Book Of Words - Master And Fool Part 33

"The weather in Camlee will be more favorable at this time of year," murmured Baralis. He found himself liking Kylock's plan more by the minute.

"Yes, I've considered that; it will be a lot warmer than in Ness. Supplies will be easy to come by, too. We'll raid villages along the way for anything we need. I'll give Kedrac free reign to do whatever he pleases."

"What forces will he take with him?"

"All the kingdoms' forces-hardly any of them were wounded in last week's battle--all the blackhelms fit to fight and a dozen mounted cohorts of knights. That should be almost nine thousand men in total--more than enough. Camlee is an old city, it lives off old victories and defends itself with old battlements. The empire's forces will prove more than enough for them."

The empire. It was the first time Baralis had heard Kylock speak its name. It was a real living thing now. The kingdoms, Bren, Halcus, and soon there would be Camlee and Ness. After winter they would claim Highwall, and Annis would surely follow. The northern empire was coming to pa.s.s.

Baralis brought himself down. He didn't like to spend too much time in self-congratulation. Details were everything. "And what of Bren's defenses? There is always a chance the pa.s.ses might clear, enabling Annis to send a force over the Divide."

Kylock was already ahead of him. "The wounded blackhelms number approximately two thousand-half of them can be expected to recover to fighting fitness. Those who cannot fight will train. I want every man in the city-free lances, mercenaries, barrow-boys, and farmers to be fully equipped and ready to fight within a month. I've already given orders to every blacksmith in the city to prepare the necessary armor and weapons."

"Tell them to make the blackened helmets first." Baralis moved closer to Kylock. "Men in the north have come to fear the blackhelms. The sight of, say, five thousand men wearing the telltale blackened helmets might seriously discourage an invading force."

Kylock smiled. "Baralis, as always you can refine even the best of plans."

"It shouldn't be too hard to hold off a siege for a month or so. Bren's defenses are second to none," Baralis said. "Yes. We have the old duke to thank for that." Kylock began to walk toward the gatehouse door. "Oh, by the way, we shouldn't have to worry about Maybor. I sent out a force to patrol the base of the southern mountains. If he's alive and he's got men, he won't be coming down."

The cold was a disease. It blighted thought, movement, speech, and even sanity. It blighted a man's soul. The air was still at last, but the stillness came with a price. The temperature had dropped sharply overnight, and daylight had done little to raise it. The snow was beginning to freeze over; it had lost its graininess and was becoming like a solid wall around them. Yesterday water had trickled down from the rocks; today, in its place were spikes of glistening ice.

Maybor didn't want to breathe. He could feel the freezing air stealing its way into his lungs. Slowly, it was killing him. Already he had lost all sensation in three fingers on his left hand, two on his right. He could still grip a sword, but never again would he wield one. At the moment, his main priority was keeping his remaining fingers sound. Both hands were inside his tunic, against a layer of scarlet silk. Two hundred men pressed against the hard spine of a mountain in full winter. Many of the horses were dead. One was being cooked now. The men had long given up caring about the dangers of smoke.

Four days ago they had located a large but shallow depression in the rock face. Not deep enough to be named a cavern, they had taken it nonetheless. Snow had gathered and drifted, and the men who could worked to keep it building at the mouth of the recess. The snow wall had reached its limit. It now spanned perhaps a quarter of the opening, and that was as high as it would go without collapsing. Currently a group of men were in the back of the depression, seeing if they could loosen any rocks and roll them over to support the wall. Maybor had seen the size of those rocks. They wouldn't get anywhere with them. The freezing wind would have to be endured.

Or would it? Maybor made a mental note to ask Grift to pull together all the extra breastplates and shields-they could be used to add strength to the wall.

"Five more men have died since noon, m'lord," said a young man coming to crouch beside Maybor.

"Strip them before their clothing freezes to their bodies."

"But, m'lord,-the men-"

"Do it!" hissed Maybor. "Would you have us all freeze out of respect for the dead?"

