Book Of Words - Master And Fool Part 26

"I'm ahead of you there, Old Man."

The Old Man was not displeased. "Well, that's everything I mean to say." He walked toward the door. "Tawl's on his own from here."

Sensing an imminent dismissal, Nabber stood up. "No, sir, Tawl's not on his own."

"You're right He's got you." Opening the door, the Old Man raised an age-spotted hand to his face. "You know what, Nabber, when all this business is over with, I think you should come back and see me again. You and I would make good business partners."

Try as he might, Nabber couldn't quite stop himself from beaming from ear to ear. "Might take you up on that, Old Man."

"Might be obliged if you did."

Nabber bowed at the compliment Just as he was out the door, he remembered his sack.

"Moth will see you get it back," said the Old Man. "Oh, and tell him I said to go easy on you on the way back. Perhaps just a fold this time, eh?"

"A fold sounds good to me." Nabber stepped out into a dimly lit chamber. The door closed behind him. Well, well, well, he thought as he was frisked for valuables by Moth, the Old Man bad good as given him a plan.

"It came out of nowhere, Captain," shouted Fyler above the roar of crashing waves. "An hour ago and the sky was as clear as a mountain pool."

Tawl never heard the captain's reply, as a mighty wave crashed against the hull of the ship. A mountain of frothing water was driven over the deck and the entire ship pitched starboard. Holding on to the railings with all his might, Tawl brought his head down to his chest to stop the rain lashing at his face.

Lightning struck. It forked blue across the sky, lighting up the night with a single chilling flash. Thunder followed less than two seconds later.

Tawl watched as the captain barked out orders. A team of men were already bringing in the sails. The deck was secure and the last of the hatches was being barred. Fyler was at the wheel, but the smooth oakwood round was spinning out of control beneath his fingers.

There were three lanterns on the deck: one above the anchor mount, another above the wheel, and a third nailed against the mainmast at man height. All three of them were burning, yet their pale, bucket-sized halos of light did nothing but emphasize the dark. The temperature had dropped rapidly in the past hour. The wind had gone from a healthy breeze to a full-blown gale. It cut across the sea, slicing the tops off the swells and driving the rain hard and fast against the boat.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tawl spotted Jack emerging from belowdecks. He watched as Jack struggled to close the hatch against the wind. The ship rolled and lurched, both masts rocking wildly from side to side. The flag above the crow's nest was torn from its rope, a quick flash of yellow consumed by the dark.

Another wave hit. Tawl's left side was blasted by the surge. Water skimmed across the main and foredecks. Having secured the hatch, Jack made his way forward. Tawl was surprised at how well he moved. The deck was running with salt.w.a.ter and the ship rocked like a pendulum, yet Jack's footing was sure. The rain was coming in heavy white sheets now, and Tawl couldn't make out Jack's expression until they were an arm's-length apart.

Jack gripped the rail. His eyes were dark. A muscle in his neck beat a pulse.

The crew darted about them, fastening lines, sweeping the decks, drawing in the rigging. There were two pairs of hands on the wheel now: Fyler's and the captain's. Tawl didn't know much about sailing, but he had a feeling that the only thing steering the ship was the storm.

More lightning. Thunder right behind it.

Tawl got a clear look at Jack's face. What he saw scared him. The boy's lips were drawn to a thin line. His eyes were blank. He seemed to be looking through the storm, not at it.

"Captain, the swell's rising fast. It'll match the hull before we know it." Carver dashed past them to the wheel. Jack followed him. Tawl was reluctant to leave the railing, but he knew something was wrong with Jack and he had to find out what. His hands were numb with cold. He pried them free from the railing and followed Jack to the wheel. The deck was as slick as a frozen pond. Tawl skidded with every step. The rain beat him back. Waves. .h.i.t from all sides. There was a powerful gust of wind and then Tawl heard something crack.

"Whoa! Watch out!"

