Book Of Words - Master And Fool Part 5

Listening to the two men plotting, Nabber vehemently wished that he had never stumbled upon the meeting. This wasn't the sort of information Tawl would thank him for coming back with. In fact, Nabber was beginning to wonder if he should keep the details to himself. It would crush Tawl to find out the truth about Tyren. The leader of the knighthood was the one person left in whom Tawl had any faith.

Nabber felt a sharp pain in his neck. Without realizing it, he had pulled the scab off his throat. Skaythe's spike wound reopened and a trickle of blood slid down Nabber's tunic. He forced himself to breathe, taking fast, feather-light breaths. Stay calm, he told himself. Stay calm.

Baralis and Tyren had been speaking all the while, and as Nabber concentrated upon what they were saying once more, Tyren reached over to untie the reins of his horse.

Baralis spoke. "I don't want to hear any rumors of torture or worse coming out of Helch. Whatever you choose to do, it must be done quietly. It's too early in the game to risk the south getting wind of our plans."

"Don't worry, Baralis," Tyren said, long, gold-ringed fingers tugging gently on the reins to loosen the knot. "I'll make sure that nothing leaks out. There are countless different methods for discrediting a tattletale, and more than half a dozen ways to kill one."

As Tyren was speaking his eyes flicked from the wooden beam to the horse. For the briefest instant, he looked straight into the dark corner where the wall and building met. Less than six paces away from where he stood, separated only by the horse and its shadow and the wooden holding beam, Nabber tensed.

Tyren hesitated for a second. His hand moved from the reins to his face. He peered into the darkness.

The lump returned to Nabber's throat. It was as heavy as lead this time. Sweat trickled down his nose.

Suddenly the horse pulled on its reins, stepping away from the wall. Tyren was forced to move along with it in order to keep hold of the reins.

"Well, Tyren," said Baralis, nodding at the horse. "It looks as if your gelding is eager to be on his way. I think our business for this night is complete. We both see eye to eye on the religious future of the north."

Tyren checked the position of the saddle and the buckles on the stirrups and then mounted the horse. "And when the king decides to expand his empire outwards?" he said, settling himself down in the saddle. "I trust Valdis will be allowed to address the religious practices of the south, as well?" Baralis smiled slowly. "Oh, most especially the south." Hearing Baralis' words, Nabber's stomach collapsed inwards, leaving an aching hollow in his chest. He felt as if he might be sick.

Tyren nodded, satisfied Baralis looked on as he guided his horse toward the gate. Neither man bid the other farewell.

Baralis stood in the center of the fan of light escaping from the doorway and watched as Tyren rode away. When the sound of the horses' hooves could no longer be heard, Baralis took a thin breath and then smiled.

"Tavalisk," he said softly, speaking into the darkness, "it may have taken me nearly twenty years, but I will have my revenge."

Baralis waited a moment longer and then turned and walked back to the building.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Nabber took a long, deep breath. He thanked Borc and the spirit of Swift's dead mother for keeping him safe and sound-he even thanked the horse. Sending his right hand down to explore his throbbing shin, he discovered a large, b.l.o.o.d.y lump that was unbelievably tender to the touch. The spike wound on his throat was still bleeding, and his tunic was soaked in sweat. Although there was nothing in the world he wanted to do more than to run as fast as he could from the yard, Nabber forced himself to stay put until the lights went out. Even then he didn't dare move until a fair length of time had pa.s.sed. He was taking no more chances tonight. Chased, accosted, threatened, trapped, and very nearly caught: he'd had quite enough excitement to last him all his life. Well, certainly a good part of it.

Stiff from standing still for so long, cold, tired, and shivering, Nabber made his way out of the yard. He couldn't muster any enthusiasm for throwing potential pursuers off his track and took the shortest, quickest route back to Tawl.

It had been a long time since Kylock last measured the powder as Baralis had taught him. No longer did he bother to spread only enough grain to cover the dip in his palm. Now he took his drug by the fistful. Into his gla.s.s he sprinkled it, the powder flashing as quick and bright as an arrowhead shot to a mark. A cup of red wine wetted it for the taking. Only when the powder had been washed down his throat could Kylock breathe easy again.

The terrible flashes when his skull crushed his mind, and when his thoughts turned inside out revealing the raw meat of brain beneath, would ease for a while now. The drug did that at least.

As he drew the gla.s.s to his lips a second time, two guards carried the girl's body away from the tent. It had been an especially unpleasant attack. Pa.s.sion brought out more than the beast in him.

