Book Of Words - Master And Fool Part 12

"Melli, what's the matter?" Jack's hand came to rest on her shoulder.

"Nothing." Melli turned to face him. The tenderness in his voice brought the lump right back to her throat. Jack had aged so much the past year. His brow was lined, his eyes more knowing; he was no longer the same boy who had come to her aid by the roadside all those months ago. He was a man now. Suddenly she didn't feel the need to hide everything behind a show of strength. Taking a quick breath, she said, "Jack, I'm just . . . "

Before she'd finished her sentence, Jack caught her up in his arms and guided her toward his chest. Melli rested her head on his shoulder, nuzzling her cheek against the soft fabric of his tunic. The past few days had been madness: Tawl leaving without saying good-bye, Jack turning up out of nowhere, the escape from the townhouse, and the scuffle with the guards. Her nerves were worn thin and her emotions wom out. Everything was happening too fast, the dangers were too real, and the outcome was too far in the distance to see.

Since yesterday morning she'd hardly had a chance to catch her breath. When the armed men had come banging on the door, she and Maybor had left by the back way. Two guards were waiting for them. Melli had watched as Maybor and Bodger and Grift fought with the two men. Grift was badly wounded. There was a lot of blood. He could barely walk. Bodger had half-dragged, half-carried him to the butcher's yard. Just as they arrived, Jack caught up with them. He was bleeding, too, but his wounds did not appear serious. He didn't want to talk about what had happened back at the house.

Donning Maybor's cloak to hide the blood, he'd had a few quiet words with the butcher. A measure of Maybor's gold changed hands, and the butcher led him to a wooden trapdoor in his courtyard, below which lay Cravin's wine cellar. The butcher never saw the rest of their party-Jack made sure of that.

The wine cellar stank of sour wine and damp. The ceilings were low, the walls -were wet and dripping, and springy mosses grew like a carpet on the floor. There were four chambers in all, linked together by a series of pa.s.sageways. The largest chamber, which they were in now, was located directly below the trapdoor. It was by far the dampest of the four: the door let in water and slops from the courtyard, but little light. Grift had been placed in the smallest, driest chamber, and Bodger was tending him there now. Melli had spent the night sleeping on a wooden pallet in another chamber, and Jack and Maybor had shared the fourth.

All night they had been without light, rushes, food, or medicine. Early in the morning Bodger had volunteered to go out for some supplies, and they now had lanterns, a brace of roasted pheasants, three bundles of fragrant summer gra.s.ses, and some strange-looking grease in a bowl. "Medicine," volunteered Bodger, before being asked.

Whilst Maybor busied himself with trying the various vintages-most were, he p.r.o.nounced, "ruined by the damp"-Bodger tended Grift in the small chamber, and Melli saw to Jack, here, in the main cellar.

Right now, though, it felt as if Jack were looking after her. Melli withdrew from his embrace. Here she was perfectly well, feeling sorry for herself over nothing at all, damp-eyed and helpless like a princess in a tower.

"Come on," she said briskly. "Roll up your britches so I can put some of this medicine on your leg."

"Later," said Jack, walking away. "I want to make sure this trapdoor is secure first, and then I'm going to see how Grift is getting on. My injuries can wait. They're flesh wounds, nothing more."

Melli didn't protest. She hadn't really known what she was doing anyway. For all she knew the medicine was supposed to be swallowed, not applied. She sat on an upturned wine barrel and watched Jack prop a bar against the door.

"Tomorrow I'll get a hammer and some nails," he said, "and fix a bar in place. It'll make it more secure." That finished, he jumped down from the crates and asked, "When you looked around earlier, did you come across another way out?" Melli shook her head. "No. That," she motioned upward to the trapdoor, "is the only entrance."

"I'll have to make my bed here from now on, then." Jack began to push the piles of crates away from their position under the trapdoor. "If anyone breaks in, we'll need all the warning we can get."

It was on the tip of Melli's tongue to say that they didn't have any warning yesterday, but she stopped herself. She knew Jack wouldn't like to be reminded about what had happened. So she nodded instead, and offered him her hand, and together they went and saw Grift.

Tawl woke late. The sun was high in the sky. It was midday. Despite the lateness of the hour, the fire was still alight. In fact, not only was it alight, it was boasting freshly cut logs and a pot full of something hot. Looking into murky depths of the pot, Tawl discovered a concoction of dried apples, sweet rolls, honey cakes, cider, and cheese. Nabber. Only a boy of twelve could come up with such a dish. Grinning, Tawl stood up and shouted out the boy's name.

