IV: The Swashbuckling Book Dealer

"I'm sure he couldn't ha' took a better one. The boy is crazy for books, that he is. It runs in our family rather." - Jude the Obscure


It had been exactly a week since the stranger had given him the all important conundrum:

"Excuse me, your lighter?" the Stranger asked. It was more a statement aloud than a question.

Colonel Atkinson glanced upwards. He puffing on a just-lit roll of grimy tobacco in the most dog-eared set plain-clothes he could find. It was an unusual situation. Not what he was used to; Belatona was not a military city. The West Square was rather grubby and dishevelled, with its fair share of mad beggars; then again, which city wasn't? The shuffling townsfolk were a little shifty-eyed, but surprisingly cordial, sparing a few chuckles as they bartered over a dead sheep. Small-town mentality, he could only guess. The dusty avenues were shabby, but they were also colourful and proud of themselves, covered in beautiful banners and broken mosaics. It was nice. Perhaps even welcoming, on a very good day. This could not be said of the vast and impersonal labyrinth that was Uru'baen.

"Here." Atkinson offered the burning splint to the man.

It was then Atkinson noted that what the Stanger was trying to set alight wasn't tobacco – or opium, if that was your preference, so be it – but a piece of parchment. Covered in spidery handwriting, the pattern on wax seal on the letter was unmistakable. Red and Gold; a royal symbol.

"Brisingr," the man muttered. The letter burst immediately into flames.

Oh, fuck. Anyone but you.

The man turned towards Atkinson, and met his gaze directly from under a tatty hood.

"Orders from above. I'm accompanying your party."

"Understood, sir." Atkinson gave a firm nod. To salute in the middle of the market would be absurd.

"We meet at the co-ordinates indicated, exactly this time next week, as instructed before, aye?"

Atkinson did not try to even conceal a frown. If there was one man he'd honestly wish would never hold a semblance of punctuality, it was him. If there was one man he'd honestly wish he'd never hold a polite conversation with, it was him.

"Yes, sir," he answered. He tried not to grit his teeth. Atkinson was better than a common horse.

Murtagh grimaced. I'm as happy about it as you are.

It had been exactly a week since then.


Haeye-on-the-water was a 'disappearing town'. It was unimportant, undistinguished, and a blemish on the face of a map. So it didn't appear on it. No more than disorganised rabble of dingy, grubby huts and a semi-wreckage of crumbling old chapel. Rowdy, squalid, insignificant, fading in an out of existence – it was exactly like any other small-town in Alagaesia. On the north-eastern edge of Leona Lake, backing against the Spine, it was close enough to the Terim-Uru'baen trade corridor to never die; but far enough to never grow.

It did, however, have a very good rare book vendor.

The main avenue was packed – to the brim with summer's fresh stalls, dealer's wary calls, 'Come buy, come buy!', giggling maidens and gossiping old hens, the squeaking of rattling carts, the groans of squeamish cattle, wild dogs baking in the heat, barking mad. It was market day, and baskets of ripened berries – strawberries, raspberries, mulberries, cranberries, blackberries; of fresh, sweet peaches, of thick stems of rhubarb, were laid on the streets.

Delicious. Would rot in a few days though.

A particular dragon decided to steal the watermelon I picked up here last time, Jude thought with a chuckle. The ravenous carnivore had hated the taste, and spat it out in a rather climatic display the midst of the hustle and bustle, Jude was quickly interrupted-

"Old stranger, good day!"

It was Lloyd, a local pig-farmer, a soft-faced, energetic man. His shaky hands, covered in grime, always flailing wildly as he spoke, beckoned Jude towards him. Bah, he still wants to see if he can get a sale off me, doesn't he? Silly man – travellers didn't buy meat at market. He continued questioningly,

"I know your face – I've seen you here stranger, before..."

"Were you not famous for remembering a foreign face Lloyd?" Jude feigned.

The man chuckled. "Aye, but it seems my reputation precedes me – "

The midday bells began to sing out from the chapel, a reverberating blanket smothering their chatter.

Dong.

Dong.

Dong.

There was...

Dong.

Dong.

There was almost, a sense...

Dong.

Dong.

A sense of foreboding...?

Dong.

Dong.

Dong.

No, it's nothing. Ignore it.

Dong.

