J. V. Jones - The Book Of Words 3 - Master And Fool

Master and Fool

Volume 3 of The Book of Words

By J.V. Jones

ISBN: 0-446-60414-3

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

Duchess 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 passed,

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 courtship, 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 breasts. 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 shifted 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

passion 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 reassuring-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 pushing 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 pushing 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.

"Damn 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 breasts. 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 brass. 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 embarrassment 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 assistant 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 brass 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 assassin 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 assassin 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 assassin'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 marriagehad 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 pass 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 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, andhe 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 andunder the city.

The duke's palace-or was it theduchess' 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 wasone 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 downhis 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 wouldwelcome 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.

He became aware of the vibration of the glass: strong, unwavering, almost hypnotic. Jack felt himself

falling in time with it. How right it felt, how veryright.

"Jack! Be careful! You're losing yourself." Stillfox's words carried more weight than speech alone; they

were heavy with sorcery. Jack felt the other man's power. It was repugnant to him. The glass was his,

and he would brook no interference. Then suddenly, something was forcing its way between him and the

glass, a sliver of thought turned to light. It acted like a wrench, cleaving apart the join. Jack fought it

aggressively. He had been rocked into quiescence by the vibration of the glass, and now he was a giant

awakened. No longer warm, the glass grew hot An orange line began to glow around the rim.

"Jack, I command yoube gone! "

Jack felt a powerful shearing, saw a bright flash of light, and then he was torn away from the glass. As he

sped back to his body, the glass exploded outward, sending chunks of molten glass flying through the air.

Even as he settled himself within flesh and blood, the fragments hit him. Scorching, sizzling, cracking like

whips, they landed on his chest and on his arms. Jack, dizzy with the shock of returning, shot up from the

chair. His tunic was smoldering, the skin burning beneath. Too new in his body to feel pain, Jack could

only feel honor. He had to get away from the glass. Pulling at his tunic, he tore it from his shoulders. Gobs

of hardening glass tinkled onto the floor.

The moment the pain started, Jack was hit from behind by a wave of coldness. Reflex-quick, he spun

round. Stillfox was standing close by; a large empty bucket rested, dripping, in his hand. Water. The

herbalist had poured water on him. He took a step forward. "Jack-"

"Leave me alone, Stillfox," cried Jack, raising his arm in warning. Tired and disorientated, he was

shaking from head to foot. "You shouldn't have interfered. I had it. I was in control."

Stillfox's voice rose to a matching anger. "You fool. You were in control of nothing. The glass was

controlling you. You nearly lost yourself to it."

Searing pinpoints of pain goaded Jack into a rage. "I tell you the glass was mine!" He beat his fist against

his side. The herbalist shook his head slowly. He let the bucket drop to the floor. When he spoke, he

pronounced his words very carefully. "Make an error in judgment like that again, Jack, and I swear it will

be your last. I will not step in and save you a second time. I am nobody's nursemaid." Abruptly, he

turned and made his way toward the door. Without looking round he said, "There is ointment in the

rag-stoppered jar above the fireplace. See to your burns." The door banged shut behind him.

Jack immediately slumped into the chair. The anger, which had fired his blood only moments earlier, left

his body with his very next breath. He felt hollow without it ... and ashamed. Bringing his head down

toward his knees, Jack rubbed both hands against his face. How could he have been so stupid? Stillfox

was right; hehad lost control, losing himself to the vibration of the glass. It had been so hard to resist,

though: a siren's song. Jack searched his mind and came up with a few choice baking curses, which he

hissed with venom. How was he ever going to learn to master the power inside?

Ten weeks now he'd been with Stillfox. Ten weeks since the aging herbalist had found him hiding in the

bushes on Annis' west road and taken him in. Ten weeks of instruction and straining and failure. Every

attempt to draw power seemed to end in disaster. Stillfox had been patient at first, slowing his pace,

whispering words of encouragement and advice, but by now even Stillfox was losing his patience.

Jack rubbed his temples. He was making so little progress. Sometimes it seemed as if he could only

draw power when there were real dangers: real-life situations that stirred the rage within. Here in Stillfox's

quiet cottage, nestled in a sleepy village ten leagues short of Annis and a mountain's girth west of Bren, all

the dangers seemed like insignificant ones. There was no one threatening his safety; he wasn't being

hunted, threatened, or conned. The few people he cared about were in no danger, and judging from what

Stillfox had told him about the war, it appeared that things were calming down in the north. With nothing

and no one to fight for, it was hard for Jack to summon rage and direct it toward a glass, or whatever

else the herbalist set before him. These things weren't important to him-skill alone wasn't worth fighting

for. There had to be some emotional attachment: someone or something to get angry about. For the first

month he had been unable to draw forth anything unless he focused his mind on Tarissa.

Tarissa. The pain in Jack's arms and chest flared to a blaze as her name skimmed across his thoughts.

He stood up, kicking the chair behind him. He would not think of her. She was in the past, long gone, as

good as dead. He refused to keep her alive in his thoughts. She had lied and betrayed him, and no

amount of tears or pleading would ever make it right. Magra, Rovas, Tarissa--those three deserved each

other. And he had been so stupid and gullible that he good as deserved them, too.

Jack walked over to the fireplace and picked up the ragstoppered jar from the mantel. Over the past

few months Jack had learned that he needed to be harsh on both Tarissaand himself, it was the only way

to put a stop to the pangs of regret. He was a fool and she was a villain, and that was all there was to it.

Nothing more.

Taking the rag from the jar, Jack sniffed at the contents. Whatever it was, it smelled bad. Gingerly he

dipped a finger downward. The liquid was cold, greasy, and the color of dried blood. Borc only knew

what it was! Whenever Stillfox was preparing to use the contents of one of his jars, he would first dab a

droplet on his tongue to test that it was still potent. Jack had no intention of tasting this, though. Let it kill

him slowly by invading his wounds rather than poison him swiftly on the spot.

Jack began to dab the ointment on his burns, first his arms and then his chest. The process took a lot

longer than he'd thought; not only were his hands shaking wildly, making it difficult to target the areas in

question, but a natural squeamishness on Jack's part didn't help, either. Yes, it was only stinging, he told

himself-- and since leaving Castle Harvell he'd endured much worse than a handful of glass burns--but it

was the idea of causinghimself pain that he wasn't happy with. The burns were throbbing away quite

bearably until he put the ointment on them, then the real torment began. The ointment stung like lye in an

open wound. It seemed to get under his skin with a thousand tiny barbs, then claw its way back to the

surface. Was this Stillfox's revenge?

"Jack. Don't use-"The herbalist burst into the cottage. Seeing Jack with the jar in his hand, he stopped

himself in midsentence. He shrugged his shoulders rather sheepishly. "Never mind, it won't kill you."

"What will it do, then?"

"It was meant to teach you a lesson." The herbalist's voice dropped to something close to a mutter.

"Only I think it taughtme one, instead: there's little satisfaction to be gained from acting out of spite." He

looked up from the floor. "Never mind. The ointment may pain you for a few days, but it should do you

no harm in the long term."

J. V. Jones - The Book Of Words 3 - Master And Fool

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