The man walked away, head down.

Maybor knew what all the men were thinking: better to have died on the field than on a frozen mountainside. No one had dared say it, but he could see it in their eyes. They wished they had never withdrawn. Maybor's damaged right hand curled into a fair likeness of a fist. Well, d.a.m.n them all! He'd make sure they survived now just to spite them.

Twenty-five.

All things considered, Marls was a very strange place. It shouldn't have been-after all it was only seven days sail from Rom--but it was nevertheless.

The buildings had more curves than angles, but the streets were as straight as reeds. The sun wasn't shining, but it was warm, and it wasn't raining, but it was wet. The women wore bulky, shapeless dresses that were slit up the sides to their thighs. The men wore hats, which they constantly pulled down over their ears, whilst smiling all the while revealing stupendously bad teeth. There were no children to speak of. Probably kept them in the dungeons till they were old enough to earn a living, thought Nabber spitefully.

Nabber was, he admitted to himself, disinclined to like Marls--it being Rom's greatest trading rival and so on-but even he had to admit that it was interesting. And not just in your common-all-garden interesting buildings and people way. No. Marls was interesting in a fiscal way. Very interesting indeed.

They'd just gotten into the harbor this morning, and already Nabber had quite a stash going-a good one, too. A little heavy on the silver, perhaps, but with a fair amount of precious stones to make up for the lack of gold.

Tawl had gone looking for errant knights. The captain of the Shrimp Scourer--a wide man name o' Fermcatchhad said that Marls had recently been inundated with knights looking to gain pa.s.sage to the Far South. Apparently they'd been leaving the knighthood in droves since old Tyren had got them fighting Kylock's battles in the north. Anyway, the moment the ship docked, Tawl had gone in search of a certain establishment where it was rumored that knights could be found. Nabber had the distinct feeling that if Tawl did find any knights, he'd find trouble as well.

Which was why he was currently on the way to the Seaman's Fancy himself. Tawl might be brave and lethal with a sword, but he lost all his good sense when the name Tyren was mentioned. He had a soft spot as big as a turnip patch for the leader of the knights. Wouldn't hear a word against him, and Nabber knew more than anyone that the man was as good as a rogue.

"' Scuse me, sir," said Nabber, tapping a pa.s.serby on the shoulder and casually pocketing him while he did so. "Could you tell me the quickest way to the Seaman's Fancy?"

"No," said the stranger. "You are too young to be drinking. Go home and learn your prayers."

"Aah, well, I'd be there now, sir, if it wasn't for the fact that my mother's taken my prayer book with her to the Seaman's Fancy."

"The only women in the Seaman's Fancy are prost.i.tutes."

"All the more reason for me to pray for her, then." The man tugged on the earflaps of his hat. He was beaten--and he knew it. "Straight down this road. Turn left at Pickling Street, left again at Salting Street, right on Preserve. You can't miss it."

"Thank you for your kindness, sir," said Nabber, bowing and walking away. "I'll be sure to mention you in my prayers."

Nabber followed the man's directions. He still didn't like Marls, but its people were definitely a challenge to his wits.

The journey here, however, had been a challenge to his guts. Never sailed in his life before. Never wanted to. First couple of days were murder. He tried everything from sitting blindfolded in the crow's nest to crouching barefoot in the hold. Nothing worked on his seasickness until Captain Fermcatch--a man who was as good as he was hairy--suggested that Nabber take the wheel. Well, after that it was plain sailing all the way. Being in charge made all the difference. Took to it like a fish to water. Might even be a sailor himself one day. A pirate! That's what he'd be. A pocketer of the high seas.

Yes, there was a lot to be said for sailing. For one thing, it was most definitely better than riding. Tawl had said that they would only spend one night in Marls and ride north first thing tomorrow. Nabber wasn't looking forward to that at all. Riding meant horses, and horses meant grief. In fact, that was where Jack was now-out finding two nags worthy of purchase. They were all supposed to meet up later by the quay, buy the nags in question, exchange any information they'd managed to glean about the war, and then find a place to stay.

