Book Of Words - Master And Fool Part 1

Master and Fool.

The Book of Words.

By J.V. Jones.

Prologue.

Drip. Drip. Drip. The waterclock turned another degree, sending a cup full of water trickling to the bowl. One more round and the hour would strike. The same hour on the same day that a month ago had marked her marriage to the duke.

Melli settled herself in the most comfortable chair in the most comfortable room in the house. Even as she drew her feet from the floor, her thumb found its way to her mouth. With her other hand she cradled her belly and then began to rock back and forth. She was a widow with no black to wear, no body to wrap, no wedding night to remember through the mourning. Not a widow at all by Bren's reckoning.

Oh, but they were wrong. All of them: from Lord Baralis to her father, from Traff to Tawl, from the d.u.c.h.ess Catherine to the lowliest stableboy. Each and every one of them as wrong as they could be.

Back and forth Melli rocked. Back and forth, back and forth, back, back, back.

Back to the wedding day. Back to the chapel. Back to the one single hour she and the duke spent as man and wife.

The smell of incense and flowers accompanied them as they turned from the altar and walked down the aisle. The duke's hand was cool, his grip firm. The chapel doors were drawn back and somewhere bells began to ring. One hundred pairs of eyes were focused upon them, , yet Melli saw no one but Tawl. In a church full of people feigning joy, the knight's face seemed too honest by far. He bowed as they pa.s.sed, and as his face fell into shadow, he gave everything away. Regret, raw and unmistakable, was marked in each feature that he bent toward the floor.

Quickly, Melli glanced at the duke. He had seen nothing; his eyes looked only ahead.

Through the palace they walked; guards in blue to either side, Tawl's footfalls sounding from behind. Melli felt as if she were dreaming, everything had happened so fast: the courts.h.i.+p, the proposal, the marriage. Too fast. She felt drunk with the sheer speed of events, dizzy with the importance of it all. This was more than a marriage-this was a strategy for peace. The duke loved her, she did not doubt that, but it was a love prompted by expediency: he needed an heir and a wife to provide him with one. The marriage was as good as a treaty. And the wedding night would be ink for the signing.

Melli knew all this, but as she walked toward the duke's chamber it began to matter less and less. Her heavy satin gown rubbed against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She could feel the effects of the ceremonial wine on her cheeks, on the furrow of her tongue and belly deep within. Such strong fare for a fastening, the priests must have distilled it themselves. Melli s.h.i.+fted her fingers within the duke's grasp, and he turned to look at her. "Not long now, my love," he whispered.

The richness of his voice made up for the thinness of his lips. His hand now felt a little damp, whether from her sweat or his own no longer mattered. Yes, this was part marriage of convenience, but love and pa.s.sion were equal partners at the join. Indeed, tonight they would reign supreme.

They arrived at their destination within a matter of minutes. The last quarter league had been almost a race, with the duke speeding along the corridors just short of a sprint. Tawl had matched him step for step. Eight men waited at the entrance to the duke's chambers, spears crossed in honor, chivalrous in their averted glances. The double doors were opened and the duke bore Melli forward. As he guided her toward the doorway, Melli looked back. Tawl was gone. Her heart fluttered a tiny warning, but the duke's presence-so solid and rea.s.suring-canceled out her feelings of unease. By the time the door closed behind them, Melli couldn't even remember what she was worried about. Nothing mattered anymore.

They were in a small vestibule with a short flight of stairs leading up to the chambers. A matching pair of double doors marked the top. As her foot found the first step, Melli felt the duke's hand on her waist. With a firm grip he guided her round.

"I would kiss my wife on the threshold," he said. His voice was unfamiliar to her: a stranger's voice. Low and guttural, it was thick with something that Melli had no name for. His lips were on hers, pressing so hard she could feel the teeth beneath. His tongue followed after. Thin and dry and tough as old leather, it bore the vestiges of his last meal on its length. Melli's foot hovered above the step a moment longer, and then she brought it to rest against the duke's leg.

Up came her tongue from the bottom of her mouth, back arching inward, arms rising upward, lips pressing forward jaw to jaw. Half-mad with newly discovered need, Melli leant against the duke for support.