Dong.

Twelve chimes for midday.

"So they finally sorted those bell ringers out?" Jude pulled a wry smile. "Shame, I liked Haeye's peculiar thirteenth chime."

"Ha! Only you Jude – yes, you are Jude, aren't you?" The vendor's smile was sugary poison.

"Right you are, Lloyd," Jude replied. It was a clear side of his status – an outsider. Only an outsider could ever glorify such a banal thing, think it a quaint quirk, an amusing charm of the bizarre, uncultured small-townsfolk. It was belittling – he was belittling. The people of Haeye wanted to have some measly reason left to be proud – the thirteenth chime was an embarrassment – an omen about the vacuous nature of their lives, of their unfaltering obedience to a broken clock.

"So," continued Lloyd, grinning darkly, "Can I finally convince you to buy my wares, then?" Jude gestured a firm 'no'. The vendor hid disappointment with a laugh. "Oh, such a shame, such a shame!"

The pig-farmer let Jude continue on his way – who quickly ducked away from the main avenue, to avoid being pulled aside by prying eyes again. What if I have to burn down this town one day? The thought had danced in his mind before, erratically, spinning in fierce circles. It was not something he wanted to trouble himself by thinking about it. No, better to avoid these people if he could – how cynical it sounds – the rest weren't as jovial as Lloyd. Far from it. He was a stranger, a traveller, a wanderer to them. He bought their wares; he moved on. Besides, what could Jude say to them? He was such an alien, not a noble, not a commoner, not any category at all, not normal. What did he usually speak about? Swordplay? Philosophy? Politics? Ha!

Shaking his head, he made his way towards a rather rickety old hut belonging to a man called Wombat.

His actual name was Rufus Cohen. 'What an odd name!' Jude could hear an obstinate girl declaring in his memory. But everyone called him Wombat – after all, he was 'not from here,' as another vulgar girl whispered loudly in return, as it was but a horror. He was from the south, was slightly eccentric; therefore, Wombat. A warder of words, a 'wise man', a bit of a story-teller by trade, but he helped around town often enough. Nice enough chap, the girls would snigger.

When Jude first met Wombat, he had expected to meet a delirious, pompous sod. This, in retrospect, wasn't too inaccurate.

Rather unseemly for a potential Varden Informant, wasn't it?

"Son of whore!"

A clatter of metal hit the stone floor. Jude leaned against the doorway of the hut, arms leisurely crossed, with a triumphant smile. Wombat twisted around in an instant, utterly bemused by how complete stranger could be possibly leaning against the doorway of his dilapidated, dingy, pokey kitchen. His eyes widened in recognition:

"Ah, Jude!"

A lithe man with knife-like limbs, Wombat began to lean down to gather the higgledy-piggledy collection of various pots, pans, rare historical artefacts, before he stopped, and his beady eyes narrowed:

"Ah, sword."

He was glaring at the new attachment to Jude's belt, which he never usually brought to Haeye.

"I'm not going to stab you."

"I don't trust you."

Jude roared with laughter in response.

"Wise. You should have known I'd bring it eventually–"

"Yeah, yeah, travelling rogue, ex-soldier, stabbed a lot of men and raped a lot of wives..."

Jude rolled his eyes. This was the melodramatic tripe which everyone else swallowed up when it came to Jude's 'mysterious past'. Jude was certain that Wombat suspected the truth to be far more mundane, as opposed to far more surreal. He grinned devilishly for a moment, but his expression fell.

"I still don't trust your word. Or your sword, more like. Nasty things."

"As you like," Jude sighed. He unfastened the weapon from his belt, and placed it on the oak kitchen table. Wombat's expression softened.

"Welcome to my humble abode, Jude," he chuckled.

The hut was filthy.

It smelt of rotting cabbage. The floor was covered in dirt, muck, and possibly pig faeces. Books lay crying agape over shelves and that spidery scrawl – annotations – could be seen clambering up those thick, creamy pages. Mustard parchment littered every surface, every table, shelf, chair. Jude spotted a pile of crumpled, tea-stained charts, tossed aside carelessly – beautiful, intricately detailed and decorated historical maps, tossed aside. He wondered if Wombat did this to infuriate him.

It was all very unseemly for a potential Varden informant.

