Book Of Words - Master And Fool Part 3

"What sort of fish, Your Eminence?"

"One in a bowl, Gamil. Ever since my cat had that unfortunate accident with the tapestry, I've been missing having a friendly creature around. I fancy a fish this time."

"As you wish." Gamil bowed and made his way toward the door. Just as he stepped from the room, the archbishop called out: "Oh, and Gamil, I'm sure you will want to pay for it yourself. The Feast of Borc's First Miracle is coming up, and I feel a fish would be an appropriate gift, don't you?" Tavalisk smiled sweetly. "No cheap one, mind."

Tawl sat in the sun-drenched windowseat and whittled at a piece of wood. The cushion, which had rested invitingly atop the stone, lay discarded on the floor. Comfort was something that he just couldn't get used to.

Every so often, when a splinter of wood fell to the floor or his knife sliced into a knot, Tawl would look up through the open window and search for any sign of Nabber in the street below. The boy had been gone four days now and Tawl was worried sick about him. Oh, he knew why the boy had gone missing-he was keeping a low profile after what had happened at the Br.i.m.m.i.n.g Bucket the other afternoonbut bad deeds done with dubious intentions were Nabber's trademark, and Tawl could neither curse him or condemn him. He'd done much worse himself.

Maybor had returned to the hideout in early evening the day before last. The man was a little shaken and confused and had finally admitted that he had a meeting with Baralis, and that Nabber had acted as go-between. Maybor was unrepentant. He railed on most indignantly about his right, as an expectant grandfather, to inform anyone he wished of Melli's delicate condition. When Tawl questioned him about the details of the meeting, Maybor was unusually reticent; a blank look came over his face, and he mumbled something to the effect that he wasn't about to be questioned like a prisoner in the stocks. Tawl suspected the great lord simply couldn't remember. Which could only mean one thing: sorcery. Tawl shook his head, quickly glanced down to the street, and resumed his whittling. Maybor had no idea how lucky he was. He had been a fly who thought that just because the spider was out of its web, somehow it was rendered less deadly.

Two days back Tawl had gone down to the Br.i.m.m.i.n.g Bucket to find out for himself what had gone down. The patrons, besides being blind-drunk to the last man, were united in their confusion about the events of the day before. A mysterious black-robed figure had shot lightning onto the floor, said one man. Another disagreed with him entirely, stating that the very ale on the floorboards had begun to sizzle of its own accord. One thing they all seemed to know, however, was the fact that Melliandra claimed to be with child by the duke.

The word was out now. All the city knew that Melli was pregnant. Just this morning, Cravin had visited the townhouse, bearing tales of people's reactions. "Most say Melliandra is a brazen liar and a wh.o.r.e," he had said. "But given time I should be able to whip up some support." Tawl felt like murdering Maybor. With one single act of bravado, the man had endangered not only his own life, but his daughter's, too. Now that her pregnancy was common knowledge, Melli was more vulnerable than ever. At this very minute Baralis would be having the city searched door to door. Posters offering rewards for details about Melli's whereabouts could be found on every street corner. The net was closing fast, and Maybor's little rendezvous had ensured that Baralis would pull it in all the way.

"I've got the pies, Tawl," came a voice from the bottom of the stairs. "Should I take one to the lady?"

"Make sure she gets the finest, Bodger," Tawl replied. "And test the milk before she drinks any-it must be fresh and cool."

"Grift's already done that, Tawl. Ain't n.o.body like him for telling when the milk has turned. He has the nose of a dairyman and the hands of a milkmaid."

Groaning, Tawl said, "Just take it to her, Bodger."

"It's as good as done, Tawl. Grift always says that. . . " The words padded into the distance along with the footsteps. The two chapel guards had turned up on the doorstep the other day, looking decidedly sheepish and reeling off Nabber's secret entry phrase. Tawl had no choice-as Nabber was well aware-but to take them in. They were a risk; they knew the address of the hideout. The only other alternative would have been to kill them-and he hadn't felt like murder that day. Despite everything Tawl couldn't help but smile. Those two guards were quite a pair.

And Melli owed them her life.

He only wished the duke had a similar debt.

Tawl stabbed at the windowframe with his knife. Why was he destined always to fail? Why did he fail those he was sworn to protect? Again and again the knife came down. Why, whenever he felt as if he was getting ahead, did something always happen to pull him back? The knife hovered in the air an instant, then Tawl let it fall to his lap. Now was not the time for self-reproach. Melli was here, and keeping her safe was what counted. His oath as the duke's champion was to protect the duke and his heirs. The duke might be dead, but his widow and his unborn child were still served by that oath and Tawl was bound to guard them with his life. The whole of Bren had heard him swear it.