Nabber duly appeared from behind a leafy bush. "'Bout time, too," he said, walking over to greet him. "I thought you'd never wake up. Five minutes longer and I would have eaten the stew."

"Stew?" Tawl's grin widened. He felt as happy as a child. "So that's what you call it?"

"Well, I must say, this will be the last time I cook for you. Never seen such a show of ungratefulness." Nabber sat down beside the fire and began tending his stew. "No one's gonna force you to eat, you know."

Tawl sat down beside him. "No. I want some. Dish it out. Plenty of the soggy sweet rolls for me."

Tawl watched as the boy dished out two large portions. As he handed him one of the bowls, Tawl realized that Bevlin's letter was still crumpled up in his fist. He'd hardly realized it was there. He slipped it in his tunic and took the bowl.

"Nabber, we're heading back to the city today." Nabber now had a mouthful of food. "I thought we might be."

"I've got to see Melli one last time before I go away." Tawl thought about the contents of Bevlin's letter-he would never have to read it again, he knew it by heart.

Everything was now clear to him: he knew what he must do and why he must do it. Last night he had been given a rare and wondrous gift. No, not one gift-two gifts.

The first was Bevlin's forgiveness.

The second was that he now had a chance to fulfill his oath to the duke and his promise to Bevlin. He was sworn to protect Melli and her child. When he spoke the oath in front of the duke and the people of Bren, he thought that there was no going back. Valdis, Bevlin, and the quest were doors that were firmly closed. But last night as he read the letter, he realized that although they might have been closed for many months, the locks had never been turned.

Indeed, by swearing the oath, he had only bound himself more surely to the quest.

Melli's child was the rightful ruler in Bren. He was bound to protect the interests of the duke's heir. Only by finding the boy named in Marod's prophecy would Melli's unborn child ever be able to take its place as leader. Larn had to be destroyed, the war had to be halted, and Kylock and Baralis had to be eliminated before his job was done. Then, and only then, would his oath be fulfilled. Melli and her child would never be safe until Bren was at peace and her baby was formally recognized as the duke's sole heir.

It was the baby's birthright to rule Bren, and the one who could make this come to pa.s.s was the one whom Bevlin had searched for.

Tawl took a deep breath of mountain air. Everything had been connected all along, and it had taken Bevlin's letter for him to see it. As Catherine's murderer, Melli could no longer afford to be a.s.sociated with him, yet this way he could still work for her even though he wouldn't be at her side. He would be working for her long-term protection. And with an oath that bound her to him for a lifetime, the future was something he had to consider.

Up until now he had been thinking in terms of weeks and months, never planning too far ahead. Now he had to think in years, perhaps even decades. If Baralis and Kylock won the coming war, Melli and her child would be forced to live in hiding all their lives. They would be hounded like criminals, always on the move, unable to trust anyone, living with fear day to day.

He could not and would not allow that to happen. "Eat up, Tawl. The stew's going cold."

Tawl blinked, emerging bleary-eyed as if from sleep. "I'm sorry, Nabber. My thoughts were"-he shook his head-"a long way away."

"One taste of my stew will bring you down to earth again, Tawl. It's the special combination of melted cheese and cider that does it."

Reaching forward, Tawl patted Nabber's shoulder. "You're a rare friend, Nabber."

"I'm only doing for you what Swift would've done for me." Nabber refused to meet his eyes, suddenly developing an intense interest in sc.r.a.ping all the ash into a pile.

Tawl smiled. He knew it was best to change the subject "Right then, let's finish our meal and then make our way back to the city. If we hurry, we can get there by dark."

They walked all day, stopping only once to rest by the roadside. The weather was warm, but the sun did not shine quite as brightly as it could, for the sky was filled with smoke. Most of Bren's harvest was being systematically destroyed. The two companions pa.s.sed field upon field of charred wheat, rye, and oats.

Villages were all but deserted now. Everyone had gone to the city, taking with them whatever livestock and possessions they had concealed from the mercenaries. Already looters were moving in, ransacking deserted homes and terrorizing those who were either too old, too stubborn, or too infirm to leave with the rest.

Once, during the day, Tawl caught sight of Valdis' banner in the distance. The yellow-and-black flag was at the head of a large company of knights. Tawl couldn't make out too much detail, but he caught the flash of their steel armor and watched the dust rise as they pa.s.sed.