Instinct more than sense made Tawl leap to the side. He dived for the railings and hit an oncoming wave full-on. Water smashed against him. It was in his eyes, his nose, his throat. He couldn't breathe. A high, creaking sound split through the air. The ship rolled sharply to port. Tawl was forced to hold on to the railings with all his might to stop himself from rolling with it.

Crack!

With sea salt stinging in his eyes, Tawl watched as the aftermast crashed to the deck like a felled tree. It went smashing into the port railings, crushing them like tinderwood.

"Cut the rigging!" cried the captain.

The cables attached to the aftermast were pulling against the mainmast. The huge central mast was listing to the port. Tawl could hear the beam creaking with strain.

Carver dashed forward, knife in hand. Tawl felt for his own knife. He was up before he knew it. As soon as his left foot hit the deck, pain coursed up his ankle. He ignored it. He had no choice. The winds were high and the mainmast was listing, ready to crack. If that fell, the entire ship would go down with it.

Tawl scrambled toward the fallen aftermast. The rigging ropes were wrist-thick. They were so taut they hummed in the wind like the strings of a bow. Carver and two other crewmen were busy hacking. The mainmast towered above them. It was visibly bending. Waves beat against the hull. Surf spewed across the deck. The ship no longer rolled, it heaved.

Lightning flashed. Thunder roared. The wind cut the rain into razors.

One by one the rigging ropes were cut. The usually quick-tongued Carver was silent. Tawl worked by his side, sawing the ropes with the edge of his blade. Finally there were only four ropes left: those that secured the top of the aftermast to the top of the mainmast. Tawl's gaze traveled to the end of the aftermast. It was jutting out two horse-lengths across the sea. He stood up.

Carver put a hand on his arm. "No, Tawl. This is my job." Tawl opened his mouth to protest.

Carver gripped him hard. "No, Tawl. You did me a favor once by insisting you row to Larn on your own. I haven't forgotten that, and I'm not about to let you risk your neck out there when I can do the job faster and better than you. "

Tawl brought his hand up and clasped it against Carver's. "You're a brave man."

"No. I'm just a man who loves his ship."

No one on the ship spoke as Carver moved toward the broken railings. The aftermast gleamed with salt.w.a.ter. Like a sapling in a gale, the mainmast leaned toward it. The last four rigging ropes bound the two masts together as surely as a leash between master and dog. Carver hoisted himself onto the aftermast and began to shunt along the beam. The blade of his knife was between his teeth, as he needed both hands to hold on. Taw] crept alongside the mast, only coming to a halt where the deck came to an end.

Thirteen men watched with baited breath. Carver was now suspended above the open sea. The waves swelled up to meet him. Reaching the end of the mast, he took the knife in his right hand and began to work on the first of the four ropes. Rain drove against his face. His legs were entwined around the beam for support. The fast rope snapped back to the mainmast. A ma.s.sive wave smashed against the port side. Carver was engulfed by white foam. For a second no one could tell what had become of him, then the foam fell away and Carver could clearly be seen spitting salt.w.a.ter from his mouth and holding onto the beam for dear life. Everyone cheered. Carver tipped them a nod.

Without realizing it, Tawl had stretched out along the beam, ready to catch Carver's foot or britches if he fell. The second rope was cut and then the third. Carver hacked away at the last. The mainmast creaked like a rotten staircase, and then, as the final rope was cut, it bounded back toward the starboard side. The aftermast, which had been in part suspended by the rope, shifted downward, crushing more railings and coming to rest at a lower point above the sea.

Tawl didn't wait. He shunted out onto the beam and grabbed Carver's leg. Carver was barely above the swell line. Holding on to the beam was like holding on to a greased pole. Together, Carver and Tawl crawled back to the ship. Jack had grabbed hold of Tawl's legs, and someone else grabbed hold of him Carver was reeled in like a fish on a line.

As soon as Tawl's feet were on deck, Jack said to him, "We've got to get off this ship now, or everyone will be killed."