He pulled away. "Come, my love, I will take you to our marriage bed."

Before the words were out of his mouth, she was pus.h.i.+ng them back down with her tongue. The thing inside of her was too strong to be delayed. To be deprived of the duke's body even for an instant was too long. He fought her at first, arms pus.h.i.+ng her forward, hand in the small of her back, but she fought back in her newfound way, biting his ears and breathing moist hot breaths on his neck.

"d.a.m.n you, Melliandra," he murmured as he drew her close. "You're enough to drive a man insane."

The words excited Melli more than any kiss. Throwing back her head, she offered him her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. A sharp intake of breath, and then she found herself lying back against the stairs. One solitary lantern lit the duke from behind. At first she was surprised by his knowledge of her clothing: it didn't seem right that a man should deal so deftly with .petticoats and underdrawers. An instant later she was glad of it. Better a man who knew what he was doing than the fumbling youths at court. The duke didn't bother to unlace her bodice or unfasten the hooks on her skirt; he raised the fabric up around her waist and went to work on the linen below.

The stone steps bit into Melli's back. Consecrated wine ran heavy in her blood, carrying fragments of memory along for the ride: kisses and caresses and touches from the past. Jack, Edrad-Melli stiffened for an instant and Baralis. A long, crooked finger drawn down a back raised with welts. Despite herself, Melli's spine arched more.

Pain splintered her thoughts. Her legs had long parted of their own accord, and she felt a tearing between. She wanted to scream, but the duke's tongue was whip-sharp in her mouth and Baralis' image was blade-keen in her mind. The pain seemed to fold in on itself, creating a vacuum that demanded to be filled. Melli's forgers no longer formed fists, they became claws. The comer of the step was a hand upon her spine. The man above no more than a silhouette against the light. Need was the only thing that counted, and everything-wine, pain, and memories-served to heighten the need.

Too soon it came. Too quickly it was over. Too little to justify the means. Melli's breaths were ragged, irregular. She wanted more.

Something warm and mercury-heavy trickled down the length of her thigh. Her gaze alighted on the ceiling: stone capped with bra.s.s. The duke, for he was now himself once more, stood over her and tore off the fabric at his tunic's cuff.

"Here," he said, handing her the length of heavily embroidered linen. "Clean yourself up. There is a lot of blood." His tone was cold, almost disapproving.

Melli turned away from him and did what she was told. She was ashamed, confused, brought down to earth with an unsettling jolt. Had she done something to displease him?

The blood was not easy to wipe clean. It was dark and fast to dry. Melli had to spit on the cloth to bring it off. As she rubbed away the last of it, the duke spoke up from behind.

"Would that we had waited for the marriage bed. This is not the place to show you love's pleasures."

Melli stood up. Her legs were weak, her senses slow to rally. A dull pain sounded in her side. "You did not enjoy it?" she asked.

The duke came forward and smoothed down her dress. He did not look at her as he said, "It would have been better for you if you were comfortable."

Sensing something close to embarra.s.sment in the duke's voice, Melli stretched out her arm. "Come then, let us try again."

The duke smiled, his first since the wedding. "You bewitch me," he said.

Melli began to ascend the stairs. "I've never been called a witch before, though I was once called a thief."

"You steal men's hearts?"

"No. Their fates." As Melli spoke, a shudder went down her spine. The words were not her own, they belonged to another woman. A woman from the Far South who was an a.s.sistant to a flesh-trader. "Where I come from, we call people like her thieves. Their fates are so strong they bend others into their service. And what they can't bend they steal. "

Melli's hand was on the door. The duke was just behind her. She pushed against the bra.s.s plate and entered the chambers first. They were in the duke's study. Melli remembered it well. Two desks were laid out with food. Cold roast beef, ham and venison, sweetmeats, wafers, and pies. The crest of Bren was sculpted in spun sugar.

The duke made his way over to the nearest table and poured them each a cup of wine. For the first time Melli noticed his sword about his waist. Had he worn it through the lovemaking? Surely not.

