Master and Fool (16 page)

Crope nodded
enthusiastically. He liked nothing better than being useful to his master.

Now it was time to
see to himself. Baralis took a small vial from the dresser and emptied its
contents upon his tongue. The viscous liquid stung going down. It would not
strengthen him exactly, rather prolong what strength he already had. He would
now be able to function after the drawing to come. Of course, there would be a
price: at some point tomorrow he would simply collapse and it might be as long
as a week before he recovered his senses. That wasn't important, though. What
counted tonight was eliminating every little thing that could tell of what had
happened between Kylock and Catherine. One wrong move, one item overlooked, and
everything
would fall apart. His plans had stretched over three decades
and nothing, absolutely nothing, would stand in the way of his mastery of the
north.

Baralis took a
deep breath and came to stand beside Catherine. Her body was now blue and
stiff. "Turn her for me, Crope," he murmured, "and fetch me a
chair so that I might sit." Crope did his bidding, and a minute later
Baralis was sitting by the side of the bed, looking down at the broken bones in
Catherine's spine. The crack in the skull was nothing: more blood than bone, a
simple knitting would suffice. But the spine --Baralis shook his head-the spine
would require a surgeon's skill.

A jagged bone
pressed against the skin at the base of Catherine's neck. Baralis placed his
palm over it. During his time on the plains he had seen many broken bones. The
herdsmen had a way with them, knitting together the white and porous husks with
a combination of potions, sorcery, and sacrifice. Never had he seen them repair
a broken spine. It was too delicate an operation, too much could go wrong:
nerves could be trapped, blood vessels could be destroyed, and the bone might
fix improperly, causing lameness or worse. Baralis bit down on his tongue,
preparing for the trance. None of that mattered to Catherine: a corpse's spine
required no such consideration. As long as it looked all right, that was
enough.

Crope handed him
leaf and bowl, and the fat beads of Baralis' blood dripped readily down from
his tongue. There would be no sacrifice to help the process-he would rely upon
his own strength alone.

Down he sent his consciousness,
down into the corpse. He had worked on freshly killed animals many times, but
no amount of training could prepare one for the appalling shock of the dead.
Cold, corrupt, actively decaying: a corpse was no place for a sorcerer to
linger.

Baralis' fingers
went to work, warming, shaping, shifting. His hand pressed the bone backward,
while his mind prepared the rest. Once the fragment was in place, he began the
knitting, stirring tissue to join with bone. He had no time for finesse, no
time for a surgeon's subtlety, and he concentrated purely upon the join. When
he had finished, Catherine's neck was rigid. The top four vertebrae were now
more firmly linked in death than they had ever been in life. Baralis
transferred his consciousness to Catherine's skull. The stiffness would be put
down to the poison.

Compared to the
spine, the skull was an easy task, a mere knitting of bone to bone. Baralis
wasted little effort with show as any bruising would be covered by Catherine's
thick, golden hair. As long as her head felt smooth when the physician ran his
hands over it, that would be more than enough.

Baralis worked
quickly, conscious of the nearness of Catherine's brain and unnerved by the
last futile firings of her nerve cells. By the time the task was complete, he
was weak beyond telling. Withdrawing from the corpse, he was dazzled by the
light, warmth, and freshness of life. For Baralis it merely confirmed that
survival at any cost was the most important thing of all. There was little
glory to be had in death.

He slumped back in
his chair and regarded his patient. Her neck was as smooth as a swan's, and
once the blood was washed from her hair, her skull would pass for normal.

Glancing over at
the candles on the wall, he saw that two notches had burned whilst he worked.
Crope had left and returned, and was quietly replacing the misshapen
candlesticks with new ones. When he noticed his master was conscious, he came
over with a glass of mulled holk. Baralis took it from him. "Turn the
duchess onto her back and then wake Kylock for me," he said.

"Should I
change the sheets first, master?"