Tawl, high on exhilaration and relief, was brought down in an instant. Quickly, he made sure that Carver was all right and then grabbed hold of Jack's arm and dragged him to the side of the bos'n's cabin.

"What d'you mean?"

Jack was soaked to the skin. His long hair was loose and the wind blew it into his face. "I mean this storm isn't natural. It's been created by sorcery. Can't you smell it?" Tawl could smell salt and the sharp chemical tang of the lightning. "No."

"I don't know how it's been done, but it's been created to kill us. You and me, Tawl, not the crew. And unless we get off this ship right now, it'll take all the sailors along with us."

Tawl had never see Jack so firm. There was no question of arguing with him. "How strong is it?"

"Still strong, but given enough time it will die down. No one can keep this up for hour after hour and not be weakened."

Tawl nodded. He trusted Jack's judgment implicitly. "How far are we from Larn?"

"Captain says that when the storm hit, we were twenty leagues to the south. Borc knows where we are now." More lightning. Thunder right behind it. Jack was right; this storm wasn't pa.s.sing over, it was staying right on top of them.

Two waves. .h.i.t the ship in quick succession. The Fishy Few bounced off the first only to plow headlong into the second. A crest of water blasted across the bow and foredeck.

"If we take a boat now, the chances are it'll be ripped apart."

Jack looked Tawl straight in the eyes. "It's either us or the entire crew."

"You think we can draw away the storm?"

"I think we can give it a try."

Tawl nodded. "Let's do it."

The rowboat was winched down to just above water level. Already it was carrying water, courtesy of the waves that kept lapping over the sides.

"I don't like this," said the captain, watching as the little boat swung back and forth on the ropes. "It's suicide to put down in a storm." As he spoke, the wind whipped through the rigging. The fall of the aftermast had left the mainmast vulnerable, and everyone tensed until the gust tapered off.

Jack didn't know what to say to the captain. He didn't want to lie, yet he wasn't sure how the captain would take the truth. He looked around for Tawl, but he was belowdecks, collecting together whatever they needed. Jack took a deep breath. "The storm's not going to pa.s.s as long as Tawl and I are here."

The captain nodded. "I'm not a fool, lad. I know." He looked across at the wheel. Fyler was struggling to gain control of the ship. His huge muscles could be seen straining in the lamplight. "A storm like this doesn't come fresh out of the blue sky of its own accord." Quain looked at Jack and smiled. "You don't sail the high seas for forty years without learning a thing or two about life."

"Boat's ready, Captain," shouted one of the crewmen. Jack was beginning to realize why all sailors had loud voices: they needed them to shout over the roar of the waves. Making a small gesture toward the sky, he said, "I'm sorry, Captain. I would never have come on board if I thought anything like this would happen."

"Nay, lad. Don't be sorry. The Fishy Few isn't ready to pay her respects to the seabed just yet."

"A big one's coming in, Captain."

Jack and the captain looked out to sea. Amidst the black and the gray was a gleam of pure silver. It was the top of a swell and it towered high above the deck.

"Brace yourselves, shipmates, " cried the captain. Everyone hunkered down against the deck, grabbing at railings, mooring heads, anything that was at hand. Jack watched the swell roll forward. It was a ma.s.sive shimmering wall. Sucking in his breath, he held on to the mooring head with all his might. He heard a low rumbling-like thunder, only gentler, more ominous. And then the swell collided with the ship.

The noise was a deafening rush. The Fishy Few rocked on its keel. The starboard deck tilted downward, and a solid cliff of water blasted into the ship. Jack's whole body felt the impact; his limbs felt as if they were being torn from their sockets, his face felt as if it had been slammed against a door. Still the water came, churning and bubbling like a mighty river. Wood splintered, lanterns smashed, someone shouted out to Borc to help save them. A high, splitting sound came from the mainmast.

The ship rolled back from the port and the last of the swell caught the hull.