The knights were not the only fighting men on the move. As they drew nearer to the city, the roads became blocked with troops wearing the blackened helms of Bren, soldiers dressed in the blue and the gold of the kingdoms, mercenaries with no colors to boast of, and peasants brandishing pitchforks and scythes.

As the day wore on and the hard facts of war pushed close in all directions, Tawl knew in his heart that he had made the right decision. His duty was to put an end to this. Oh, right now everyone was happy and festive, confident, excited, ready to do battle. But all that would change over the next few weeks. The scream of the siege engines and the blast of artillery would haunt every waking moment. Many would see their loved ones die, their sons maimed, their fathers bleeding to death for want of a surgeon, and their brothers scarred for life. Eventually people would begin to feel trapped inside the city as the streets and the lake began to stink of the dead. And if the siege went on long enough, starvation and disease would take more lives than a whole year's worth of fighting.

And this one great city was just the start.

Baralis and Kylock would not stop at Bren. If they foiled the siege and routed the Highwall army, they would send their troops out and chase them back across the mountains. They would take Highwall, take Annis, and then they would turn their gaze to the south.

They had to be stopped. Larn had to be destroyed. The boy must be found.

Approaching the city walls, Tawl and Nabber bypa.s.sed a near-riot at the gate, as it had just been closed for the night and the gatekeepers could offer no guarantee that it would open again in the morning. Tawl looked at the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people waiting for entry: two-thirds of them were men wanting a fight. Baralis would let them in.

He and Nabber skirted the angry mob and made their way down into the drain channels. A few stragglers and beggars had made the drains their home, sleeping on their bundles, blankets pulled close, eyes carefully down as the two strangers pa.s.sed. Tawl let Nabber lead the way. The boy waded down tunnels knee-deep in water, shuffled along ledges meant only for rats, and crawled into openings that were too dark to see. Tawl found it hard to keep up with him. Eventually, a glimmer of pale moonlight came into view ahead. It was the sluice gate.

Someone had gone to great trouble to fit it firmly in place. Tawl and Nabber went to work to loosen it. Half an hour later, they had worn away enough stone to free the metal grid from its hold.

Wet and exhausted, Tawl pulled himself out from the ditch. Spinning around, he offered a hand to Nabber. The boy grinned as he was hauled up. "We made it again, Tawl."

"No one knows the back ways like you do, Nabber." Tawl looked around. The street was a quiet one: no shops, taverns, or brothels to attract people into walking its length. "Come on," he said. "Let's get back to Melli."

Tawl's heart soared as he made his way to the townhouse. He had so much he wanted to say to Melli, so much to share and explain. Yet more than anything else he wanted to take her in his arms and tell her that he loved her. She was everything to him, and before he left the city to renew his quest, he would make sure the words were said.

As soon as they turned toward the square, Tawl knew there was something wrong. The house was dark. He raced across the square. The door had been kicked in. The hallway was destroyed. Tawl took the stairs four at a time. Melli's clothes were gone. The room had been turned upside down.

Frantic, Tawl searched amongst the wreckage. Where was she? What had happened to her? Why in Borc's name had he left her alone?

"Tawl." It was Nabber, standing in the doorway. "I think they got away."

"Why?" Tawl was a madman desperate for meaning. He had to stop himself from shaking the answers out of Nabber. "What makes you say that?"

"There's blood in the hallway, but there's also blood outside the kitchen door. It looks like someone escaped." Tawl tried to calm himself. He grasped onto the possibility that Melli might be safe-it was the only way to keep his sanity. Taking a deep breath, he forced his mind to focus on what he could do to find her. "Where would they go?"

"I think Cravin's got other places in the city."

"Do you know where they are?" Nabber began to shuffle his feet.

Tawl knew the pocket didn't like being caught short of answers, so he spoke quickly to cover the silence. "Well, in that case we have to find Cravin himself."

"He'll most probably be at court at the moment," said Nabber, visibly relieved at being able to contribute something useful, "what with the war and everything. That Lord Cravin strikes me as the sort who doesn't like to be left out of the reckoning."

Tawl nodded; Nabber was right. "You know a way into the palace. Go and find him, and demand to know what's happened." Tawl's thoughts raced ahead. Cravin would be in a delicate position right now: Baralis may have discovered who owned the townhouse. "If he doesn't appear talkative, threaten to tell the whole city that we used his house with his permission." The way things were in the city at the moment it would mean a hanging, at least. "Have you got that?"

Nabber was all business. He nodded. "Anything else?"

"Find out the names and addresses of every building he owns in the city. And then meet me back here. I'll be waiting for you."