"No. That
will be done last. I haven't finished here yet." Baralis watched as Crope
disappeared behind the screen. He was so tired, all he wanted to do was rest.
Bringing his hands together, he massaged his aching fingers. Behind the screen
came the sound of Crope imploring Kylock to wake. Baralis braced himself and
stood up. His legs ached from sitting too long, but he forced himself to walk
to the dresser. Resting on top was Catherine's wooden cup, which now boasted
two circles in the base. Baralis poured a splash of poisoned wine into it.
Bringing it over to the bed, he sprinkled a few drops upon Catherine's perfect
lips, prying apart her teeth to make sure the liquid went down, and then set
the cup on the nearest chest.

Kylock appeared
from behind the screen. "What have you done?" he demanded.

Baralis permitted
himself a tiny sigh of relief: the king was lucid. "I have made it look as
if your wife died from poison. Everything is as it was before-" Baralis
caught himself. "Everything looks normal. Your story is that when you went
to sleep Catherine looked well, and when you woke she was dead. She offered you
a drink from her cup, and although you declined at first, you took a tiny sip
to please her. In the morning, just before you raise the alarm, you will take
this." Baralis indicated a vial on the dresser. "It will mimic a case
of poisoning, but will not harm you greatly. Valdis' circles are carved on the
base of Catherine's cup, but you will not discover them-let someone else do
that. Your part is to act shocked, outraged, and tear the city apart looking
for the man who did this."

Kylock nodded
once. "Who?"

"Tawl, duke's
champion. As soon as the cup is discovered, all the servants will be
questioned. When I leave you now, I will convince one of the poor wretches that
he was bribed into delivering the wine and cup by a certain goldenhaired
knight." Baralis was curt. "Have you got everything?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now
Crope will stay with you to change the sheets and help with positioning
Catherine's body. The blood must be cleaned from her hair and the rouge wiped
from her body. When you have finished with her, she must be dressed in her
nightgown-"

Kylock interrupted
him. "What do you mean, finished with her?"

"I take it
the marriage has not been consummated?"

"No."

"Then legally
it is no marriage at all. For you to retain rights in Bren there must be no
question that a joining took place."

Kylock shook his
head. "No. No. No!"

"Yes!"
insisted Baralis. "I have not gone to all this trouble to see everything
wasted. The fast thing the physician will do is examine her for seed. They will
be looking for any possible way to wriggle out of the marriage." Baralis
raised his voice. "I don't care how you manage it, but it must be
done." He moved over to the door and turned the handle. "Now do
it!" he hissed as he walked across the threshold.

Tvalisk loved his
new fish. It had tiny little fish-teeth, and it tore at anything that was dangled
into its bowl. Currently Fang, as the archbishop had named him, was intent on
savaging a rather inert, but not entirely defenseless, sausage. Size alone
ensured it a measure of protection, for Fang in addition to being deadly was
also rather small. The sausage was twice the size of him. Tavalisk only wished
that the glass bowl was more transparent, for the thick green swirls prevented
him from seeing all the action.

Just as Fang got a
decent grip on the sausage, in came Gamil. No knock, no ceremony, waving a
small gray piece of paper. "Your Eminence. Such news!" Gamil
proceeded to fan himself with the paper. He was out of breath, red of face, and
his hair had want of a brush.

Like a priest
among lepers, Tavalisk chose to keep his distance. Holding out a restraining
palm, he said, "Gamil, much though I appreciate your speedy delivery of
important messages, I simply cannot tolerate seeing a man such as yourself
sweat. Who knows what vile substances are secreted with the salt."
Tavalisk sent a pointed glance to his aide, who looked ready to burst if he
wasn't allowed to speak. "Very well. Step no closer and I will permit you
to tell your news."

"Your
Eminence, Catherine of Bren is dead. Poison, they say."

"When did
this happen?"

"Four,
perhaps five days back. I just received tidings by bird."

Tavalisk,
forgetting his previous warning, came up to his aide and snatched the paper
from his hand. If Gamil's sweat was upon it, he didn't give it a second
thought. "Is this all?" he said, once he'd read the note.

"Yes, Your
Eminence. We'll know more in a few weeks when the swift messengers
arrive."

Tavalisk crushed
the paper in his fist. "Poison, eh?" Baralis had a hand in this. Why,
he, himself, had provided the know-how. Tavalisk's libraries had been five
years in Baralis' keep. There were dozens of books on poisons in his
collection, and doubtless the lovely Catherine had fallen victim to one of
them.

