Book Of Words - Master And Fool Part 39

As soon as they came to a standstill, Crayne beckoned Jack and Tawl over. "There's a man inside who wants to speak to both of you."

Crayne shook his head. "They wouldn't say. I think we should all go in together."

"I agree," said Tawl. "Where did these men come from?"

"Bren. They escaped from the battlefield."

"They were lucky not to be picked up by Kylock's forces," said Jack.

"They probably stayed close to the mountains." Crayne jumped from his horse, signaling the rest of the party to do likewise. He looked over at the tavern and then back to Jack and Tawl. "I don't expect any trouble in here, but the first sign of anything strange and we're all coming out. Is that clear?"

Jack nodded. He didn't feel in any danger. Almost without being aware of what he was doing, he had sniffed for sorcery in the air. Nothing sinister was lying in wait for them. He walked forward toward the tavern door, the armed men moving ahead of him, Tawl and Crayne behind. After the freezing cold darkness of the night, the tavern's warmth and brightness were shocking. Jack was dazzled by the light, his senses overpowered by the smells, sights, and sounds. The aroma of roasted meat and onions wafted through the low-ceilinged room. The place was packed with men wearing maroon and silver. Gaunt-faced, hollow-eyed, they fell silent as Jack moved amongst them. "Up here," said the one who was leading the way. Jack followed him to the back of the tavern and up a flight of narrow stairs. Tawl was at his heels. They came to a curved oak door. Two men guarded the way.

The taller man held out a restraining arm. "Wait here." He went inside the room. After a moment he came out with another man.

"Jack, Tawl, come inside."

It took Jack a moment to recognize the figure in front of him. It was Grift. His voice was the same as ever, but the face and body were changed beyond recognition. He had lost a great amount of weight. His double chin had gone, his once chubby cheeks were now slack, and dark circles ringed his eyes. "Come on," he said. "Lord Maybor's waiting for you."

Melli lay on the bed and held the pillow to her stomach. Sometimes, if she closed her eyes tight enough and hugged the pillow hard enough, she could imagine her baby was still there. Other times she fell asleep with the pillow beneath her, and in the morning when she awoke there was a moment of pure joy. Those were the moments she lived for, those fragments of seconds, those blinks of an eye, when the past eight days were lost inside her mind.

Tonight there was no forgetting. The pillow was just a pillow, her belly just a curve, time was too rigid to be changed and her mind too sharp to let go. There was nothing except the emptiness in her stomach and the terrible, aching soreness in her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Milk soaked through her bodice. Sticky, slow to dry, it seeped from her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, running down along her rib cage, forming dark stains on the fabric of her dress. Melli couldn't bear it. She reeked like a wet nurse.

In one quick movement, she made a fist and slammed it into the pillow. She felt the blow in her stomach and didn't care. Again and again she brought down her fist, pummeling the soft fabric with all her might. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing.

Bringing up her second fist, she struck the pillow as hard as she could. Crack! A blinding pain coursed up her arm. Melli's face crumpled and quick tears flared. She slumped against the bed, cradling her broken arm against her chest. She had forgotten how fragile it was. Now she had rebroken it before it had a chance to heal.

When the pain subsided to a dull throb, Melli ran her fingers over the bone. An uneven swelling jutted out against the skin of her forearm. It was too dark to see anything except the outline, so she wouldn't be able to do anything until first light. She had made a halfhearted attempt to reset the bone a few days earlier, but she didn't know the first thing about physicianing, and the pain she experienced trying to force the bones to meet smoothly had been frightening enough to make her give up. Tomorrow she would try and fix a splint.

Melli knew she wouldn't get any help from Mistress Greal or Kylock--she hadn't seen either of those two since the night she had given birth--but the guards outside the door might be persuaded to cut her a length of wood. She would ask them when they brought her breakfast in the morning.

Melli stopped herself in the midst of her planning. Here she was, thinking how to fix her arm with as little discomfort as possible, while her baby was dead-torn away from her before it had taken its first breath. She hadn't even seen its face, didn't know if it was a boy or a girl. Suddenly, every thought she spent on her own survival seemed like a betrayal. Her life was carrying on, and more than just allowing it to, she was actively protecting it.

A dark shroud fell over Melli's thoughts. Guilt and shame were its rough-woven fabric. Was it wrong for her to want to survive? Was she being callous and self-centered by thinking of herself?