"Get her hand off the floor," he commanded to the men. The fools were carrying her too low and her hand was trailing the length of his carpet. It was tainted now, along with the pillows and the sheets. The whole place reeked of her. Everything would have to be destroyed. Kylock pushed past the men to the tent flap and made his way into the night.

The sky was always dark when he was under it. And Kylock was not displeased to note that Bren's purple-andblack expanse acted no differently from the rest.

They were camping just south of the city--so close they could see the walls, taste the wood smoke, and hear the wagons creaking through the streets. Kylock cast his gaze upon the high battlements of Bren. Yes. This city was for him. Not an overbloated town like Harvell, not an ancient shabby hovel like Helch, but a glorious youthful city, growing, burgeoning: a terrible child. Bren didn't sit in its own squalor like other cities: the mountain air carried off the stench each night and the rain washed the dirt to the lake.

The lake, the mountains, the walls: Bren's defenses were unmatched in the Known Lands. It was made to be the center of an empire. The long line of its dukes had prepared the city for him, constructing strong walls, impregnable gatehouses, and ringing the city with a network of portcullises. Now that they had done their job, it was fitting they were gone. Bren had seen the last of its dukes.

Kylock drank the last sip from his gla.s.s. The drug was a sweetener for the wine. The smell of roasting flesh met his nostrils and he guessed the guards had thrown the girl on the fire. Burning was the best way to render a corpse unrecognizabie. No one but he and the guards would know who the girl was or what had become of her. Her chest cavity would be split by the actions of the flame, and her two broken wrists would be reduced to so many charred and disjointed bones. Kylock shrugged. It might even burn the expression of tenor right off her pretty face. She would just be another diseasewracked wh.o.r.e who was torched for the good of the camp.

He was feeling a lot better now. The drug was working its commission: the world was heavier, darker, and infinitely more solid under its thrall. It calmed the rage inside. Something alarming was happening to him. More and more he lost control of himself: violent schisms ripped through his body and his thoughts. Always there was the taste of metal in his mouth. Just earlier, when he was abed with the girl-when he had tied her wrists to the post and her neck to the board, and when the wax was hot enough to blister-his body had been racked by a violent contraction. It was as if a hand had squeezed his gut, sending bile flooding to his mouth. His brain grew large, or his skull shrunk small, and suddenly his thoughts were too many to be contained. A shocking pressure built up within and the only way to release it was to tear at the girl beneath.

He fell on her like an animal. Teeth became fangs and fingers became talons. Blackness came to overwhelm him, and by fighting the girl he fought the monster off. If she screamed, he never heard it; if she struggled, he never noticed. All he felt was the cooling spray of her blood on his cheek and the feeble push of her second to last breath. By the time she took her last, he had clawed his way back to the light. Gut rested against liver once more and the pressure had lifted from his head. A trickle of his own blood had run down from his nose, and he spat in a cloth to remove the aftertaste from his mouth.

"A missive has arrived from Halcus, sire."

Kylock spun around. He had not heard the guard approach. As the man handed him the sealed parchment, he noticed the guard's eyes fall to his tunic. The girl's blood formed a dark patch upon the gold. Kylock spoke very softly. "Blood spilled in secret is a bond between men. Go now, my friend, and tell no one of what you saw."

The man fell to the floor. "Sire, I would spill an army's worth of blood on your saying."

Kylock nodded softly and gestured for the man to rise. "Your loyalty will not be forgotten."

The man bowed and walked away.

Kylock smiled. Every day he discovered new powers that were made for kings alone. The ability to inspire unquestioning loyalty was a gift straight from the G.o.ds. What men would not do for money, they would do in an instant if it was a matter of belief. His men had faith in him: he won wars, took risks, and was hated by his enemies. He promised his men spoils and made sure that they got them: women or children, whatever their tastes. Gold, grain, appointments ... destruction if they fancied. A town set alight in a frenzy of blood-l.u.s.t was often the best reward after a day on the field. Nothing inspired greater contempt for the enemy than watching them burn.

Kylock broke the wax seal. Yes, he had the loyalty of his men, and the contents of this letter proved it.

Tonight, just before dawn, his mother would meet her death. Her castle in the Northlands would be raided by a rogue Halcus war party. None would survive to tell the tale. Kedrac, Maybor's eldest, had planned every detail, right down to the rape and desecration of the dowager queen. The truly inspirational part had been his own, though. The queen's body, when it was done with, was to be laid out on an Annis banner. The implication would be that Halcus was working in conjunction with the mountain city. The kingdoms would be outraged when the news came to light, and support for his next move-which just happened to be the invasion of Annis-would be all but guaranteed. What country would let the rape and murder of its beloved, and so recently bereaved, queen go unavenged?