Except, he isn't a Varden informant. Then I'd have to kill him. No, the important word was 'potential'. And Wombat was smart enough to ensure that he'd remained merely 'potential' for years. Just as Jude was a 'potential' Empire operative to Wombat (Murtagh snorted in laughter at this). Not enough evidence to have blades at their throats, it seemed.

Jude then pulled two items out of his pack, carefully wrapped in cloth. "I bring house-welcoming gifts," he said with a smirk. Books. Bound in thick, shiny leather, their titles carefully carved in the glittering runic alphabet. They were beautiful books. Rare ones.

"The Elven victory in the north has brought some good," Jude continued, offering them to Wombat. "I thought you'd care for them more – I can't understand a word."

"Ah, down to business, are we?" Wombat grinned. The man breathed books. Especially rare ones. Especially the sort which tended to be banned. The most interesting kinds. Book swapping, of all the humdrum reasons, was what pulled them together, and the hunger for unseen words made sure that Jude would return to Haeye again and again.

Wombat took out a pair of grubby spectacles from a pocket, and examined the goods in detail. "Ah, this is the Ancient Language."

"Old as the hills, it is."

"Elven Hillbillys – Perish the thought!" cried Wombat.

Jude roared with laughter. "Then you'll have no trouble learning an entire language in half an hour," he quipped with a smirk.

"Oh come now Jude," Wombat rolled his eyes, "Haeye isn't that bad."

"More of a flattened mole's mound than a hill, I admit."

Wombat burst into sniggering. It was most defiantly very unseemly for a Varden informant. "You cynical bastard. Pah, I know you can't read a word – I bet you don't even know what those books are about."

Pottery making and Western Du Weldervarden Foliage, actually.

"An eye for an eye," Jude smirked. He could recall getting practically small shipment's worth of the things from Wombat a few weeks ago in Dwarvish.

"Makes the world blind. Now take your payment." A book was thrown in his direction. Jude ducked, as it slammed against the wall.

"I hate it when you do that."

"Pah, ex-soldiers and your superior reflexes."

You wouldn't believe how, Jude thought dryly, bending down, in a position perfect for a counter-attack.

"You're not going to seriously throw the book back now?" asked Wombat coyly. This was true – Jude did not doubt that a conniving bastard like Wombat did have a potion stored away somewhere for blindness. Wombat would have called it poetic justice.

"Nah." Jude picked up the book. He read at the title.

Jude kept his expression still. But Murtagh couldn't. His fingers shook. They gripped the cover. Hard. What the fuck is this? A grim, twisted smile. This is a joke, isn't it Wombat?

"Tales of the Western Seas: Murtagh the Pirate Lord?" Jude asked quizzically, his face blank.

"Gypsy children's' book – translated copy, so quite dear." Wombat explained, his expression whimsical. "About a hundred years old, actually. Huge allegory to the political situation at the time, and there's some... ah, eccentric philosophising which you yourself might be partial to. Banned by the Riders, interestingly."

"Ah." Jude paused, unable to choke up any words.

And here we get down to the real business. Only Wombat would use such a crude excuse to start his favourite topic of discussion – rumours and gossip of the war. Innocent conversation, where secrets of war, of malice and murder, could be let loose with a slip of their stray tongues. They were both partial to it. Jude had once mused aloud that they would both be hung by the end of the war – one for war crimes; one for treason.

Jude attempted to cough up a few words. "Since when could Gypsies read?" The jest fell flat and unconvincing to any fool's ears.

"Since when could birds fly?" Wombat retorted. "And no, if you're wondering, that Murtagh," he said, point a finger at the book, "Bears no resemblance to the current bastard that carries his name."

"Ah?", Jude asked, his tone lighter.

"For one, the protagonist in the book bears absolutely no familial relation to Murtagh the Pirate," spoke Wombat, now in quieter, hushed tones. Jude tried to resist a secretive smile. Took you long enough to figure that one out.

"No diabolical monster for a father, either?" Jude chuckled icily. The words sounded iffy – slightly unnatural to his ears, but Wombat took no notice.

"You're misinformed," Wombat said with a gentle smile.

Oh?

"Eragon is Morzan's son," Jude said casually. "Is he not?"

"Eragon is Brom's son."

Wombat waited expectantly for a reaction. He got none.