Keys jangled on the other side of the door. A sliver of light stole across the floor. The door opened and light flooded in. Kylock stepped into the room bearing an oil lamp in front of him.

Melli sat up on the bed. Her right arm fell to her lap with a sharp, streaking pain. Seeing Kylock's shadowed face in the doorway banished all doubts from her mind. She had to survive. Give up now and she would be used as a depository for all of Kylock's sins. He wasn't going to renew himself by coupling with her. He had done too many things, sanctioned too many deaths, set her brother against her father, and allowed Baralis to murder her child: he couldn't be allowed to wash himself clean.

Taking a deep breath of light-filled air, Melli leant forward and said, "Go away. You seek me out too soon, my lord."

Surprise flitted across Kylock's face. He put the lamp down on the table and walked toward the bed.

Melli brought her hand up to halt him. "Come no nearer. I am not ready for you yet."

"Oh, but you are." Kylock's voice was seductive, his movements as careful as a lover's. His gaze lingered over the damp patches of milk on her bodice. "I've given you a week, there's no need for more time."

Melli crossed her hands high on her chest, covering up the stains. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s ached with a dull, sickening pain. "I need longer," she said, scouring her thoughts for a plausible reason. She wanted to shock him, to throw him off guard.

"You can't come near me yet. I haven't healed inside. You wanted me clean and pure, but right now I'm filthy with old blood and old scars. You must wait until I am fully mended, or risk failure and infection if you don't." Melli relished every word she was saying. For the first time in many months she felt her old power returning. She was Maybor's daughter. confident and in command.

Kylock recognized it, too: she could see it in his eyes. He believed her.

"I will give you another week."

"No. I need ten days." Melli tilted her chin upward and fixed him with her dark blue eyes. She had no reason for naming ten days--it was just another way to rea.s.sert her power.

"Very well. Ten." Kylock didn't seem annoyed; if anything he seemed excited.

Melli was repulsed. "Please go now. I need to rest." Kylock stood over the bed, looking at her through black-banded eyes, a trace of a smile upon his lips. After a moment he turned and left.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Melli fell back amongst the covers. She was physically and emotionally drained. Shaking from head to foot, pain snaking down her arm, she drew the sheets up to her neck and immediately began to fall asleep. Just as she was about to slide into the blissful darkness, a thought drifted down from above: she hadn't asked Kylock what had happened to her baby. It had not occurred to her once.

Grift ushered them into a small, hot room. A mighty fire blazed high in the hearth and the windows had been hung with woolen blankets. A low pallet lay in the corner and upon it rested a man. A soft, rasping sound escaped from his lips and his chest rose and fell very fast.

"Jack, Tawl," murmured the man. "Come close so I can see you."

Jack crossed the room and knelt beside the pallet Blue eyes the same color as Melli's looked up at him from a face slick with sweat.

"It is you," he said, shutting his eyes for a moment. "They told me it was."

Jack searched the man's face for signs of the old Maybor. His full lips were shrunk to lines, his red jowls now pale. There was so little of the man left that Jack could hardly bear to look at him. Grift stepped forward and dabbed Maybor's brow, and as he drew back with the cloth, he nudged Maybor's hair into place. That small gesture made Jack look again-not just at Maybor's face, but the whole man.

His hair was shiny and beautifully brushed, his chin shaven smooth, fine red silk was wrapped around his shoulders, and the smell of fragrance escaped from beneath the sheets. Jack smiled softly. There was more of Maybor left than he thought.

"You escaped from Kylock's forces at Bren?" Tawl came and knelt by Jack's side.

Maybor nodded. "We stayed in the mountains for a few weeks and then made our way down." He spoke so softly that Jack and Tawl had to lean forward to hear him.

"How many men are here with you?"

"Eighty survived. I lost more than that number in the mountains." Maybor began to cough. His whole body jerked with each strained rasp of his throat. A hand came up from under the sheets; the skin was black and shiny, the fingers curled into a misshapen fist.

Jack had to look away. Tawl's eyes met his. They both knew Maybor was dying.

Grift came over with a cloth for Maybor to spit into. The guard was careful to fold it well before taking it away. After a moment Maybor's cough subsided. When he spoke, each phrase was punctuated with a wheezing breath. "There's ten horses as well. The villages will sell us some. I had one of the men count them-said there's eighteen horses and double that in ponies."

