Book Of Words - Master And Fool Part 46

Melli's legs buckled beneath her. The only thing that kept her from falling was Tawl. Her father dead--she just couldn't imagine it. He had always been so hearty, so full of life....

Someone came forward and took the baby-Melli didn't know who. Tawl picked her up and carried her over to the fire. A cup of wine was pressed to her lips and reluctantly she drank. It tasted like blood. "How do you know what happened to him?" she said to Tawl.

"Jack and I saw him the night he died. He said he loved you very much." Tawl was kneeling beside her now. His eyes were filled with love and understanding. "I should have told you sooner, only everything happened so fast, and I wanted to wait for the right moment."

Two weeks. He'd been dead two weeks and she hadn't even known it. She felt like a traitor. Her mind was acting strangely, switching from thought to thought without the normal links in between. "Who are the men?" she asked. "The ones who are coming?"

"They're the Highwall troops he led off the battlefield into the mountains. He saved their lives."

"Why are they coming here?"

"They're going to help us take over Tyren's camp." Tawl took her hand. "Maybor brought them down from the mountain to give them a chance to fight."

Melli nodded; her mind had already moved on. "Did he suffer much?"

"If he did he never showed it. When I saw him he was clear-headed and alert, almost his old self."

"What did he look like?"

"'The same as ever. His hair was well brushed, he was clean-shaven. Even wearing fragrance."

Melli smiled. She could see him now, lying in his bed, surrounded by pots of hair oil and scented creams, calling for his mirror whilst supervising his shave. In the back of her mind she knew that Tawl was leaving things out no one dies of lung fever without pain-she also knew that if she asked him, he would tell her everything. But the same instinct that had warned her earlier to stop Tawl speaking warned her now to accept the image she had. Better to accept the half-truths than root out cold facts that could haunt her for life. She knew the thought of her father suffering would be too much for her to bear.

"I think you should go upstairs and lie down," said Tawl. "I'll ask the innkeeper's wife to send up the baby and you and he can rest for a while."

Melli stood up. Strange, but she didn't feel like crying: not now, not yet. Crying marked the end of things, and there was still a long way to go. "No," she said gently. "I won't rest just yet. I want to meet my father's men and show them the baby."

And that was what she did. One by one, she met them, talked to them, kissed their weary cheeks, shared jokes about her father's stubbornness, and showed them all his grandson. She made sure they were well fed and rested, ordered hot water for them to wash with and strong brandy to help them sleep. She set the cook cooking, the innkeeper's daughters mending, Tawl and Borlin physicianing, and Nanny Greal doing all the unpleasant things like sc.r.a.ping the mud off their shoes.

Melli didn't stop until she was too tired to think. Close to midnight, Tawl took her hand and told her to sleep. She was about to protest--Grift had turned up with the men and she hadn't had a chance to speak to him yet-but something in his face stopped her. Glancing over at the far side of the room, she saw that Andris and Borlin were talking to a handful of the Highwall troops.

"I'll sleep if you tell me what's going on," she said. "We're planning to raid Tyren's camp before dawn." Melli was shocked. "So soon? The men have only just arrived."

"I know. I would have preferred to give them a full night's sleep, but we've got no choice. Now that Kylock and Tyren know we're here we have to move fast. We've already given them a day to prepare themselves." Tawl came and sat beside her. Melli noticed how tired he looked. "If we're going to put your son in his rightful place, we need to win the support of the knights. We need their manpower, their resources-without them we haven't got a chance. We can't enter the city with less than a hundred men; it would be suicide."

"You don't have to enter the city." Melli didn't want Tawl leaving her so soon. "We could just run away. Head south-"

"No." Tawl's voice was harsh. "I won't do that. Too many people have died, too many lives have been destroyed. I can't just run away."

"What if you get killed? You're in no state to fight--your sword arm's wounded. It's been dragging at your side all day."

Tawl seemed surprised that she'd noticed. He made a circular movement with his shoulder. "It will be all right."

