Authors: J. V. Jones
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.
"I'm sick of
walking the streets day after day looking for work, Grift. My bunions are
giving me hell."
"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 horny 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 scrape 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 peacock 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, flashing 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 hell 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
duchess'
palace now? being situated right on the
shore 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 carcasses 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.
At last he came to
the entrance he needed: the one in the nobles' quarters. Putting his eye to the
breach in the stone, Nabber looked out onto a broad quiet corridor that was
lined with old suits of armor. He knew it well. Busy with servants on their way
to light fires and warm baths in early morning, it was as still as a chapel by
midday. Guards only patrolled here once an hour, and most noblemen were well
away by now. Nabber took a deep breath, briefly asked for Swift's own luck, set
in motion the opening mechanism, and then stepped onto the hallowed ground of
the palace.
Feeling a peculiar
mixture of excitement and fear, the young pocket made his way to Baralis'
quarters. He had a letter to deliver, an answer to be waited upon, and his own
skin to be saved at all costs.
"Concentrate,
Jack.
Concentrate! "
Stillfox's voice
was tiny, immeasurably distant. Outside of time. Still, such was the power of
the human voice that Jack found himself obeying it anyway. He had to concentrate.
His consciousness plunged to his belly whilst his thoughts focused on the
glass.
"Warm it,
Jack. Don't smash it."
Every muscle
tensing, every hair on end, both eyeballs drying for want of a blink, Jack
tried to do what Stillfox asked. He sent himself--there was no other word for
it, he sent that which made him who he was, what rested in his mind and bounded
his thoughts-outside of his body toward the glass. It was terrifying. The
terrible vulnerability of forsaking one's body, combined with the bittersweet
lightness of the soul. How could men do this? he wondered. How could Baralis
and Stillfox and Borc knows who else ever get used to the shock? "Careful,
Jack. You're wavering."
Part of him wanted
to shout out, "Let me waver, then." Better half in his body than not
at all. Instead, Jack concentrated harder. Through the thin, busy particles of
air he traveled, to the hard slick surface of the glass. Only when he got there
it wasn't hard. It was slick, but strangely soft: malleable as lead, running like
slow honey or a fine summer cheese. He felt the downward push of the glass and
began to understand how false and artificial its current state was. It had been
shaped unnaturally by man and was quietly fighting its constraints. It would
take centuries, perhaps eons, before it reverted back, but it would eventually
succeed. Nothing had a memory as long as glass.
Jack knew all this
without as much as a single coherent thought. He just knew it, that was all. He
also knew, in something more akin to instinct than intellect, that the glass
would
welcome
the warming. It would not fight him. The warming would
bring it that much closer to its goal.
Strangely, it was
this knowledge that empowered Jack. No longer a man with a whip, he became a
man with a key. Gently, so gently, tiptoeing with his mind, he melded with the
elements of the glass. Fear skirted periphery-close, but he paid it no heed;
nothing mattered-only the join. If Stillfox spoke now, Jack didn't hear him.