Jack was beginning to understand what he had in mind. "What state are the men in?" he asked.

Maybor made a small gesture with his ruined hand while he cleared his throat. "They're young. A few lost forgers and toes, but most of them are fine." He leant a fraction forward. "Take them with you, Jack. They're good lads who need a chance to fight. I thought I was doing the right thing by leading them off the field, but now I know it was wrong. I stopped them from being soldiers and made them men, instead."

Jack didn't hesitate. "If they're willing and able they can come with us. We need all the help we can get."

"They know some fine songs, Jack," said Maybor, swallowing hard. "And they're not afraid of long hours on the move."

After Maybor had finished speaking, his facial muscles relaxed and his eyes started to close. Tawl touched him lightly on the chest. "What was the last thing you heard about Melli?"

"She's alive. I'll swear to it." Maybor's eyes sprung open and his voice rang clear. He looked first to Tawl and then to Jack. "You've got to save her. Promise me you'll save her."

Tawl reached forward and took Maybor's hand. He ran his fingers over flesh that had died on the bone. "I promise you I'll try." His words were as gentle as a kiss.

Jack brought his hand to rest on top of Tawl's. He looked straight into Maybor's shining eyes. "I promise I will not rest until she's safe."

Maybor nodded slowly. His body seemed to diminish, growing smaller and less substantial. He settled back against the pillows and said, in a voice that faded with every word, "You should have seen her when the guards came to the cellar, Jack. She was so beautiful, kicking up a holy storm-for me. Just for me."

Grift came forward and stroked back his hair. The guard's hand shook as he smoothed the l.u.s.trous gray locks. Jack took Maybor's hand and placed it against his side. "Melli loved you very much."

"Did she?" Weak though Maybor was, there was an urgency in those two words that spoke of bright, rekindled hope. "Tell her I loved her more than she knew. Tell her I'm sorry I failed."

Jack shook his head. A hard lump was rising in his throat. "You didn't fail."

"I failed all of my children. All of them." Maybor's voice was a thin line receding into the distance. "I was too selfish, too ambitious, to see them for. . . " His last words were stolen by a series of choking coughs.

Grift took Jack's arm. "Go. I'll be out later."

Jack and Tawl moved toward the door. The sound of Maybor's coughing followed them out of the room.

They waited outside the door in silence until the coughing tapered off. After a few minutes, Grift emerged. He looked tired and pale. "Lord Maybor's sleeping now," he said. "Come on, let's find you both a drink."

Grift led them down into the tavern. Once again the room fell silent, but this time all eyes were on Grift.

"He's sleeping," he said to the men, making a calming gesture with his hands.

Hearing this, the men nodded and whispered and turned back to their business, more than a few of them calling for more ale.

Grift led Jack and Tawl to a table near the door. Crayne and the other knights were sitting close by; they all had bowls filled with hot food in front of them and mugs full of beer in their hands.

Seeing them settling down, Nabber left the knights' table and came to sit at Tawl's side. GrIft seemed surprised to see the young pocket and rubbed the boy's hair affectionately. "Well, I would never have thought I'd find you in the mountains, Nabber," he said.

"Never thought I'd find you here, either, Grift. Especially after you telling me that mountain girls were sour tempered and p.r.o.ne to the ghones."

Jack didn't expect Grift to laugh, but he did. A warm, hearty laugh that brought back memories so sharp that Jack wanted to cry. All those winter nights spent in the servants' hall listening to Grift holding court while marveling at how he held his ale. Everything had changed so much from those innocent days: Grift had changed, Tawl had changed, Maybor lay dying, and Melli was imprisoned in Bren. Anger pushed Jack's memories back, squeezing them into a long gone past. Baralis had a lot to answer for.

"Lord Maybor saved my life," said Grift. He leant over the table, resting his chin in his cupped palm. "He dragged me out of Bren when I was so sick I could hardly walk. He could have left me in the wine cellar and gone under the wall on his own, but he didn't."

Jack put an arm around Grift's shoulders. Why was everyone who once looked so strong now so frail? "What happened to Bodger?"

"I don't know. They took him with the Lady Melliandra." Grift shook his head. "He's just a young one, really. Wouldn't know what to do without me around to tell--"

"People find all sorts of strength inside themselves when they need to," Jack said.