"'Scuse me, madam," said Nabber, stopping yet another person. No pocketing this time-the woman only looked good for a few coppers. "Is this Preserve Street?" Nabber couldn't read, so he was forced to rely on the kindness of strangers.

"This is indeed Preserve," said the woman, "but a boy as young as you should be home learning his prayers." Nabber bowed and walked on. Very strange place Marls. The Seaman's Fancy was not as much a building as it was a door. Nabber would have walked right past it if it hadn't been for the smell of ale and sailors wafting from around the frame. The building the door was located in was derelict; the shutters had been torn from the windows, the paint long peeled, the top floor was open to the skies, and the lower masonry looked fit to crumble. The only part of the building that was in any state of repair was the door. blue for the sea, bloodstained from squabbling sailors, and emblazoned with a crude likeness of a naked woman to attract the fancy of pa.s.sersby.

Knocking didn't seem in order, so Nabber walked right in. He found himself on a badly lit staircase leading down. Fatty, acrid tallow smoke wafted from below. Nabber descended with caution.

He emerged in the corner of a low-ceilinged cellar. The place was spa.r.s.ely furnished with a handful of upturned beer barrels and three-legged stools. The cobblestone floor was damp and the wood-braced walls were sprouting. The few customers there were looked dangerous. Nabber spotted Tawl straightaway. He was talking to a large, dark-haired man. Neither man seemed especially agitated, so Nabber took a seat near the bar and prepared to bide his time.

"Yes," Gravia said, his voice low and harsh. "There was a battalion of knights on the field. Tyren accompanied Kedrac to Bren."

Tawl's lips felt dry. He licked them. "Did they take part in the slaughter?"

Gravia's expression didn't falter. "Why do you think I'm here today?"

So they had. Tawl leant back against the wall and regarded his old friend Gravia. He hardly looked a day older than when Tawl had seen him last; the dark hair was as glossy as ever, the handsome, angular face still smooth.

Nearly seven years ago they'd parted. Valdis had enjoyed a warm spring that year. The world was full of hope and he and Gravia were full of dreams. They had plans to meet up in summer and travel together to the Far South in search of holy relics or a burning cause. They never made it. The trip home changed everything. One sight of the burnt cottage and all promises were sundered.

Now this man, this knight whom Tawl respected as a peer and loved as a friend, sat across the table and told him he was leaving the order.

Tawl had spent three years at Gravia's side. He knew him well. Of all the knights that gained the second circle that fateful spring, no one was more dedicated than him. To find him here, in this seedy tavern, arranging swift pa.s.sage to Leiss, was a profound shock to Tawl. It made his heart ache.

Tawl glanced at Gravia's right arm. His circles were well covered, just like his own. "Will you ever come back?" he asked.

A bitter smile flashed across Gravia's face. "No. As long as Tyren is head of the order, I will not count myself a knight. I was there in Halcus when Kylock ordered the slaughter of innocent women and children--Tyren didn't raise a finger to stop him."

Tawl looked into Gravia's dark brown eyes. "I can't believe that of Tyren."

"You've spent the last six years with your head in the sand. You don't know what he's capable of."

Hearing Gravia's words brought back an echo of another similar conversation, many weeks old. "Tyren's a bad man, Tawl, " Nabber had said the night an expertly aimed arrow sent them traveling through the night. Tawl swallowed hard. It wasn't true. It couldn't be. Angry at himself for doubting Tyren for even an instant, he cried, "Tyren was always a friend to me."

Gravia made a hard little sound in his throat. "Friend. He was never your friend, Tawl."

"He brought me to Valdis, gave me free training. He saved my life."

"After all these years you still don't know?" Gravia shook his head. The edge in his voice changed the nature of the air between them. It became clear, taut, charged like before a storm. "No one ever told you?"

Tawl brought his whole body forward. "Told me what?"