"It could take me a good many hours, Tawl. It's quite tricky traveling around the palace when you don't know where you're going."

Tawl didn't hesitate. "I'll come with you."

"No. You'd only slow me down." Nabber's voice was surprisingly firm. "Besides, walking through the streets with the most wanted man in Bren on my arm is not my idea of keeping a low profile. No offense, mind."

"None taken," murmured Tawl. He stretched out his arm and touched Nabber on the cheek. He didn't want to let the boy go, but it seemed he had no choice. Quickly he tried to find words that spoke of caution and love. When nothing seemed right, he said, "Whatever you do, Nabber, keep yourself safe."

Nabber snorted. "That's like telling a bear to eat honey. Don't worry about me, Tawl, I'll be back before you know it." With that he was gone, running down the stairs and into the night.

A distant bell tolled out two hours past midnight. TWO long sleepless hours for Jack. He couldn't stop worryingabout Grift, about Melli, about the safeness of the wine cellar. A slim wooden bar, held most precariously in place, was all that stopped those outside from coming in. First thing tomorrow he would make it more secure. Second thing was to find a physician for Grift. Jack couldn't stand by and watch the man slowly ebb away. He needed attention, and although getting help was a risk, both he and Melli agreed it was one they had to take.

Jack shifted his position on the pallet. With only a blanket between him and the wood, it was highly unlikely that he would get a good night's rest. Not to mention the rats.

Jack hated rats. Ever since Master Frallit had insisted on sending him to the granary the first day he came to work as an apprentice, he had disliked the fat, yet skinny-limbed, rodents. Even now, eight years on, Jack lay on his wooden pallet, intent on keeping his fingers and toes-from hanging over the sides, in case the rats decided to chew on them.

The night was filled with noises. The rats sc.r.a.ped and scurried, the timbers creaked as they cooled, and thunder rolled in the distance, gathering momentum for a late summer storm.

Then came another noise. It sounded overhead. Footsteps. Jack felt the hair on his arms p.r.i.c.kle a warning. He jumped up from the pallet, fumbling around for his knife. Silence. He moved toward the trapdoor. It was so dark he could barely make out the square outline above him. Footsteps again, this time directly over the door. Jack was scared. His heart pumped wildly as he drew his knife to his chest.

Suddenly there was a loud cracking noise. Wood splintered. The holding beam loosened. The trapdoor caved in, and a man jumped down into the cellar. He called something out, but the noise of the beam crashing to the floor drowned out the meaning of his words.

Jack sprang forward. The man was nothing but a dark silhouette. Jack felt his knife slice into the soft flesh of the man's outer arm. Then a fist smashed into his stomach. He went reeling backward, falling against the crates he'd moved earlier. Even before he caught his breath, his attacker was on him again. Jack saw the glint of his teeth. The man's free arm caught his wrist. His grip was like steel, and his fingers pushed fouthe bone.

Jack couldn't take the pain any longer. At the same time he dropped his knife, he brought up his knees and smashed them into the man's chest. His attacker wavered backward, but did not fall. Jack inhaled sharply. Any other man would have gone down.

With knife gone, Jack tried to back away to give himself time and s.p.a.ce. He sprung to the side, arms ahead of him searching for something, anything, to put between him and the dark shadow that was his attacker. Jack's palm brushed against a wine barrel-only half full, thanks to Maybor--and hauling it up, he flung it in the man's direction. He heard it crash against the cobbles, but it was too dark to see where it landed.

Just as he put his arm out to feel for a second barrel, something sharp jabbed against his forehead. He lost his footing and fell against the wall. Warm blood trickled down his cheek. Then a blade pressed against his throat.

"Stop!"

Light filled the room. Melli came rushing forward. Jack looked into the face of his attacker. Blue eyes, golden hair: it was the man he'd helped escape. Before either of them could take a breath, a drop of Jack's blood dripped from his chin onto the man's bare arm. It landed directly on the gash that Jack had opened only seconds before.

The two bloods met. There was a perceptible hiss, like a candle snuffed out by hand.

Both men were locked together. Neither moved. Neither breathed. Their bodies were as stiff as statues. Lightning flashed, forking straight down the s.p.a.ce where the trapdoor had been. Thunder rolled after it and the whole building shook, and by the time the cellar was still once more, the whole nature of the night had changed.

Still Jack stared into the blue eyes of the stranger. He knew this man. He had seen him in his dreams.