"What about me and the baby, though?" As always, when Melli was worried she became angry. "Will we be all right if you don't come back? Or do you think you've fulfilled your obligation now that you've saved us once?" Seeing Tawl flinch at her words, Melli went to apologize, but Tawl spoke first. "Borlin and a few chosen men are supposed to stay here with you, and if things don't go well at the camp, you'll be taken straight to Ness, and then moved south from there." Tawl leant forward. "But I'll change that if you're worried. I'll stay here at the inn. My first obligation will always be to you and the baby. You must believe that" Melli suddenly felt out of her depth. There was something in Tawl's voice she couldn't understand, something almost desperate. She knew she had to let him go, but she didn't understand why. Taking a deep breath, she said, "The baby and I will be fine. Borlin's a good man. I'll feel safe with him watching over us while you're gone."

Tawl gave her a softly knowing smile. "You are the most remarkable woman I have ever known."

Melli returned the smile with a similar one of her own. "When you get back, I expect you to tell me the real reason why you had to go."

"When I get back I'll tell you everything." He kissed her lightly on the cheek and led her up to bed, and when she woke in the morning he was gone.

Tawl counted the tents and the campfires. It was the last hour of darkness before dawn and the world was arranging itself into forms. Ten regular tents, one surgeon's tent, the command tent, and Tyren's tent could be seen amidst the glow of the fires.

"My guess is there's three hundred men in all," hissed Andris.

Tawl nodded. He and Andris were southeast of the camp, hiding in the cover of a small copse of trees. The city of Bren was a dark ma.s.s on the horizon and the mountains of the Divide were just so many shadows emerging from the night. Snow was falling: lazy, weightless flakes that were borne sideways by the wind. It was very cold.

Tawl glanced at the sky to the east. "How long do you think it will be before the men are in place?"

"Forty minutes," said Andris. "Mafrey and Corvis will signal when they're ready."

"Let's hope they're both ready at the same time, then. As soon as one of them lights up a torch, the knights will know something's wrong." Tawl was tense. He wished he'd had longer to plan the raid. He didn't know enough about the camp and the number and makeup of the knights. He felt he was leading Maybor's men in blindly.

"Follis and the two Highwall archers will be in position soon. They should be able to take out the watch the minute the signal is given."

"Will three archers be enough, though? How many knights are normally set to watch a camp this size?" Tawl had never campaigned with the knighthood, and he knew little about their camps.

"It's hard to say. Maybe twenty. Sometimes they use squires or first-year initiates, sometimes knights. It depends on what the dangers are." Andris' voice betrayed tension of his own. Since Crayne's death, he was in charge of the party, and his first mission as leader was not only reckless, it was treason. He was leading his men against Tyren.

An owl hoot startled them both. Tawl looked at Andris. "Come on, let's get back to the others. The signal's less than half an hour away now and I want a good head start."

They had less than ninety men in all. Mafrey and Corvis had thirty apiece and had ridden over to the west side of the camp: Corvis to the northwest, Mafrey to the southwest Once in position they were to spread out and encircle the north, west, and south of the camp. Andris' men were due to head in from the east on their signal. Tawl was going to take a handful of men- Gervhay and four Highwall swordsmen--into the camp first, and attempt to take Tyren's tent.

Twenty men waited in the dark behind the grove. Tawl didn't know most of their names. They were lean from seven days of hard riding and tough from living on the mountains.

By all rights they should have been tired-most had only had two or three hours rest-but one look into their dark, weather-beaten faces was enough to see that sleep was the last thing on their minds. They wanted revenge.

The journey to the southern plains of Bren took under three hours, and for the last of those hours the Highwall troops had ridden past the decomposing corpses of their countrymen. Kylock hadn't even bothered to bury the bodies. Five thousand men left for the weather and the carrionpickers to take their toll. It sickened Tawl, but it had an entirely different effect on Maybor's men: it enraged them. Their friends, their brothers, their comrades, and their leaders had been denied the right to an honorable end.

Approaching them now, Tawl knew in his heart they would fight to the death. Their eyes were bright with fury. "Gervhay," hissed Tawl, dismounting his horse. "Are you ready?"

Gervhay nodded enthusiastically. "Aye, Tawl. We're all set to go."