"Aye, lad, you're right there. Take Lord Maybor. The man's been running a high fever these past couple of days, yet nothing was going to stop him from bringing us down that mountain. Determination alone kept him sitting on that horse. All the men resented him at first, but once they saw for themselves what he was made of, everything changed They'd do anything for him now."

"Maybor wants us to take them to Bren," said Tawl. "He feels he wronged them by withdrawing to the mountains. He wants to give them a chance to fight."

"What happened at the battle?" asked Jack. Someone had brought a flagon of ale and he began to pour it into four mugs.

"Highwall was flanked then slaughtered. Besik led twothirds of the men to the east; Maybor led a third to the south. It was chaos. Men being slaughtered, arrows flying, blood everywhere-I'll never forget it till the end of my days." Grift downed his ale. "The bloodshed wasn't the worst thing, though."

"Why? What else happened?"

"Kedrac sent men to slay his own father. He was commanding the kingdoms' army, and as soon as he spotted Maybor on the field, he ordered the Royal Guard to go after him."

Baralis again. Setting father against son. There were so many tragedies, not just of cities and armies, but more intimate ones as well: ideals shattered, loves lost, families torn apart. Jack couldn't begin to imagine how Maybor must have felt knowing his son wanted him dead. How had he survived the long weeks since the battle with such a betrayal lying heavy on his heart? Jack's memory of Maybor was of a brash and vital man who always wanted the best for his children--even if they didn't want it themselves. A father who showed his love through pride. How did such a man cope with the treachery of his firstborn son?

No one spoke for a while after that. Tawl, Grift, Nabber, and Jack downed the last of their ale in silence. Words seemed far too slender to span all the tragedies of life.

Later, much later, when Jack was asleep in the tavern kitchen, his body pressed close to the stove, he was awakened by a strange noise. At first he thought it was the wolves howling, and then perhaps the wind. But as his senses came around, he realized that it was the sound of men singing. Low, throaty notes were followed by long pauses and hoa.r.s.e cries. Someone was keeping a primitive beat, and above it all, one voice soared high and clear.

Jack felt a wave of cold air roll over his body. It was a death song. The Highwall troops were singing for Maybor. He opened his eyes, and in the dimming light of a longlit fire, he locked gazes with Tawl. The knight's expression was solemn, his eyes midnight dark.

"Jack," he murmured, "you and I have a lot of fighting to do."

Jack nodded. He knew how Tawl was feeling, and felt exactly the same way, too: Baralis had finally taken one of their own.

Maybor was very warm and his bones ached little now. Strange, but he could still feel the fingers that had been destroyed by the frost. In a way he felt them the most.

All the things he had lost he felt the most.

Melli, Kedrac, his two youngest boys: if he thought very hard he could conjure them up. If he thought even harder he could imagine their forgiveness.

Sleep tugged him downward, though, and he knew it was time to go. With one last great effort, he turned his head so that it lay perfectly straight on the pillow-no one would catch him drooling like an invalid-and brought his hands to rest at either side of his body. Stately, he told himself. Like a king.

With eyes already closed and strength drained by his exertions, the natural thing to do was to follow the darkened curve. A little bit frightened and very much tired, Maybor let his mind be carried off to sleep.

Thirty.

Jack awoke to a sinking sensation in his stomach. The events of the night before came back to him in a vivid rush. He remembered falling asleep to the sound of mourning, drifting off as the men of Highwall sang for Maybor's soul. They keened until dawn; Jack knew it because he had heard them in his dreams.

Now he awoke to a different sound, one that pulled at his senses with all the power of the past. It was the sound of the kitchen: sc.r.a.ping, chopping, pots rattling, brooms sweeping, fat sizzling, and chickens clucking. It was like being at Castle Harvell all over again. Jack opened his eyes. A large white-clad woman hovered over him.

"About time, too," she said. "Wake your friends up and get from under my feet. Sleeping by my oven, indeed! What was Master Tallyrod thinking? Haven't I got enough to cope with already? There's so many men sleeping in the tavern hall I swear I haven't seen a floorboard in a week. And I know Gritty hasn't. That girl's so busy flirting with every man in a maroon coat that she's just plain forgotten what a floor looks like."

Jack smiled up at the woman. "I'm sorry. If there's anything I can do to help?"

"Take those men out from under my feet and I'll be your friend for life. Might even treat you to a nip of my special brew."

"You've got a deal." He stood up and shook Tawl, Nabber, and Andris awake. The other knights were sleeping in the stables.