Jack's fingers were frozen against the mooring head. His hair was plastered against his face. All around him, the crew jumped up and began sweeping the water from the deck, checking the lines, and running to brace the mainmast. Tawl staggered up from belowdecks. He, too, was soaked to the skin. He took in the chaos of the scene, saw the visible crack running down the length of the mainmast, and said, "Captain, we're going now. We'll try and set a course to the north. You head away from us as fast as possible."

The captain nodded. Like everyone, his gaze was fixed on the mainmast. "Go now, then. When the storm clears we'll be back to pick you up."

Jack had difficulty catching his breath. He already knew the captain well enough not to protest. "Thank you," he said Captain Quain opened his mouth to say something, hesitated, then said, "Borc be with you, lad."

Before Jack knew it, they were climbing down the rope ladder. Knees, ankles, and chins took a beating against the hull. Jack could see white bands across the ocean where the wind was cutting through the swells. The rain took turns whipping then falling in sheets.

By the time he reached the boat, Jack was sporting two b.l.o.o.d.y knees, a b.l.o.o.d.y elbow, and a sprained ankle. Tawl, who was following him down, looked in even worse shape. He caught Jack staring at him and grinned.

"This is either the stupidest thing I've ever done in my life, or the bravest."

Jack grinned back. He was glad to the bone that Tawl was with him.

Working together, they untied the mooring knots and pushed the rowboat away from The Fishy Few with their oars. The crew leant against the railings, waving their farewells. It was too dark to make out faces and too windy to hear what was said. It didn't matter. That night Jack learnt that goodwill didn't have to be seen or spoken to be felt.

And then they were off. A wave cleaved them from the ship, bouncing them southward and filling the rowboat with cold, foamy water. Tawl bailed while Jack rowed.

The wind was slower, but colder close to the surface. The swells seemed impossibly large, yet whereas The Fishy Few sat high in the water and blocked their path, causing the swells to break, the little rowboat bobbed right over them.

They were fine for a while. The Fishy Few faded to a dark silhouette in the distance, and then, a few minutes later when Jack looked back, it had disappeared completely. That was when the storm came in for its last attack. Jack sensed that the storm, or rather the power behind it, had been waiting for a chance to get them alone. He was frightened by the breadth of the sorcery behind it. It was powerful, wild, beyond his ken. He wasn't fit to challenge it. He should have stayed longer with Stillfox, should have learnt more, listened better, tried harder.

The sorcery used in the storm's making was not just powerful, it was a sophisticated, many-layered construction with an iron will at its core.

Jack felt it now, coming in for the kill. The metal tang was unmistakable. The very air was charged with it. The swell rose and the wind picked up. The little rowboat was flung from wave to wave like a leaf in a stream. The sea was a rabid dog: angry, frothing, out of control.

Tawl stopped bailing and began tying. At fast Jack didn't understand what he was doing. The knight threaded a thick mooring rope beneath the bench Jack was sitting on, then he pulled the rope tight across Jack's lap. Jack felt the beginnings of panic. He was being bound to the boat. Twice more Tawl looped the rope under the bench and over Jack's thighs. Then he sat on the opposite bench and began to bind himself. He never uttered a word.

Jack felt trapped. He couldn't move his legs. The rowboat pitched and spun. The rain drove against them. Water poured in from all sides. Tawl's face was grim. He was holding the second pair of oars. The swells were coming fasttoo fast for the boat to right itself after each one. Shin-deep in salt.w.a.ter, Jack tried to concentrate on the sorcery behind the storm. Lightning blazed in front of them. Thunder blasted behind. The rain and the wind began to spiral around them. The boat was flung prow-first into the oncoming swell. Jack was thrust forward. The rope burnt against his thighs. Suddenly he was underwater.

He couldn't see. He couldn't breathe.

He was dragged down with the boat. The sea itself seemed to twist in on him, crushing, wrenching. There was a dull cracking noise, and a sharp pain coursed through his head. He thought he heard Tawl call his name. And then everything went black.