Tawl smiled at him. The young knight hadn't been branded with the second circle long: the skin was still raised around the mark. "I hope you've strung your bow tight for the cold."

Gervhay grinned. "Borlin warned me you'd state the obvious."

Both men laughed. Tawl bent down and raked a fistful of cold earth off the ground. It was too cold to stick well when he rubbed it into his face, so he spit a couple of times to soften it to mud. He was pleased to note that the four Highwall swordsmen had already done the same. Seeing what he was doing, Gervhay followed suit. The young knight covered his hands and his neck for good measure.

Tawl turned to Andris. "Take care, my friend. I trust I'll see you later just before you save my hide."

Andris clasped his arm. Two days ago he would have smiled at such a remark. Today he was simply grave. "You've got half an hour of darkness left. Use it well."

Looking at Andris' fair northern face, Tawl suddenly realized the full extent of what he was asking him and his men to do. They were about to break the founding tenet of the knighthood: loyalty to one's leader.. Tawl's mind clouded with doubt: was he asking too much? Was it fair to involve other knights in his own personal war? He opened his mouth to speak, to offer Andris a chance to withdraw, but the knight forestalled him with a blessing.

"Borc be with you," he said.

Something about the manner in which he spoke made Tawl wonder if Andris had guessed what he was thinking. Glancing quickly up into his light gray eyes, Tawl saw that he was right. The knight's gaze was as firm as a warning. "Go," he said. "The time has long pa.s.sed for doubts." Tawl bowed his head. First Melli, now Andris-what had he done to deserve such selfless gifts? Briefly he remembered the demon in the lake: perhaps one day if he was lucky he might be worthy of them all.

Gervhay called from behind and Tawl raised a hand in parting to Andris, then turned and walked to the west.

Strange dreams hounded him like packs of muzzled dogs. They barked, they harried, they snapped at his ankles, but never once did they manage to bite.

Baralis knew warnings when he saw them-even now, with a body driven beyond the limits of exhaustion, his mind was as sharp as a tack. Dreams held messages and persistent dreams held the most potent messages of all. What was wrong? What had he overlooked? What had he left undone? Normally he would turn and face the hounds of chance, look them in the eye and demand to know their meaning. But such things demanded physical as well as mental strength, and he had nothing, absolutely nothing, to spare.

The drawing against Jack had brought him within touching distance of death. When he saw Jack emerge from behind the curtain he knew he had to destroy him. No matter that only moments earlier he had spent the better part of his strength killing the two knights standing guard; he had to reach within himself and find one drawing more.

And what a drawing it had been! Keen as an a.s.sa.s.sin's blade, dense as a defending wall. Split seconds were his accomplices, expectation was his friend. He spotted the enemy before the enemy spotted him. It hadn't been a contest of strength or skill, it had been a matter of time. He hadn't allowed Jack the chance to defend himself-his arrow had already left the bow.

Yet such a loosing had its price, and he was paying the cost of it now. Unable to move a muscle, he lay in his bed like a drooling invalid while Grope attended his needs. Strength would return in a few days, and if anything should happen unexpectedly, there were always potions to bridge the gap. In the meantime, he took his normal recuperative medicines-mineral-rich infusions and sorcery-enhanced drugs-rope drizzling them between his lips while he slept.

Baralis' senses were weak, but they were still on alert. He was half-expecting to feel something from Kylock: a drawing generated from frustration or rage. The king would be taking Melliandra's rescue badly. He had secret plans for Maybor's daughter--plans that Baralis could only guess at and to have her stolen away from under his feet might have sent him deeper into madness. So far there had been nothing, though. No great lashing out, no palace-shaking tantrum, nothing to indicate a sudden flare of emotion.

Dimly, Baralis was aware of Grope moving around the room. He tried to force himself awake: he needed to discover if his servant knew anything about Kylock's mental state.

Up through the brittle layers of unconsciousness he went, cracking the fragile sheets like footsteps on thin ice. The hounds were still behind him, barking out their warnings, foaming at the mouth. One layer of sleep to go, one gla.s.sy, wafer-thin layer that bordered the waking world. He pushed against it with his mind and it shattered into slivers.