The man's eyes were all the colors that blue could ever be. Deep with unreadable emotions, light with unquestionable faith. In a movement so fast that Jack could not follow it, the man withdrew his blade from Jack's throat. Bringing up his b.l.o.o.d.y arm, he pressed it against the gash on Jack's forehead.

Jack felt his whole body respond. His own blood seemed to pull upward toward the stranger's. He felt a rushing sound in his ears. A film of clouded matter seemed to fall from his eyes and his memories, leaving sharpness and clarity behind. Every dream, every thought, every hope he'd ever had crystallized in an instant, and something new was born.

His heart beat in time with the stranger's. They fell into a world where only they existed: the wine cellar, the trapdoor, Melli and her lantern were so many shadows cast upon them. The s.p.a.ce between them was charged with energy, it crackled with every intake of breath.

Still the stranger looked at him. His gaze did not waver. Jack felt his body being renewed. Skin, membranes, senses were changing, reshaping, making themselves anew. Hours pa.s.sed in the s.p.a.ce of seconds. A lifetime of memories were relived in one blink of the stranger's eye. Jack remembered his mother as she had been before her illness: beautiful, clever, fingernails caked with soot. He remembered Baralis probing his mind, searching for answers that he'd very nearly found. He saw Kylock as a young boy, slamming a sack containing two kittens against the study wall. He traveled back to the hunting lodge and spied the old crusty book lying at the bottom of a chest, and when he took it in his hands, the letter from the king fluttered to the floor once more. He recalled Falk's words, "Don't be bitter, Jack, " and he heard Tarissa say, "I love you. "

Just as quickly, everything pa.s.sed, and he and the goldenhaired stranger were alone in the present.

"You are the one I've searched for," Tawl said. "Yes," replied Jack. "I know."

And as he spoke, the gla.s.s coc.o.o.n surrounding them shattered, sending out sharp-edged splinters to puncture the night.

Baralis awoke with a start. His heart had missed two beats. The darkness disorientated him and his dreams lingered on past his waking. For the first time in years he knew what it was to be completely afraid. Something was out there. Something that could destroy him.

His hands shook as he felt for flint and tallow. The spark was slow in coming, and the flame it produced was strangely subdued. The air it burnt in had changed imperceptibly. It was thinner, it tasted bitter, and something akin to sorcery, but not quite sorcery, hung upon it like smoke. Perhaps, if he hadn't felt something very similar only the day before, he might not have recognized it. But he had, and he did, so he well knew who was responsible for the change in the very fabric of the night. It was Jack, the baker's boy.

Yesterday morning at dawn, a drawing had taken place at a house in the south of the city. Baralis knew of it before the reports came in, and at once he recognized the aftermath. His former scribe had helped Melliandra escape from his clutches. The drawing was almost an exact copy of one that had happened nearly a year earlier now, just outside a disused hunting lodge in the heart of Harvell forest. Almost, but not quite. The result was the same-a blast of thickened air but the technique was subtly different. It was more sophisticated, more controlled, designed from start to finish. The first drawing had been the work of a dangerous amateur. The second was the work of someone who had been taught how to wield power properly. Still a little unsure of himself, still lacking in timing and subtlety, but a definite improvement nonetheless.

And now, a day later, this had happened.

Baralis reached for a package of his pain-killing drug. He emptied the powder on his tongue, swallowing it dry. Truth be known, he didn't really know what had happened. It wasn't sorcery, it wasn't foretelling; it was something minutely different from both, but infinitely more dangerous than either.

Baralis stretched his mind to encompa.s.s all possibilities. What did he know about Jack? Larn had told him the knight was searching for a boy. He knew in his soul that the boy was none other than Jack, apprentice baker and blind scribe. Yesterday had proven that Jack had somehow caught up with Melliandra.. . . Baralis curled his hands into fiststhat was it! Melliandra was the link. First protected by the knight, now protected by Jack.

What if the knight had stolen back into the city? What if the two had met, here, tonight?

Baralis' thoughts raced on unchecked. And if they had met, then Marod's prophecy was one step closer to coming to pa.s.s. The northern empire, his empire-first dreamt of, then forged by him alone-was in danger. Indeed, the very fact that both Jack and the knight had aligned themselves with Melliandra and, presumably, the claim of her unborn child, showed beyond a shadow of a doubt that the two men were meant to oppose him.

And Larn. They were also meant to oppose Larn. The powers that be on the island already knew it. The seers were probably babbling on about it even now.

Leaning back amongst his pillows, Baralis relaxed, letting the pain-killer run its course. He noticed the candle began to burn more brightly.