A quick look out the window-still no sign of Nabber. They needed to leave the city. Baralis was tracking them, and Nabber and Maybor with their secret meetings and nighttime forays were practically asking to be caught. Of course, they both thought they were as clever as could be. But Baralis was cleverer by far. It would only be a matter of time before they were caught. Unless they got clean away. Sighing heavily, Tawl took up his piece of wood and began to whittle once more. His hands seemed intent on making something, but they hadn't yet informed his brain what it was.

There were two problems with leaving the city. First, every gate, every road, every dip in the wall was being watched by enough guards to take a fort. Baralis knew they would try to leave at some point, and he was taking no chances. The pa.s.ses were being monitored, the walls were patrolled by archers, even the lake boasted a ring of troops around its sh.o.r.e. There was going to be no easy way out. Secondly, even if there were an easy way out, Melli might be too sick to take it.

The pregnancy was not going well. Melli was losing weight. She was now so thin that it tore at Tawl's heart to look at her. For two weeks after the duke's death, she had simply refused to eat. She was in shock, unable to eat, talk, or even cry. Then slowly she began to come round, taking bread with her milk, washing her face and hair, and even smiling at Nabber's antics. Thinking back on it now, Tawl guessed that Melli began to look after herself about the same time she began to suspect she was pregnant. Still, even now, when her appet.i.te had all but returned, she could barely keep her food down. No sooner had she eaten something then it could be seen, as Nabber put it, "returning like an ugly sister."

Everyone spoiled her. Nothing was too good, or too much trouble. Pies were baked fresh each day, Maybor had purchased a hen so she would have newly laid eggs, and Nabber brought her flowers and fruit. Despite all this attention, however, Melli's health was not improving.

Tawl had lost loved ones. He knew what it was to grieve. Daily he wrestled with the soul-destroying what ifs. Melli had watched an a.s.sa.s.sin cut her husband's throat, and she would have to deal with her own set of regrets. What if she had entered the bedchamber first? What if she had only screamed louder? What if she had never married the duke at all?

No, Tawl shook his head softly, it was hardly strange that Melli was not well. That she got through each day was miracle enough.

Tawl checked the street as a matter of course. No Nabber, no strangers, no guards.

What was he going to do about Melli? Should he place her unborn child at risk by taking her from the city? Or should he place the child's health first and stay put? If they left the city, there would be many days of hard traveling, mountains to cross, soldiers to evade; they would have to live rough and be light on their feet in case they were chased. If they stayed in Bren they risked capture, but at least Melli's pregnancy would run smoothly.

Tawl looked down at his hands, and saw for the first time what he was sculpting: it was a child's doll.

Was his first loyalty to Melli or the baby?

Jack's feet felt as if they had been run over by a loaded cart. The rest of his body wasn't doing too well, either-particularly the gla.s.s burns. Stillfox certainly knew how to turn an ointment into a weapon. For two days now his arms and chest had been throbbing, but over the past four hours his feet had stolen the show.

He had finally made it to Annis. The city lay ahead of him, its gray walls gleaming in the moonlight. The road to either side was lined with houses and taverns, their shutters and lintels painted many shades of blue. People were everywhere, driving cattle home from pasture, bringing unsold goods from market, walking slowly to evening ma.s.s, or briskly to well-lit taverns. The wind was cool and smelled of wood smoke. Stars glinted high above the mountains, and somewhere water skipped noisily over a quarry's worth of rocks.

The road consisted of crushed stones that crunched with every step. Jack could feel their sharp edges cutting through his shoes. He was nervous. Surely people were staring at him. Yet he looked no different from anyone else. His clothes, which had been provided by Stillfox, were much the same as any man's. True, his hair was long, but it was tied at the back of his neck with a length of Wadwell rope. Jack's hand stole up to check it-a gesture he caught himself doing more and more these days-and he found the rope was still in place. Nothing made by the Wadwells was likely to wear out, drop off, or break. In fact, Jack was pretty certain that the rope would have to be buried with him.

Smiling, Jack looked up. A young girl was staring straight at him. As soon as their glances met she looked away. Jack moved on. He made a point of walking where the light from the houses couldn't catch him.