"Told you that Tyren sold your services to the man with the most gold." Gravia, seeming to regret his harsh words, put a hand on Tawl's arm.

Tawl shook it off. "What do you mean?"

"I mean the only reason why Tyren sent you to Bevlin was because he was paid handsomely to do so. Bevlin tried for months to get Tyren to send him a knight. Tyren refused until Bevlin offered him gold." Gravia sighed. All the force in his large and well-toned body ebbed away, leaving a tired and disillusioned man in its wake. "Tyren never believed in the wiseman's cause. He never believed in you. Gold wasand is-his only motive."

"You're lying."

"No, Tawl. What do you think I did that spring we parted? Tyren sent me to Bevlin to pick up the payment. Five hundred pieces of gold I carried home."

Tawl closed his eyes. Gravia's words were blades in his heart. Everything he held dear was a sham. Seven years he had lived with the pain of losing his family, and during that time his one, his only, comfort was knowing that Tyren had believed in him. Only now there was no belief just a dirty little transaction where his services were bought and sold.

Slowly he began to shake his head. "No. Not this." The pressure in his chest was unbearable. He dug his fingertips into the wood of the table. "Dear G.o.d, not this." A lump formed in his throat, cutting down his words to a rasped whisper. Everything was tainted now. Every action he had taken since his sisters' deaths had been paid for with gold. He felt dirty, violated. Dropping his head to the table, Tawl tried hard to stop his shoulders from shaking.

"Get away from him, you!" shrieked a familiar voice. "You leave him alone. Go tell your lies to someone else." Tawl looked up to see Nabber pulling at Gravia's arm. "Stop it, Nabber," he said.

Gravia stood up. "I'm sorry, Tawl. As Borc is my witness, I never meant to hurt you."

Tawl swallowed hard. "Gravia, I think Nabber's right. You'd better go."

"But--"

"You knew. You knew and you never told me. We were like brothers-you and I." As soon as the words were out, Tawl regretted them. The pain on Gravia's face was unmistakable. The deed of seven years back was like a dying man's curse: it corrupted beyond the grave. Gravia was young, they both were, and together they had looked up to Tyren as if he were a G.o.d.

"Gravia, I'm-"The words died on Tawl's lips. Gravia was already on the other side of the room, climbing the stairs.

Tawl watched him go.

Old pain merged with new pain and settled close against his heart. He would never see his friend again. Tawl sighed. He felt very tired. He had made a bad thing worse.

He'd not only lost Tyren today, but he'd lost Gravia as well. There was no end to what a man could bear.

After a moment, he stood up. "Come on, Nabber. Let's go." There was only one thing left to him now: traveling to Bren to rescue Melli.

Tavalisk had just come from supervising the packing of his stash. It was all due to be removed tomorrow: half was going to a little town just south of Rorn, and half was going to a house on Kirtish Street. The archbishop's mind, while not totally at ease, was now in midrepose. No one would get their greasy little hands on his treasures after tomorrow. No one.

Browsing through room after room of gems, holy icons, and gold had calmed Tavalisk considerably. If things did come to the worst--and the way things looked in the north at the moment they certainly might-he at least could be a.s.sured of a comfortable retirement. Kylock and Baralis were dangerous men individually, but together they were proving unstoppable. At the moment their empire was restricted to the north, but who could tell what would happen after spring. Once they took Ness it would be so easy for them to turn their sights south to Camlee.

Oh, the south would arm Camlee--eventually--but cities like Marls, Toolay, and Falport simply didn't realize just how great a threat Kylock's armies could be. The south had spent centuries scorning the north. It was considered backward, its people barbarians, its cities primitive citadels, and its policies no concern of the south. Tavalisk rubbed his chubby chin. Such thinking could well seal their fate.

A dozen roasted sheeps' hearts were slowly congealing on a platter. Tavalisk pushed them aside. He didn't have the stomach for them.