First he saw his chamber and Grope, and then he spied the reflection in the gla.s.s. The reflection of his dream. The hounds full on.

A single image flashed like sunlight upon a lake. And that was exactly what it was: a lake, a dead body, a drawing that worked beyond its time. It was Skaythe.

Baralis blinked and the image fractured into so many streams of light.

"Master, master. Can you hear me?" Grope loomed over the bed, hastily stuffing his wooden box in his tunic. Baralis couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw tears in Crope's eyes. He had neither the time nor energy to ponder their meaning: the dream was what counted now. Even Kylock could wait. "Grope," he whispered, his voice a lead weight upon his tongue. "Where is Jack's body?"

"Down belowstairs, master. In the dungeon. Locked away."

Baralis let out a sigh of relief. "Listen carefully. I want you to destroy it. Fire up the forge they use for heating extra water when the court is full. Fill it with as many logs as it will take, stoke it to a frenzy, and then throw the body upon it. You mustn't leave until you see the bones turn black. Do you understand?"

c.r.a.pe nodded slowly. He opened his mouth to say something, but then nodded once more instead. "Yes, master," he murmured after a moment. "Until the bones turn black."

"Good. Now bring me my medicines and warm me some holk, and then go down to the cellar and get started." Baralis watched Grope hurry away before closing his eyes to rest.

The image of Skaythe's dead body returned to him with the dark. The hounds had sent the vision as a reminder to take no chances with Jack. Skaythe was weak, inexperienced, yet his last drawing had lingered on past his death, seeping from his body into the lake. If even he could manage that, then how much more could Jack do? Of course there was a chance that Jack's last drawing hadn't been full formed-after all, there was so little time-but it never hurt to take precautions.

Baralis knew better than to ignore his dreams.

Tawl spied the first of the watches: two men, neither of them looked like knights. "Gervhay, can you take them from here?"

Gervhay shook his head. "If I miss at this angle, there's a chance the arrows will go straight into the tent. I'll head north as far as those bushes on the rise and take a couple of shots from there. That way we'll stop any stray arrows from going wild."

Tawl nodded. "Keep your head low. We'll head forward and wait for you by the ditch." When Tawl looked around to confirm it, Gervhay was already gone, bellying over the ground, his bow slung over his back like the wing of a dragonfly.

A quick glance at the eastern sky revealed the gray blush of dawn. The snow clouds would slow down the light, but at most they had twenty minutes of darkness left.

"Follow me," hissed Tawl to the swordsman at his heels. His eye had spotted the yellow-and-black of Tyren's tent, and from this distance it looked like fair game. Scrambling over the freezing earth, he ignored the pain in his arm and the spreading numbness in his fingers and toes. Tyren was close now, close enough to make Tawl's blood run cold. The demons were gathering for the kill.

Ahead the ditch showed itself as a black line-judging from the smell it was where the camp dumped its waste. Just as Tawl crawled up to the staggered bank, he heard a soft whirring sound. Then another. The two watches went down. Gervhay had aimed his arrows well.

"Keffm, Baird. You two go ahead. I need to know how many guards we're going to run into before we get to Tyren's tent." Tawl was about to tell the two Highwell troopers not to take any risks, then thought better of it; risks were all they had. He settled for a warning to watch their backs, and then waved them on ahead. He wished he was going with them. Waiting, even for a few minutes, was unbearable to Tawl.

The remaining two Highwall swordsmen came and crouched beside him. Fair haired and stony faced, they drew out their swords and waited.

Gervhay sprung out of the darkness, surprising everyone. He grinned triumphantly. "Two down. Two hundred and ninety-eight to go."

"If all goes well, we won't have to kill that many," said Tawl. He tried to sound stern, but Gervhay's natural enthusiasm was something he didn't want to stifle. "You did well. Get ready to pick off a few more."

"Point and shoot. That's me." Somehow, the young knight had managed to get several twigs caught in his hair, giving him the look of a mad woodsman. "Now, if you gentlemen are well-rested, I say we go and find some trouble." Tawl had to put a restraining arm on Gervhay: an archer had no business going first. "Take the rear, my friend," he said. "And keep to the shadows when you can." With that, Tawl leapt across the ditch, and running as fast as he could with his back bent low, he made for the nearest tent.

