what can’t be said freely in public is whispered soft and long in private.”

Jack opened his mouth to speak.

“Nay, lad,” she said quickly, “I don’t want to know the truth. I look at you and I see a young man who’s ill and confused, nothing more.” She smiled brightly. “Let’s leave it at that, eh?”

A soft tapping at the door stopped Jack from giving his thanks. There was a tense moment whilst Mrs. Wadwell drew back the bolt, but Dilburt stood there alone.

“Did he see the lad?” she asked.

“He did, but I told him what you said and he seemed happy enough.” They exchanged a brief, telling glance, and then Dilburt said, “I’m sorry lad, but I think it’s better that you go. If it was me alone, you could stay here until they knocked down the door. But, the wife . . .” Slowly, he shook his head. “I’d be a broken man if anything should happen to her.”

Jack nodded. “I know, Dilburt. Your wife is the bravest woman in all of Halcus, and I would not see her harmed for the world.” As he spoke, he realized he meant every word he said.

Dilburt came and put his arm around Jack. “You’re a good lad, truly you are. I’m glad I brought you home.”

A noise escaped Mrs. Wadwell’s throat that sounded suspiciously like a sob. From her sleeve she pulled out a handkerchief the size of a small tablecloth and blew into it loudly. Having finished this, she turned to Dilburt. “Well, what are you waiting around for, husband? If the lad’s going, you need to get him some supplies.”

Dilburt smiled ruefully at Jack and then busied himself about the cottage, wrapping cheeses and meats, filling skins with wine, and pulling clothes from a trunk.

Mrs. Wadwell slapped her broad hand on Jack’s forehead. “Still some fever there,” she pronounced. “I’ll have to give you some medicine.” Pulling a silver flask from her tunic, she urged him to drink, “down to the last drop.”

Jack had only tasted brandy once before in his life. Master Frallit had been given a bottle one Winter’s Eve by the poulterer’s widow—an amorous lady who had her eye on a quick second marriage—and he promptly hid it amidst the flour sacks. Jack found it there the next morning, and by the time that Master Frallit discovered him, half of the brandy was gone. He was so drunk that he never felt the beating. Which was, he now realized, a sign of good medicine. Anything that could numb the sensation of Frallit in full frenzy must be very powerful indeed.

Whilst he drank the brandy, Mrs. Wadwell inspected his various cuts and bruises. Every now and then she would shake her head and make soft clucking noises. She redressed his shoulder wound and rubbed his legs and arms down with the last of the good wine. When she was finished, Dilburt stepped forward with several choices of clothes for him to wear.

Mrs. Wadwell became a military commander, choosing the clothes that would best blend in with the surrounding countryside. Unfortunately, size and fit were not on her mind. The brown tunic she chose was so long that it prompted the appearance of the large scissors—Jack was beginning to realize that everything in the Wadwell home was done on a grand scale—and a good length of fabric was cut from the bottom. The breeches presented a similar problem, but a length of rope so thick it could have docked a ship was quickly tied about his waist to keep them up.

By the time they had finished with him, Jack was loaded up like a packhorse and armed to the teeth. Three knives of deadly sharpness and varying size were concealed about his person, together with a bag full of small caltraps that could bring a charging horse to a halt. The fact that Dilburt had a supply of siege foils in his house did not surprise Jack in the least: the Wadwells were a couple who liked to plan ahead.

Mrs. Wadwell leaned forward and planted her plump lips on Jack’s cheek. Her massive bosom was squashed against his chest. “Farewell, lad, I’ll be sorry to see you go.” One firm bone-crushing squeeze and then she backed away, instantly changing from earth mother to general. “Now, when you leave, go by way of the back woods. Keep under cover whenever possible. Spring’s come early so there’s enough foliage to cast some decent shadows. After about half a league of heading due south, you’ll come to a brook, follow it upstream for about . . .” She paused, considering. “How far would you say, husband?”

“No more than four leagues, wife.”

“Right you are. After four leagues, you’ll come to a fork, follow the stream that leads up into the hills—you should be facing northeast by this time—and from there you should be able to make your own way. The woods are pretty much deserted, but keep your eye out for poachers, just in case.”

Jack obediently nodded to all the instructions. The brandy had set his blood afire and the weight of all the food and supplies was making it difficult for him to stand. He didn’t have the heart to tell them they had given him too much to bear. He would have to lose some bundles later, when he was alone. Which was sad, because he valued their gifts. His legs would have it no other way, though. He knew they would give way if he asked too much of them; they were already trembling now, just standing with the weight.

Dilburt took his hand and clasped it firmly. “Take care, lad. And remember my wife’s directions, no one knows the country round here like she does.”

They led him to the door, checked that no one was outside, and then let him through. As they accompanied him to the back of the cottage, Jack noticed they were arm in arm. The sight of such casual, everyday affection affected him deeply. He had imagined such moments with Tarissa: moments where they linked arms without conscious thought, or where they exchanged kisses as easily as smiles. All gone now. He was alone, his dreams shattered like glass, leaving splinters to pierce his soul. How could she have done it? How could she have betrayed him so completely?

There was no anger now, only sadness and, as Mrs. Wadwell had wisely guessed, confusion. Tarissa said that she loved him, and everyone, even Bodger and Grift, had told him it was wrong to hurt the one you love. So it was a lie. And amongst a catalog of falsehoods and deceit, it was still the one that hurt the most.

“There you go, lad,” said Mrs. Wadwell, breaking into his thoughts. “The woods are over yonder. They’re quite a walk, but you’ll be all right once you reach those first set of trees.” She smiled at him kindly, her large face almost completely free of wrinkles.

They had already said their good-byes, so the only thing left was to give his thanks. He turned to face the couple who were his enemies. Halcus was now at war with the kingdoms, yet these two people before him had shown him more kindness in the last day than anyone at home ever had. With the possible exception of an old lady pig farmer who lived just off Harvell’s eastern road. Certainly they proved to him that the Halcus were not the arrogant, godless people that everyone in the kingdoms believed them to be. The idea of war suddenly seemed appalling to Jack. It was easy to hate a country, yet hard to hate its people once you knew them. Mr. and Mrs. Wadwell were happy, good-hearted folks, and they didn’t deserve to be brought to their knees by Kylock.

A deep weariness came over him, settling on his shoulders like an extra burden. For some reason that he couldn’t explain, he felt responsible for everything, not just the destruction of the garrison, not only the fate of the couple in front of him, but more. Much more.

“Well,” he said softly. “I’ll be on my way.”

“Aye, lad,” murmured Dilburt.

“I want to thank you both for everything you have done for me. I’ll never forget your kindness.” Jack looked first at Dilburt and then his wife. “Never.”

Mrs. Wadwell’s large handkerchief put in an appearance as the lady herself dabbed it around her eyes. “Go now, lad,” she said. “I’ll watch you till you’re safely to the trees.”

Jack smiled briefly, sent a quick prayer to Borc to strengthen his step, and began the long walk to the woods.