Twenty.

Winter s in Rom were a little cooler than summers, but for some reason the sunshine always seemed brighter. Perhaps the wind thinned the air, or water crystals magnified the sun's rays, or maybe it was just a trick of the light. Gamil didn't know. But, as he walked across the palace courtyard on his way to an early morning meeting, he made a mental note to find out.

Gamil liked to know things. Indeed, he lived to know things.

Some men said that knowledge was power-and they were right-but it was also much more than that. Knowledge could bestow many more gifts than power alone. Satisfaction, for one. Who could not help feeling that peculiar mix of smugness and triumph as one dined amongst friends whose most intimate and terrible secrets were known to one? Who could not feel glee at knowing-and meticulously cataloging-all the weaknesses and vices of one's workmates?

Besides satisfaction, knowledge bestowed confidence. It bred upon itself, creating a dynasty of influences gained, favors owed, mutual respect, and fear. A silk merchant with an illegal fondness for young boys would willingly offer up the latest gossip from Isro; shipbuilders who designed holds suitable for carrying slaves would gladly share either profits or information with a silent but knowledgeable friend. Illicit business deals, unlawful s.e.xual practices, shady pasts, false fronts, and well-covered trails: they were the currency Gamil dealt in.

Oh, he could have made a fortune by now-a blackmailer could retire for life on the scandals he knew-but money wasn't what Gamil was after. Knowledge was what counted. Why take a payment in gold when you could take it in information, instead? Gold might be legal tender, but it was as bloodless as a corpse, whereas knowledge was a living, breathing thing.

Gamil was on his way to receive just such a payment this morning. He was due to meet a man in a tavern who could tell him of all the latest developments in the north. Gamil was hoping to discover if the notorious Lady Melliandra was alive or dead. Either way, it would have to be a short meeting. He was expected back in the palace within an hour, doubtless to suffer more indignities at the hands of the fat, lazy windbag who was known as the archbishop of Rorn.

As he pa.s.sed through the palace gates, Gamil tried not to dwell on Tavalisk's latest penchant for making him sc.r.a.pe dead animals from the floor. Last week it had been snails, the other day it was frogs. What would His Eminence think of next?

"' Scuse me, sir. If I might have a word?"

Gamil jumped back in horror. Some lowly street vagrant had actually touched him. Quickly, he looked around. The palace guards were within calling range. He took a shouting breath.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, sir. You wouldn't want me to be caught and tortured by the guards." The person who was speaking was a boy of about twelve years old: dark eyed, dark haired, and as thin as a pole. He grinned. "There's no telling what I might say under pressure." Gamil knew a veiled threat when he heard one--random coercion was one of the few drawbacks of knowledge. He put a hand on the boy's back and bundled him down the road. Only when they were out of sight of the guards did Gamil see fit to stop. "Now, what's all this about?" he said, turning to face the young lowlife.

The boy made a great show of smoothing down his tunic. "I'm surprised you don't know me, my friend." Gamil ran down a mental list of all the people he was currently dealing with. A twelve-year-old boy rang only one bell. "Are you an a.s.sociate of the knight named Tawl?" The boy nodded. "That's me. Nabber's my name. Though I suppose you know that already. After all, that's what you're famous for. knowing other people's business." While the boy was speaking, Gamil took the opportunity to look around. No one but an old orange-seller was within sight. The district around the palace was thankfully a discreet one. Still, there was a shadier area to the right, and Gamil steered his newfound friend in that direction.

"What do you want from me?" he asked.

"I want you to set up a meeting between me and the archbishop. A discreet one, mind. Just a quick in and out." Gamil stepped back from the unsavory boy. He was obviously quite mad. A meeting with Tavalisk! Who did he think he was? "That is out of the question. His Eminence never gives audiences to"-Gamil shuddered with distaste--"people off the street."

The boy was unruffled. "He would if you set it up."