It had been ten weeks since he first met Stillfox and over three months since the garrison burned. Could the Halcus still be looking for him? With the war all but lost and an invasion of Bren planned, did they really have time or resources to search out one man?

All thoughts vanished from Jack's head as he reached the outer wall of Annis. The gate was being drawn closed for the night. The portcullis was being lowered, the overhead timbers creaking with the strain. Jack ran toward it.

"Watch out, boy!" came a gruff warning. "Or the spikes will have your shoulders for mincemeat."

Jack took a step back. "I must enter the city tonight." As he spoke, Jack attempted to mimic Stillfox's way of speaking-his kingdoms accent would give him away.

A second man, situated high atop the wall, shouted down. "Slip us a few golds and I'll hold the gate while you pa.s.s."

"I don't have any gold."

"Then I don't have the strength to hold the gate." The portcullis plunged toward the ground. Jack contemplated making a run for it, decided it wasn't a good idea, so hissed a few choice curses instead. The spikes fell straight into the waiting pits and the city was closed off for the night.

"Try us in the morning, boy," said the gatekeeper pleasantly. "My strength might have returned by then."

Jack smiled up at the man, while calling him a smug devil under his breath. How was he going to get into the city now?

With nothing else to do and nowhere to go, Jack began to walk around the walls. Made of light gray granite, they had been finely polished and then chiseled with a diamond's edge. Demons and angels had been carved side by side, the sun shared the sky with the stars, and Borc and the devil walked hand in hand.

"Annis is a city of intellectuals," Grift had once said. "They're not happy unless they're confusing, confounding, and acting as devil's advocate." Jack remembered that Grift's first wife had come from Annis, so that probably explained a lot.

The temperature was dropping sharply and the wind from the mountains was picking up speed. Jack knew the wise thing to do would be to turn around and head back to Stillfox's cottage. Wearing only a light wool tunic and britches, he was not dressed for the night. His limbs were aching and his feet were sore and chafed. The herbalist would take him in, feed him, give him medicine and brandy, and now, after their argument this morning, very probably tell all he wanted to know about Melli.

Yes, Jack thought, the wise thing would definitely be to go back. Only pride wouldn't let him. He had left swearing to Stillfox that he would find out the truth on his own, and so by Borc he would! Even if it killed him.

Annis was turning out to be quite large. The walls towered so high above him and stretched out so far ahead that they disappeared into their own dark shadows, merging into the night. Jack had to constantly watch his step; water pipes, sewer ducts, and rain channels all led away from the wall. Once out of the city, these carefully constructed conduits simply ended in pools of stinking slop. Jack grimaced as he was forced to jump over one. It seemed even intellectuals were capable of embracing the idea of out of sight out of mind.

An owl called shrill and close. Jack was so startled, he stepped right back into the puddle he'd just safely jumped. "Borc's blood, " he hissed, sc.r.a.ping the soles of his shoes against a rock. Owls weren't supposed to live by mountains! Just then he heard a soft whisper carried on the wind. Jack froze in mid-sc.r.a.pe. A second whisper chased after the first: a man's voice beckoning. Looking ahead, Jack tried to make out the details in the shadow. A row of high bushes cut straight across his line of view. Strange, the bushes led directly to the wall. A man's head appeared above the leaf tops, then another, and another. Where were they coming from? As far as Jack could make out, the bushes sloped away from the city and then curved into darkness down the hillside.

Very slowly Jack placed his foot on the ground. There were no twigs or dry leaves to give him away. He began to creep toward the bushes. More heads bobbed over the top, all heading for the wall. As he drew near, Jack could feel his heart banging against his chest. Saliva had all but abandoned his mouth, leaving it as rough as a dog's snout.

Suddenly a hand slapped over Jack's mouth. Pudgy, moist, and broad, it cut off the air to his lungs. Jack whipped around, elbow out like a club. The man the hand belonged to was ma.s.sive; rolls of fat quivered in the moonlight. Just before Jack slammed his elbow into him, he let out a mighty roar: "Miller!"

The word was a battle cry, and even as its caller went down, a score of men rallied to the cause. The bushes opened up and an army of fat men dressed in baker's white came out brandishing sticks and knives. Jack knew when he was outnumbered. He raised his hands in submission.

The man on the ground made a quick recovery, flesh trembling as he pulled himself up. His army drew close, no longer running but with weapons still held before them. Jack felt the return of the pudgy hand.

The white-ap.r.o.ned men formed a half circle around him. "He looks like no miller I know," said one of their number.