Of course the invasion of Annis would be merely a feint. His army would be needed elsewhere, but it suited him to let his enemies believe that they were too entrenched in a siege of honor to be moved. Kylock's eyes searched out the dark lines of the battlements of Bren. It would be quite a surprise to all when his plans took their final turn. Of course Annis would be his eventually anyway-a few months here or there would make no difference in the end.

Kylock read on. Kedrac was clever enough to write in code. Not only had he arranged the queen's demise, he'd also timed the conquering of the last Halcus towns to perfection. Kylock was well pleased with Kedrac's work. It meant that the day he married Catherine, he could present her with Halcus as her own. A magnificent gesture, but an unworthy gift: nothing was too precious for Catherine.

He couldn't wait to meet her. He would come to Catherine as a free man. With his mother gone he would be bound to no one. He would give himself wholly to his new bride, and when he came and knelt at her feet, she would cleanse him forever of the taint of the womb.

Kylock turned back toward the camp. His manservant knew him well enough to have heated some water in his absence. He was dirty and needed to be clean. His hands and clothes stank, and it wasn't fitting to even think of Catherine whilst he smelled of the wh.o.r.e he'd just killed.

Four.

Jack was dreaming about Tarissa again. His thoughts, which so carefully avoided her during the daytime, seemed to gang up on him at night. She was always there; one moment laughing, tempting, merry as a dairymaid, the next she would be crying, pleading, falling on her knees and begging him to take her with him.

Always, even in his dreams, he walked away. Only tonight he heard her footsteps following him. Jack's heart raced to hear them. He turned to face Tarissa, but she wasn't there. Still the footsteps came, nearer than ever now. Jack spun around. Where was she? The footsteps were so close the ground vibrated with their resonance.

"He's in here," came a voice.

Not Tarissa's voice. Not a familiar voice_ Not even a dream. Jack jumped up. His senses came after him. He was in the baker's lodge and the light peaking in from the shutters told of a new dawn.

The door burst open. Four men fully armed barged into the room. Nivlet, the one thin baker in the Baking Master's Guild, stood behind them.

"That's him!" he cried. "He's the one the Halcus are looking for."

Two of the men came forward. Jack's hand was already on his knife. His mouth was dry and his thoughts were still reeling with sleep. As he moved to meet the guards, he cast his gaze from side to side, taking in the details of the room. Searching for distractions. The wood shuttle lay to his left, well-stacked with logs. Jack made a jump for it, kicking it toward the guards. The logs went careening forward, forcing the two guards to step back. Jack sprang with them. His knife was ahead of him, drawing ever decreasing circles in the air. The blade caught one of the guard's arms. Jack put his weight behind it and sliced through muscle as well as skin.

Something nicked him from behind. Spinning around he came face-to-face with the third guard. He had red hair, a large red mustache, and the longest knife Jack had ever seen.

"Come and get some, boy," he encouraged. His sideways glance gave him away. He was hoping to distract Jack long enough to enable the second guard to slice him from behind.

His eyes never leaving Red Hair for a moment, Jack took a guess at where the second man stood. He pivoted his weight to his left leg and then kicked back with his right heel like a horse. He caught the man's knee dead-center. Groaning, he fell forward. Jack made straight for Red Hair's blade. At the very last instant, he pulled sharply to the side. Red Hair was already in motion, and his momentum carried him forward. He went smashing into the second guard, who was rocking over his knee.

Jack had no time to watch the outcome. The air burned in his throat and his lungs seemed ready to burst. He turned his attention back to the first guard with the wounded arm. The fourth was still in the doorway, biding his time. Wounded-arm had gotten a spear from somewhere. He teased Jack with it, stabbing wildly at his chest and thighs. Jack grew angry at the man's cowardice. Keeping a safe distance between himself and the spear tip, he raised his knife to his face. Wounded-arm's blood was still drying on the blade.

"Hmm," said Jack, hoping to get the man to look down at his wound. "I'd see a physician if I were you. Your blood looks a strange color to me."

The man smiled. "I'm not so easily fooled, boy." He jabbed his spear forward.

Jack was forced to step back. He realized he couldn't go any farther, as he was now backed up against the wall. Something had to be done. He returned the guard's smile. "I still think you may have to see a physician after all, my friend. About that terrible slash near your eye."