He held out the cup of wine for her to take... "Let us eat a little to regain our strength," he said, smiling gently. Melli was by his side in an instant. She took the cup and set it down. With hands shaking, she felt for the hilt of his sword. The duke's eyes flashed a warning. She igpored it and pulled the sword from its loop. It was heavy, solid, good in the hand. "You won't be needing this," she said, laying it flat upon the desk.

"Melli--"

She cut off his protest with a kiss. "Let us eat later. The food is cold, a little longer will do it no harm." What was started on the stairs needed to be finished-for her at least. It seemed the duke had already taken his pleasure. She clasped at his fingers. "Take me to the bedchamber."

The duke's eyes were a match for his blade. He took hold of her arm, not gently. "Very well," he said. "It seems I cannot keep my lady waiting." Twisting her arm behind her back, he walked Melli to the bedchamber.

She saw the a.s.sa.s.sin first. He was at the side of the door, knife up close to his chest. Melli screamed. The duke pushed her forward with one hand and reached for his sword with the other. It wasn't there. He hesitated for only a halfsecond, but it was more than enough. The a.s.sa.s.sin was at his throat. His blade was long, his hand was quick. It was over in less than an instant.

Melli screamed and screamed and no one came. Blood soaked the duke's tunic even before his body fell to the floor. The a.s.sa.s.sin's name came to her: Traff, Baralis' mercenary. After that one last feat of coherence, her mind seemed to give in. She could remember nothing that followed. Except Tawl. The knight came and although nothing was, or ever would be, all right again, at least he made sure she was safe. Tawl would take care of her always-she didn't need her mind to tell her that. Her heart already knew.

Back and forward Melli rocked. Forward, forward, forward.

The waterclock turned another degree. One month to the minute now. One month a widow, one month in hiding, one month with no blood to show.

There had been more than a wedding that day, there was a union as well. The marriage had been consummated, and she was the only person in the Known Lands who knew it. Not for long, though. Melli's hand cradled her belly. The last time blood had flowed between her legs had been on the stairs leading to the duke's chamber. Breaching blood, not menses. There had been nothing since.

A child was growing inside: the duke's child, and if it was a boy, his heir. Melli spread her fingers full-out upon her belly. How would the city of Bren take the news? The answer was quick to come. They would try and discredit her, claim the duke was not the father, or that the child was begotten out of wedlock. Lies and slander would be thrown her way-indeed, by many she was already counted an accomplice to murder. None of it mattered anymore. The only thing that counted was keeping the new life safe.

In eight months time a baby would be born, and everything-her life, her strength, her very soul-would be directed toward its protection. She had taken the duke's sword and stolen his fate, and this was either penalty or payment.

Melli stood up and put a hand to the waterclock, tipping the liquid from the cone. Prematurely it struck the next hour: Melli wished that all hours would pa.s.s so fast. She was impatient for the child to be born.

If it were a girl, then she would take her share of Catherine's wealth. If it were a boy, he would have it all.

One.

"I'm sick of walking the streets day after day looking for work, Grift. My bunions are giving me h.e.l.l."

"Exactly how many bunions have you got, Bodger?"

"Four at last count, Grift."

"You'll be needing to walk some more then. It's five bunions that are lucky, not four."

"What's so lucky about five bunions, Grift?"

"A man with five bunions will never be impotent, Bodger."

"Impotent!"

"Aye, Bodger. Impotence. The curse of men who only take short walks."

"But the chaplain said the only way to cure impotence was a night spent in holy vigil."

"No, Bodger, the chaplain never said that a night spent in holy vigil was a cure for impotence. What he actually said was a night spent with a h.o.r.n.y virgin. Makes quite a difference, you know." Grift nodded sagely and Bodger nodded back.

The two guards were walking along a street in the south side of Bren. It was midmorning and a light drizzle had just started.

"I suppose we were lucky, Grift. Being thrown out of the guard is a lot better than being flogged and imprisoned."

"Aye, Bodger. The charge of being drunk on duty is a serious one. We got off lightly." Grift stopped for a moment to sc.r.a.pe the horse dung from his shoe. "Of course, it would have helped if they'd given us a month's wages before chucking us out on the streets. As it is now, we can barely afford to buy our next meal, let alone two horses to get us back to the kingdoms."