Open ground was the greatest danger at this point. A keen eye could easily pick out a fast-moving form in the quarter-light. The distance between the ditch and the tent seemed impossibly long, and Tawl dreaded the alarm being sounded with every stride. The two Highwall men ran without making a sound. They were faster than Tawl and overtook him as he stepped upon the cleared ground of the camp. By the time he reached the tent, they were already talking to Keffm and Baird.

Straightaway, Tawl noticed blood on Baird's longknife. "What happened?"

"Just silenced a couple of guards, that's all." Despite the calmness of his voice, Baird was shaking. "They were outside the command tent, and they caught sight of Keffm. When they came close to investigate, I slit both their throats."

One after another without making a noise? Tawl was impressed. He would have liked to ask the Highwall swordsman how he managed such a feat, but there was no time. Any minute now the camp would start to wake. He nodded toward the interior. "How's it looking?"

Baird shrugged. "Two guards on Tyren's tent-same as all the others. The problem is that the entrance to Tyren's tent looks directly onto three of the main tents-that's eight guards to take out from the start."

"Plus the two sets we'll have to pa.s.s along the way," added Keffin.

"I think we'll be going in the back door, then," said Tawl. From where he was he could see the back of Tyren's tent. It was overlooked by the command tent and the supply tent. Baird had already killed the guards on the command tent, so that meant less men to deal with. He looked at Baird. "How quickly can you slice me a way in?"

Baird smiled. "Quicker than I slit a throat."

"Good." Tawl glanced toward the eastern horizon. Ten minutes to first light. Five minutes before Mafrey and Corvis were due to make the signal. The timing had to be right: as soon as someone called the alarm they were dead unless the Highwall troops moved in. "Gervhay," called Tawl softly. "Aye," came a voice from the shadows.

"I want you to stay back and cover us going in. Keep to the east side, pick off anyone who comes close to Tyren's tent, and whatever you do, lie low. I don't want anyone spotting you while you're out here on your own."

"It's as good as done."

Tawl watched Gervhay's bow hand make a salute, then he disappeared into the shadows. Tawl turned to the swordsmen. "Now. Baird, you know what you're doing. Keffin, you're with me. Murris, Sevri, I want you two to flank out around the tent. Keep an eye on the west side and the entrance, silence any wary guards, and watch out for the signal. If there's too many men to deal with, then you come in the tent with us. Right?"

"Right."

Tawl nodded at both men. "Let's go."

He chose an indirect path to Tyren's back door, hugging shadows and tent sides whenever he could. His mind was ticking seconds: he had to have Tyren in his keeping before Andris and the Highwall troops came in. Once the exchange started, the knights would rally around their leader. Tawl knew his only hope was to have a dagger at the leader's throat.

As he made his way to the center of the camp, a strange lightness invaded Tawl's chest. He felt excited, free, almost happy-he was here now, and there was no going back. By the time dawn pa.s.sed into day he would have met his fate full on. Something moving to the south caught his eye. It was a guard on the camp's far border dropping to the ground. Tawl grinned. Follis and the two Highwall marksmen were doing a little preraid thinning.

The yellow-and-black of Tyren's tent was only paces away now. Tawl beckoned Baird ahead. Just as the burly swordsman came forward with his long-knife, a cry sounded to their near left. It was cut off in midcall.

"Go," hissed Tawl to Baird. Tawl followed him to the back of Tyren's tent. Keffin was at his heels.

Another shout came from the left. There was movement in one of the main tents. An arrow shot past from the west Baird's hands were firm as he sliced through the tent The fabric was oiled and half a finger thick, but his blade cut it as if it were silk. The downward stroke was accompanied by a soft tearing noise, and even as Tawl brought his sword forward, he heard a cry from inside the tent: "Guards!"

Tawl pushed past Baird and forced his way through the slit. His sword touched tips with another, and before he could even see who he was fighting, he began defensive strokes. Immediately, he stepped to the side of the slit He needed to give Baird and Keffin a chance to enter: he didn't want to attend the banquet alone.