Just as the man's face registered confusion, Jack tensed his knife arm like a spring and then shot his wrist forward. He released his grip on the haft and the blade went shooting straight for the man's eye. Once again, Jack didn't wait for the show. Now unarmed, he sprang away from the wall. Red Hair had recovered, but the second guard was on the floor. There was blood on Red Hair's blade. The fourth guard had moved to his side, and both of them now blocked Jack's path to the door.

Two men, armed and ready, faced him. Jack knew it was time for sorcery. He concentrated on the metal in the blades. He felt it dense, rigid, resisting with all its might. Doing exactly what he had been taught, he entered the cool-metal hardness. This wasn't one of Stillfox's training sessions where the dangers were mostly imagined and the outcome carefully monitored like an experiment under gla.s.s. This was real.

Split seconds were all he had. There was no time for straining or finesse, no time to be entrapped by the substance he entered. Jack fed off the urgency and the danger.

His mind conjured up an image of Tarissa. She was there in a blink of an eye, Rovas in front of her, and gently she raised her hand to feel the heat from his forehead. Jack felt sorcery build. Shame was underneath, but he had no time to deal with that now. He let the power flood up from his belly whilst his thoughts swept down from his mind. The two met in his mouth and the metal bite of sorcery slithered down along his tongue.

Straight to the blades it went. Jack's mind formed the intent as it raced through the air. He molded the sorcery like a sculptor, and once it hit it was fully formed. It pa.s.sed with his thoughts into the substance of the knife, and just as it did what it was made for, he pulled himself back from the blades. The knives became red-hot pokers. Both men screamed, opening their fists and dropping the blades to the floor.

Jack felt a wave of weakness sweep over him. Fighting it off, he pushed past both men toward the door. Neither Red Hair nor his friend had any desire to stop him. They were both holding up red, raw palms and looking wildly around for some way to cool them.

Jack stepped over the threshold and walked straight into Nivlet. Frallit had once said: "Never trust a skinny baker, " and it seemed that he was right. Jack punched Nivlet squarely in the face. Nivlet fell to the floor and Jack stepped over his body. "See to it those guards get some water for their burns." He didn't wait to hear the man's reply; he turned his back and walked away.

Feeling strangely elated, Jack made his way from the lodge. He had done it! He had made sorcery do his bidding! It was exhilarating. He felt powerful, confident, ready to take on all comers. As he walked through the banquet hall, Jack swept all the remains of last night's food from the table. Loaves, chickens, and fruit went flying into the air. He threw his head back and laughed out loud. Finally he had done something right.

Footsteps again, either Nivlet or one of the injured guards. Time to move on. Jack's smile fell from his face. It looked like he wouldn't be seeing much of Annis after all, as he'd be going out the same way he came in: by the back door. Jack picked a particularly nasty-looking carving knife from the rushes, filled his tunic with bread and cheese and, as an afterthought, downed a cupful of ale in a toast to himself. Grimacing-sitting around all night had done little for the ale-Jack turned on his heel and slipped out into the dawn.

"Your Grace, may I present His Royal Highness King Kylock, Sovereign of the Four Kingdoms." Baralis stepped back and let Kylock come forward to meet Catherine.

Kylock looked magnificent. Dressed in black silk and sable with spun gold at cuffs and collar he looked more than the king he was. Tall and fine-limbed he carried himself with casual pride. His features were harder to judge; strangely shadowed despite the sunshine beaming down from the windows, they eluded both words and light.

He stretched out an elegant hand and Catherine raised her own to meet it. He brought her pale fingers to his lips. His breath was cool, cooler even than his lips. A tiny thrill pa.s.sed through Catherine. She hadn't intended to curtsy when she met him--the mistress of Bren bowed to no man-yet she knew how very becoming she looked from above: how enticingly the cleft of her bosom deepened, how full her bottom lip became when gilded with light.

"It is an honor to welcome you to our fine city, Your Majesty."

"The honor," said Kylock, "is mine."

They stood in the great hall surrounded by courtiers. Garlands of summer roses decked the walls. The windows were glazed with stained gla.s.s and the sun's rays shining upon them were converted to the colors of state. Royal blue, midnight blue, purple, and scarlet: colors her father had chosen. The colors of the cloth they had wound around his corpse. Catherine shivered despite the warmth of the sun.

Kylock still had hold of her hand. "Say the word if you are cold, my lady," he said softly. "And I will burn a city to warm you."

Catherine's sharp intake of breath was not the only one. The courtiers who heard Kylock speak shifted uneasily in their places.

Baralis stepped in to fill the awkward silence. "Your Majesty must be tired after your long journey. If you will permit me, I will show you to your chambers."