"Aye, Barmer, but you know millers--sneaky through and through." This comment, made by the fattest of the group, elicited several grunts of approval.

The pudgy-handed one spoke up from behind. "Do we give him a chance to speak, or club him where he stands?"

"Club him!" cried the fattest.

"Search him fast for gold," cried Barmer.

The hand that was pressed against Jack's mouth smelled strongly of yeast. "Well," said its owner, "I think we should question him anyway. Suspend his vitals over a hot griddle and we'll soon learn what the millers are up to." The word millers was spoken with an enemy's contempt.

Jack was beginning to realize what he had chanced upon. Snapping back his jaw, he jerked it quickly forward and bit the pudgy-handed man squarely on the thumb. Free from the man's grip for an instant, Jack cried, "I'm not a miller! I'm one of you. I'm a baker."

Three.

It seemed a lot darker in Bren tonight than any other night Nabber could remember. Not that he was scared of the dark, of course. It was just a little worrying, that was all. Swift had once said, "Some nights just aren't right for pocketing, " and this was most definitely one of those.

Nabber was weaving his way through the south side of the city, about a league east of Cravin's townhouse. He'd been skirting around the hideout all day, hoping to muster enough courage to face Tawl. He knew the knight would give him a lashing, the worst kind, too-a verbal one. After all he deserved it, sending Bodger and Grift round with the pa.s.sword, getting Lord Maybor nearly killed. Why, all he needed to do to top it all off would be to bring the duke's blackhelms to the door!

Nabber spat in self-disgust. Swift would have revoked his pocketing privileges and cast him out on the street for less.

Oh, he knew he had to go back--and in fact had pocketed more than enough gold to ensure a welcome returnbut the thought of seeing disapproval or, even worse, disappointment, on Tawl's n.o.ble face kept his feet from making their move. He still kept an eye on the hideout, though. Just to make sure that everyone was safe and no guards had turned up to take Tawl and Melli away. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if that had happened in his absence. Scratching his chin to aid reflection, Nabber carefully considered such an occurrence. Well, he might be able to live with himself after all-but he'd be sorely ashamed.

Slap! Thump! Tap!

For the fast time Nabber's brain registered what his ears already knew: someone had stepped from the alleyway and was following him. Someone with a bad leg and a stick. To test the man out, Nabber made a point of crossing the cobbled road.

Slap! Thump! Tap!

The man followed suit. Now, looking like a penniless, scrawny low-life as he did, Nabber didn't think old Bad Leg's intention was to rob him. Which left only two other possibilities: Bad Leg was either a tunic-lifter, or one of Baralis' spies. Either way, Nabber knew it was time to move on.

Remaining as calm as Swift had taught him, he began to walk a little faster. Bad Leg matched him step for mismatched step. He walked real fast for a man with a stick. Nabber's eyes searched out likely doors and alleyways. He was beginning to feel a little afraid.

Slap! Thump! Tap!

Bad Leg was gaining on him. The sound of his lurching footsteps sent a shiver down Nabber's spine. There was no one on the streets to watch them pa.s.s. Straight ahead lay a series of archways where the poultry sellers sold their birds by day. Nabber knew this area well: swan and peac.o.c.k sellers were famous for their loose coinage. To the right was Duck's End, a short alleyway that most people believed finished in a dead end. Nabber knew differently. A small drainage tunnel led under the wall. If he hadn't grown too much in the past three weeks, he should be able to squeeze through it. Old Bad Leg wouldn't stand a chance.

Nabber feinted to the left, then waited until the last possible moment before cutting a sharp right.

Slap! Thump! Tap!

There was no fooling Bad Leg.

Duck's End was a dark spot in an already dark night. A trickle of sweat slid along Nabber's temple and then down his cheek. It's just getting a little hot around here, he told himself, wiping his face with his sleeve. Bad Leg was only a shadow behind him now. Nabber picked up his pace. The ground was always wet in alleyways regardless of the rain, and Nabber's shoes squelched with every step. The dead end loomed close. The drainage tunnel was a black puddle at the bottom corner of the wall. Nabber began to gravitate toward it.

Slap! Thump! Tap! So did Bad Leg.

Sweat was now running unchecked down Nabber's cheek. The sound of the man's footsteps had his nerves on edge. Feet away from the tunnel now, Nabber gave up all semblance of dignity and made a run for it. Water splashed round his ankles, air raced past his face. The violent thumping of his heart drowned out all other noise. A whiff of air rose up from the tunnel: the foul stench meant freedom.