"You spent all the money we did have on ale, though, Grift."

"Ah well, Bodger. Ale is a basic necessity of life. Without ale a man might as well curl up and die." Grift smiled winningly. "You'll thank me for it in the end, Bodger. Besides, there's still a chance we might find work. The wedding of Catherine and Kylock is due to take place in two weeks, and there's bound to be opportunities for skilled men such as ourselves."

"No one is going to give us work, Grift. Lord Baralis is all but running the city now, and if he learned that anyone was helping us, he'd have their hides whipped." Bodger pulled his cloak close. He hated the rain-it made his hair stand up. "We should do what I said: leave the city, cross the mountains, and go join the Highwall army. Ever since Kylock murdered the Halcus king, the Wall have been taking all comers. Anyone who wants to fight for them gets five coppers a week, a newly cast breastplate, and all the goat's meat they can eat."

"If we joined with Highwall, Bodger, we'd be on the losing side." Grift spat with confidence. "The northern cities might be as mad as a peac.o.c.k in a pie, but Bren and the kingdoms have never looked stronger. Why, in the last three weeks Kylock has captured most of eastern Halcus. The whole country is virtually his. There's no telling where he'll stop."

"I heard that he wanted to present Catherine with Halcus as a wedding gift, Grift."

"Well, after what happened to King Hirayus, he's all but done it."

Bodger shook his head slowly. "Terrible thing that, Grift. The peace tent is supposed to be sacred ground."

"Nothing's sacred to Kylock, Bodger."

As Bodger lifted his head to nod in agreement, he spotted a familiar figure in the crowd ahead. "Hey, Grift, isn't that young Nabber over there?" Bodger didn't wait for Grift's reply. He dashed straight ahead, shouting loudly, "Nabber! Nabber! Over here!"

Nabber looked around. He was on an important mission and was under direct orders not to loiter, but loitering was in his soul and the sound of his own voice was music to his ears. At once he recognized the distinctly mismatched forms of Bodger and Grift. They looked wet, miserable, down on their luck and, most alarmingly to Nabber, sober as a pair of bailiffs. What was the world coming to?

Bodger ran toward him, a huge grin spreading across his face. "How are you, my friend? It's good to see you. Me and Grift were worried sick about you after the night--"

"The night we parted ways," interrupted Grift, flas.h.i.+ng Bodger a cautionary glance.

Nabber gently disengaged himself from Bodger's spiderlike grip. He brushed down his tunic and smoothed back his hair. "Always a pleasure, gentlemen," he said with a small bow.

"Are you still coping with your loss?" asked Bodger in a peculiar meaningful whisper.

"Loss? What loss was that?"

"Your dearly departed mother, of course. You used to spend all your time in the chapel praying for her soul." Nabber's whole demeanor changed: his shoulders dropped, his back arched, his lips extended to a pout. "It still grieves me every day, Bodger," he murmured tragically. The sight of Bodger and Grift's sympathetic nodding made Nabber feel bad. Swift would not have approved of him taking his mother's name in vain. Pockets were notoriously sentimental when it came to their mothers. Why, Swift himself had loved his own mother so much that he had named one of his most famous moves after her: the Diddley Delve. A thoroughly sneaky and ingenious move that could deprive any man of valuables he'd concealed about his vitals. Apparently nothing had been safe from Ma Diddley. Nabber hadn't yet aspired to the dizzy heights of the Diddley Delve, and in fact wasn't quite sure he ever wanted to.

Feeling a little guilty about stringing the two guards along, and feeling a lot guilty about them being out on the streets with no prospects--after all, he was partly responsible for it--prompted Nabber to make them an offer. "If you are looking for shelter, some hot food, and a chance to protect a certain highborn lady, then I know just the place you can go. " As he spoke, Nabber shook his head slowly. No doubt about it, there'd be trouble with Tawl for this. Guilt would be the death of him.

"What place?" asked Grift, suddenly interested. It was telling that he never asked what lady.