"Brom was spying on the Black Hand. He slept with the whore. For whatever reason. Love probably comes in somewhere. She had an illegitimate child, so she dumped him on a farm. And twenty years on, here we are today."

Jude could nearly laugh. But he didn't.

Murtagh, on the other hand – now he was laughing. Hard. Loud. You expect me to believe this? Of course, now, Murtagh should have known: the hero couldn't be tainted with something as horrifying as bad blood. Perish the thought. No, the hero could not possibly have any connection to the villain in any way.

"And your evidence of this is...?"

"Word of mouth."

"Reliable," Jude snorted.

"You don't believe me?"

"It's a very convenient solution, isn't it? Seems to be in the nick of time – before rumours start to spread." Jude replied with a cold smile.

"So be it." That smug smile wasn't going to move.

A moment of silence.

But Murtagh could also hear –

A distant rumbling of hooves.

Pounding the floor.

Thundering.

The signal.


Murtagh was twelve when he first heard the signal.

He had no idea what it meant. He didn't want to know what it meant.

It was horrible.

He spent the entire morning with his hands over his ears-
He could still hear the echoes-
Of the screams-
His eyes red-
Crying-
Little more than a baby-

And Murtagh hadn't cried in years. He was always resolute, still, in stony silence, as a child. His face was a blank mask. He'd stare out from the windows, watching a world denied to him, emotionless.

No, I'm Angry –

He always insisted. He had to be angry. He had to be bitter.

Until the signal came. It was short – but, for one moment.

For one moment, he couldn't be angry. He couldn't. He couldn't he couldn't he couldn't he couldn't-hecouldn't-

But he knew now. It sung – smothering everything, smothering chatter and babble and titter-tatter – when his name was spoken. His real one. His true name. Not Murtagh. Not Jude. His name. This made sense, he knew. This was the right conclusion – he was sure. And Galbatorix had control of it. For all these years the loathsome man had control of him.

He had worked this out: it made sense. It must be his name being spoken.

When most people heard their name spoken, they shivered in fright. It was like looking into their empty graves. It was like looking into the empty void. It was like seeing what would become of their feeble lives.

When Murtagh heard his name spoken, he trembled in agony. It was like looking into the depths of hell.


Jude needed to disappear. Desperately.

"I need to abandon you for now, Wombat, unfortunately-"

"Oh! How heartless of you Jude, we still have much to say," Wombat interrupted, with a very sinister smile.

"Jests aside – I need to go, something has come about-"

He could hear a child screaming.

"Have you really not seen the heart of the issue Jude?" Oh yes, his smile was very dark. He wasn't going to get away easily.

Jude grimaced. "What are you implying, Wombat, dammit?"

"Don't trifle with me." Wombat's tone was suddenly quiet, cold, serious. Jude glared back. He could hear a child screaming, and it was getting louder, and louder, and louder-

"I really don't know what you're talking about-" he started.

"Well, I really don't trust you at all," Wombat said with a smirk.

"You've been misinformed, whatever it is," he insisted. "Look, I need to go-"

"Have you really no heart Jude?"

Have I no heart?

Jude didn't know.

The child would not stop screaming.

Jude didn't know, didn't care, and wanted to get out.

He grabbed his sword.

"You really don't know then, eh? About hearts? You really don't have one?"

Jude gave a blank look only in return, stuffing Tales of the Western Seas: Murtagh the Pirate Lord into his bag, and ran. He ran out of Haeye. He ran to where he was supposed to be.

He ran until the signal died.


A/N: I hope you're not too confused so far, with the whole Murtagh pretending to be someone else. He's so recognisable that it makes him a liability. And yes, Murtagh has absolutely no idea about the Eldunari, although the Varden have still been told about them by Oromis/Eragon. This defies canon, because Murtagh references it in the early encounter in Brisingr, but fuck that. Having Eldunari seems a cop out, so there'll be a different explanation to Galby. And I promise to make no more Jude The Obscure references from now on. My English course means that I'm going to be reading a lot of classic romance over the next few weeks, so you'll get even more pretentious quotes/name drops in the future. Yay! However school starts on Monday, and I have an exam on Thursday, so expect updates to be restricted to a weekly basis.

Please review if you can! And thank you for reading - seeing all those hits is pretty damn awesome.