Feet first? Head first? Nabber had only a split second to decide. Taking a deep breath, he dived for the tunnel.

The entrance engulfed him, dark and inviting. He slid down into its moist and furtive depths. Hands, head, shoulders, body, legs ... Feet! Nabber felt something clawing at his feet. Close to panicking, he kicked out wildly. His hands searched the curved wall of the tunnel for something to grip on to. His kick had no effect: Bad Leg's fingers still grasped at his feet. They felt like talons.

Then a hand moved up to his ankle. Nabber tried to crawl forward, but Bad Leg pulled him back. The sheer strength of the pull took him by surprise. For some reason Nabber had thought the man would be weak. Scrambling for a handhold, Nabber was dragged from the tunnel. His belly sc.r.a.ped through the mud. His heart was beating so fast it was surely going to burst. The hands moved up to his knees and one sharp tug brought him out into the night.

Nabber twisted around and came face to face with Bad Leg.

Dark though it was, he recognized the man's features. Or at least the look of them.

Gripping his wrist, the man smiled. "Nabber, isn't it?" he said. His voice was as thin as wire. He was not out of breath, not even breathing fast. "You might already know me. I'm Skaythe, Blayze's brother." He smiled again, twisting Nabber's wrist behind his back. This time when he spoke, his breath caught the side of Nabber's face. "We met the night of the fight. I was Blayze's second."

Nabber tried not to breathe in the man's breath-it smelled like sweet things turned bad. Skaythe was a shorter, wiry, and less handsome version of his brother. His teeth were like Blayze's only slightly crooked, his eyes were a little narrower, and his lips, unlike his brother's full and sculpted one's, were nothing more than a jagged line. He didn't have Blayze's flair for fashion, either-his clothes were plain and boasted no frills. He was strong, though. Nabber couldn't remember ever having felt a grip so powerful.

"What d'you want with me, then?" said Nabber, trying very hard to inject a measure of defiance into his voice. Another twist of his wrist was all it got him. "You know what I want, boy," hissed Skaythe. "I want Tawl."

Nabber tried to pull free, but the grip just got tighter. "And you're going to take me to him."

Something glinted, catching Nabber's eye. It was the tip of Skaythe's stick; molded onto the end of the wood was a spike of darkened steel. Nabber's heart stopped at the sight of it. The spike came toward his face.

"Where is he?"

Nabber wasn't at all sure if he was pleased when his heart started again, as it seemed to have moved up toward his throat. "I don't know where Tawl is. I ain't seen him since the night of the murder."

Skaythe drew the spike under Nabber's chin. Its progress was so smooth that only the warm trickle following it told of its slicing action. Nabber froze.

"Tell me where Tawl is, or I'll cut more than just skin next time."

Nabber didn't doubt he was a man of his word. "Tawl's in the north of the city-hiding out in Old Knackers Lane." The spike came close once more. "Why you in the south, then, boy?"

Unable to move forward, Nabber slumped back against the man's side. The action forced Skaythe to readjust his grip on the stick. Nabber used this diversion to raise his right knee and then slam his heel into Skaythe's bad leg.

Skaythe stumbled back. Nabber kicked his stick near the base, stopping him from gaining his balance. He didn't wait around to see if it worked. Gathering all his strength, Nabber sprang for the tunnel. Skaythe sprang after him. Nabber knew what to do this time. Sprinting forward, he brought up his legs and leapt into the tunnel feet first. The cool filth enveloped him. Skaythe grabbed at his hair. Much though Nabber was attached to it, he snapped his head forward and let the locks go.

Sidling down the tunnel he made his escape. He was missing a fistful of hair, a cupful of blood, and about ten years from the lifespan of his heart. It was time he went home to Tawl.

Jack had, by means most extraordinary, gained entry into the city of Annis. He was sitting around a large, well-lit, well-burdened banquet table enjoying the somewhat skeptical company of the Baking Master's Guild.

"How would you slow down a dough that rises too fast?" asked Barmer, a baker with a huge, bristling mustache and a face as red as the wine he was drinking.

"You put it in a tub full of water and wait until it rises to the top." Jack's answer met with grudging nods of approval.

He was getting quite used to the interrogation. For the past hour and a half-ever since he was caught outside the wall and dragged through a cleverly concealed gate into the east side of the city-the members of the baking guild had been throwing him questions to test his claim. It wasn't enough to say he was a baker, he had to prove it as well.

"Any miller could know that," said the only slim baker in the room, a hollow-cheeked man named Nivlet.