The archbishop crossed over to the windows and made sure there was no light peeping through. Next, he walked to the door and turned the key. He had brought back only one box from his hideaway, and he opened it now in the safety of a locked and shuttered room. He couldn't risk anyone else moving it. Its contents were more precious and d.a.m.ning than gold.

Off came the lid. Books, scrolls, and ma.n.u.scripts gleamed dully like old skin. The smell fluttered, as if on moth's wings, straight up to the archbishop's nose.

Memories scurried across his consciousness the moment the scent was named. Rapascus. These papers were his lifework. The lifework of the greatest religious scholar of the last five hundred years.

All miscredited to a young, aspiring clergyman known as Father Tavalisk.

Tavalisk remembered the journey across the Northern Ranges. It was early spring. Cold winds blew from the west and the snow was wet underfoot. The caravan he traveled with was poorly equipped and they had to stop every few minutes to clear paths. Altogether the crossing took them a month. In summer it would have taken a week. Tavalisk, who had paid the minstrels well for the privilege of joining their wagon train, spent most of his time in the back of his covered cart, reading all the papers he had stolen.

By the time they made it to Lairston, he knew Rapascus' lifework as well as if it were his own. The great wiseman was dead, his house had been burnt to the ground, there was nothing left of him but his books. And once the word got out, everyone would a.s.sume those books had perished with him. Indeed, Tavalisk intended to be the first to spread the word. He'd already practiced his lie: "Such a tragedy. Rapascus spent the last twenty years in mystical research, and it was all consumed by the flames. Nothing was saved."

Then, if the question happened to arise as to what business he had with the great man, he would shrug humbly and say, "Oh nothing. I am engaged in a little religious work, and I sought Rapascus' opinion."

Three nights Tavalisk spent in Lairston preparing his tale. On the third night he met Baralis.

Lairston nestled at the foot of the Northern Ranges. It was a small mining town, boasting a handful of inns and a blacksmith. Situated directly below one of the few pa.s.ses to the north, it did a fair business in travel. Tavalisk was eating alone in the dining hall of the Last Refuge when in walked a man from the cold. The wind swept ahead of him and the snow flurried behind. Tall and striking, dressed in black, he waited less than a minute to be served. The tavern-maid, a silly girl with a conspicuous bosom and eyes inclined to wink, showed the stranger to a seat next to the fire. Tavalisk was sitting on the other side of the great hearth and listened as the man requested dinner and a room.

"Have you come to take the pa.s.s, sir?" asked the tavernmaid.

The man nodded.

The girl waved an arm Tavalisk's way. "This gentleman has just come down from the mountain. He says conditions in the pa.s.s are bad." With that, she left them, bobbing a crude curtsey and promising to be back.

The stranger stripped off his gloves. Tavalisk noticed his hands were scarred, the skin warped and reddened around the knuckles. They sat in silence, the fire cracking between them, the candlelight flickering above. A vague feeling of unease came over Tavalisk as he sat watching the stranger. The silence they shared had a predatory feel, and after a few minutes Tavalisk felt compelled to speak.

"The snow is soft and the winds are high. It's not a good time to take the pa.s.s."

The man raised his gaze from the fire. Tavalisk had never seen eyes as cold as those: they were ice formed over granite. The stranger stretched half a lip. "But you took it all the same."

"I had no choice. I need to get home as soon as possible."

"And where is home?"

Tavalisk felt a slight pain in his head. Somehow the stranger had managed to take control of the conversation "Home is . . . " Tavalisk paused, considering. Home wasn't Silbur anymore, so where was it? Where would he go? Somewhere far away. He and Venesay had once visited Rorn. Tavalisk remembered it well; it was a city burgeoning with new wealth and trade. Its streets teemed with people and its temples were decked in gold. The perfect place to make himself anew. "Rorn," he said. "My home is Rorn."

The man made a minute gesture with his finger, and Tavalisk knew he hadn't been believed. "Where do you come from?" Tavalisk said, trying to shake off his feeling of unease.

"Leiss, Hanatta. Silbur."