Now, if Baralis
had
poisoned Catherine, then that meant the blame would fall elsewhere. Baralis
was no fool; he could shift blame as easily as other men changed their clothes.
So, who would Baralis choose to implicate? Anyone from Highwall or Annis would
help his cause, inciting passions in Bren against its two northern rivals.
Tavalisk nodded slowly. Or he could try and eliminate a more immediate threat:
the claim that Maybor's daughter was carrying the duke's child. By all accounts
Lord Maybor was seeding the city with rumors that his daughter's unborn child
was most definitely the heir to Bren. Implicate Melliandra or one of her
supporters in Catherine's murder and her claim would be instantly discredited.
That was it, Tavalisk was sure of it. At this point in time Baralis had more to
fear from Melliandra and her unborn child than the armies of Annis and Highwall
combined.

Kylock would
doubtless claim Bren for his own, yet if there was a possibility that a
rightful heir existed, then the good people of the city would send him running
back to the kingdoms with his tail between his legs.

Tavalisk smiled
his special secret smile. Baralis was vulnerable, and it was high time that
he,
the chosen one, played upon that vulnerability like a bell-ringer at the
rope. "Gamil," he said, crossing over to the fishbowl, "what do
we know about the movement of Highwall troops?"

"Well, Your
Eminence, we know they received your message to wait until after the wedding
day before making their move, but we can only guess how the news of Catherine's
death might affect their plans."

Dropping the
crumpled sheet of paper in the bowl, Tavalisk said,
"Guess,
Gamil!
I am not in the business of guessing policy. I am in the business of shaping
it." Fang approached the paper with all the intent of a shark after prey.
The sausage was now so much flotsam and jetsam floating murkily on the surface.
"Indeed, Gamil, I think it's high time I became a champion."

"A champion,
Your Eminence?"

Fang's little
fish-teeth tore at the paper, shredding it into a hundred tiny pieces. Tavalisk
watched the process with great satisfaction. Perhaps he should place all his sensitive
documents into the bowl. "Yes, Gamil, a champion, or more precisely,
Melliandra's champion. In fact I think that all of us--the four southern
cities, Highwall, Annis and what is left of poor defeated Halcus-should take up
the good lady's claim. Don't you see? It's perfect. No longer will we be
fighting out of fear, we will be fighting for a cause! We will be fighting to
place the rightful heir to Bren on the ducal throne."

Tavalisk, in his
excitement, had inadvertently rested his fingers on the side of the bowl. Fang,
being a fish with no powers of discrimination, promptly leapt from the water
and bit the archbishop's thumb. "Aah!" cried Tavalisk, pulling back
his hand. Blood oozed from a small but perfectly serrated wound. The archbishop
sucked the wound closed: he liked the taste of his own blood.

Flashing a hateful
look at Fang, he continued, "Today, Gamil, I need you to send messages to
those parties concerned. From now on our allies must officially support
Melliandra's claim." Tavalisk smiled, regaining a little of his good
humor. "I can imagine nothing that would annoy Baralis more! This will
cause a lot of trouble for him in Bren. Might even divide the city if he's not
careful. Disputes over ascendancy are notorious for starting civil wars."

"So is
religion, Your Eminence."

"I neither
want nor require any words of wisdom from you at this juncture, Gamil. When I
am in the middle of formulating policy, a simple, 'Yes, Your Eminence,' will
suffice. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Your
Eminence," said Gamil sourly.

"Good. Now in
addition to sending messages to Annis and Highwall whose armies are probably on
the way to Bren as we speak-I need you to track down Maybor and his daughter.
I'm sure they are still somewhere in Bren: ask the local priests and clergy to
keep an eye out for them. The girl must be found and removed to a place of
safety." Tavalisk paused for a minute, contemplating his plan. "Of
course, the strange thing in all of this is why Baralis moved against Catherine
so swiftly. I simply can't understand it. He has just destabilized his
position." The archbishop shrugged. "Still, everyone makes mistakes,
and all a clever man like myself has to do is simply wait around for an
opportunity to exploit them."