Kylock did not look at him. He did not take his eyes from Catherine. Still he had hold of her hand. His forgers pressed against her bone, stopping the blood from flowing to the tips. "You are right, my chancellor, I must rest. Today I have seen my future wife, and the sight has all but stolen my breath." Abruptly he let her hand drop.

Catherine had willed him to let it go, but now that he had she felt lost. There was such power to him, and while he held her hand it was as if she was party to it. She spoke to hold him an instant longer. "My lord, I trust you will ford your chambers to your liking. I saw to the furnishings myself."

He moved swiftly forward. Catherine panicked for a moment and took a step back-for some reason she had thought he meant to strike her. He bowed instead, dipping his head low and exposing the white flesh on the back of his neck. His nostrils quivered as if he were taking in her scent. "My lady's thoughtfulness is matched only by her purity."

Catherine dug her fingernails into her palms to stop herself from blushing. Purity? Such an odd word to use. She began to feel uncomfortable. Bowing her head, she murmured, "I trust I will not disappoint you."

Kylock's eyes met hers. Dark, they were, but the color escaped her. He smiled, showing even white teeth with a slight inward slant. "My lady will not disappoint me." He moved away from her so quickly that she was unable to focus on his form until he was still once more.

Turning to Baralis, he said, "Chancellor, lead me to my chambers." Baralis came to the king's side and began to guide him from the hall.

Catherine watched the pair go. There was something strange about the two of them ... they were matched in height and coloring. Even their very movements seemed the same. No footfalls sounded as they walked. Catherine shook her head slowly, unwilling to carry her thoughts further.

Kylock and Baralis were from the same country, the same court; it was hardly unusual that they bore the same facade. Overcome with a sudden desire to rest, Catherine dismissed her court with a wave of her hand. She was tired, drained, sharply aware of her vulnerability. Kylock was so much more than she had expected, and his presence had unnerved her. In eight days she would be his wife. Turning, she made her way to her chambers. Never in her life had she felt more alive than when King Kylock held her hand.

"The trout is coming along nicely, Grift. A few more minutes and it will be as fine as fish can be."

"I've never cared for fish myself, Bodger. But it is good for a man's plums."

"His plums, Grift?"

"Aye, Bodger, his plums. A man will never have a problem with his hernies as long as he eats lots of fish. "

"Why's that, Grift?"

"Fish increases a man's power of suspension, if you get my drift, Bodger Two trout a day and your plums will be so supple they'll be bouncing off the floor."

Bodger looked doubtful. "I'm not so sure that sounds like a benefit, Grift."

"It's not for me to decide what's best, Bodger. I'm merely here to give you all the facts." Grift nodded wisely and Bodger nodded back.

"Here, d'you think I should take a trout to Tawl, Grift?"

"No, Bodger. Best stay clear of him today, it being the Feast of Borc's First Miracle and all. It's the most holy of days for knights, and bringing Tawl a fish will only serve to salten the wound."

"Aye, Grift. I think you're right. I saw him earlier and he looked right through me. Lady Melliandra tried to comfort him, but he just sent her away."

"You can hardly blame the man, Bodger. Every knight who was ever knighted lets his blood for Borc today. Tawl will be feeling the loss of his circles keenly."

"How does the story go again, Grift?"

"Well, Borc, as you know, was a shepherd in the foothills of the Great Divide. One day he's protecting his flock and along comes a pack of hunger-crazed wolves. They chase Borc and his flock right up to the Faldara Falls. Well, Borc has nowhere to go and so he pleads to G.o.d for guidance, and before the words have left his mouth the falls turn to ice. Every spit of water, every fish on the fin: all frozen in an instant. So Borc and his sheep cross the falls, and as soon as the wolves step onto the ice, everything melts and the predators go plunging to their death."

Bodger sighed impatiently. "Everyone knows that story, Bodger. It's how Valdis fits in that I'm not clear on."

"Right. Why didn't you say so in the first place, then?" Grift downed a mouthful of ale and settled himself back on his chair. "Well, as you know Valdis was the first man to become a disciple of Borc's. And when Borc traveled to the Far South in search of truth, Valdis stayed in the north to spread the word. Anyway, ten years to the day after the miracle at Faldara Falls, Valdis is preaching along its bank to an angry and disbelieving mob. They begin to shout at him, saying there was no miracle and that anyone who tried to cross the falls would surely die."

"Well, being flesh and blood like he was, Valdis knows there's no way he can perform a miracle, so he does something else instead: the First Act of Faith. He jumps into the river and lets the current take him over the falls."