Nabber crooked his finger and drew both guards close. In his lowest and most furtive whisper, Nabber gave out the address of the hideaway. "Knock three times on the door, and when someone comes tell them you're there to deliver the snails. Say Nabber sent you." There, it was done now. Tawl would have to take the two guards in-either that, or murder them. Moving quickly along from that particular unsettling thought, Nabber said, "Anyway, I must be going. I have a message to deliver to the palace."

He was just about to step away when Grift caught at his arm. "You're a fool if you go to the palace, Nabber," he said. "If you're caught by Baralis, Borc alone can save you."

Nabber freed himself from the guard's grip, smoothed down the fabric of his sleeve, and tipped a bow. "Thanks for the advice, Grift. I'll bear it in mind. See you later." With that he was off, losing himself in the crowd as only a pocket could. He didn't look back. It was getting late and Maybor would be anxiously awaiting his return. Nabber shrugged to himself. He could put it down to the rain: a street full of watery sewage on the move could slow a man down quite considerably.

It really was quite a pity he was on a mission, as by far the best time for pocketing was during rain showers. People jostling into each other, cloaks held above their heads, eyes down-it was perfect. A man could round up a lot of coinage in the rain. Maybe he could put in a little pocketin' later, after the note was delivered. It would certainly be a good idea to keep out of Tawl's way. The knight would be mad as h.e.l.l about Bodger and Grift turning up on the doorstep, and even madder about the note.

Nabber felt in his tunic: still there. Dry as an archbishop in a desert, and yet another thing to feel guilty about. The problem was that Tawl didn't know about the plan. He and Maybor had concocted this between themselves, and Nabber was quite sure that the knight would not like it one little bit. It was a gamble, there were risks-which in fact was why Nabber had agreed to it in the first place: he could never resist a risk-and, at the end of the day, nothing to gain from the whole thing, only a little personal satisfaction on Maybor's part. Still, Nabber understood the need for personal satisfaction--Swift himself had lived for it. Besides, he liked to be out and about. Being cooped up in the hideaway all day with Tawl, Melli, and Maybor was not his idea of fun. Deals needed to be struck, pockets needed to be lightened, cash needed to circulate, and he was the man to do it.

Before he knew it, Nabber found himself by the storm conduit. Bren had no sewer systems to speak of, but it did have a system of drains and tunnels that prevented the city from becoming waterlogged during the countless storms and rain showers that came down all year round from the mountains. The problem was, as Nabber saw it, that the city lay between the mountains and the lake. Any water that ran off the mountains wanted naturally, as all water did, to join with its larger watery friends, and Bren was stuck right in the middle of the course of least resistance. Hence the network of storm channels and drains that were built to divert the water both around and under the city.

The duke's palace-or was it the d.u.c.h.ess' palace now? being situated right on the sh.o.r.e of the Great Lake, was naturally well-supplied with such tunnels. And it was to one of these that Nabber had made his way. Of course he hadn't counted on the rain. He was going to get very wet, might even catch his death. There was one consolation, though: all the spiders would have drowned. Nabber hated spiders.

A quick look left, a quick look right, no one around for the moment, so off with the grille. With speed and agility that would have brought a tear to Swift's eye, Nabber swung himself down into the drain channel. His feet landed, splash, in a stream of cold, smelly, and fast-rising water. He quickly shunted up the wall, dragged the grille back in place, and then jumped down into the water. Knee-deep now. He had to get a move on; he didn't want it reaching his neck. No, sir. No dead spiders down his tunic.

The smell was appalling. The rain brought out the worst in a city, churning up long-dried horse dung and slops, carrying blood from the knacker's yard, grease from the tallow drums, and bearing a circus full of carca.s.ses along in the swell. By the looks of things, everything had ended up here, down under the palace. Nabber took a last longing look around--there were lots of interesting-looking floaters that were crying out to be investigated-and then entered the full darkness of the tunnels.

This was familiar territory. No one loved the dark as much as pockets. Nabber's feet found their way with little prompting whilst his eyes searched out lightness in the shade. Up and up he went. Stone staircases wet with slime welcomed him, barrel-ceilings lined with moss echoed his every move, water rushed ahead of him on its way to the lake, and shadows and dead spiders trailed behind.