Master and Fool (29 page)

"Come on,
Jack," said Tawl, offering Jack a hand up. "Let's get a good start on
the rest of the day." He was glad to see that the boy returned his smile.
He had been watching Jack for some time now, and it wasn't hard to guess what
he was thinking about. That was why he came over: to give him what reassurance
he could. Fancy words failed him, of course; they always did. So he offered his
hand instead, and said the only thing that really meant anything: "You're
not
alone. "

Tawl had lived
long enough to know the value of those words. Many years before, Tyren had
changed his life by saying the very same thing to him.

Time has little
meaning to the imprisoned, the tormented, and the grieving. Days and nights are
just shadows in the greater darkness of existence.

To this day, Tawl
still didn't know how much time passed between the moment he learnt of his
sisters' deaths and the night he ended up in Valdis. Weeks and months take on
all the power of a lifetime when a man has lost his soul. For that was what
Tawl lost that day in the marshes: the center of his being-his heart, his
family, his soul. His sisters were dead, and while he had been busy claiming
glory at Valdis, they had grown cold in their graves.

He couldn't blame
his father. The man was a drunken, worthless fool, and Tawl had known that for
as long as he could remember. He should never have left his sisters with him.
He should have known better than to be fooled by a few fine words and a
pocketful of gold. His father might have won at the carding table, but
he
should
have known that winning never changed a gambler, merely vindicated him,
instead.

Tawl cursed
himself. He simply didn't think. He just took off for the Bulrush at Greyving
the moment his father stole his place.

Looking back on it
now, Tawl could still relive the anger he felt at his father's return. He
remembered the quick flare of jealousy when he saw how much his sisters loved
their papa, and recalled the slow-brewing rage that carried him out of the
house before dawn. Funny, but at the time he told himself he was finally free,
yet freedom began with a bitter taste even then, and it was many months before
his mouth was free of the tang.

Three years later,
he paid the price for his rashness and his rage. The day he returned to the
marshes was the day his life came to an end. Hope died that morning, and
everything was tainted by the loss. Valdis, his newly branded second circle,
his dreams of greatness, and his hopes for the future all became things with no
meaning. His own pride had brought him to this.

Tawl had cut
through his circles and cast away his sword and rode as hard and fast as he
could. He had no destination, just the burning need to be as far away from the
marshes as possible. It was the worst time in his life. The only way to stop
himself thinking was to ride like the devil and never once look back. His horse
finally collapsed beneath him. Tawl picked himself off the ground and cursed
the exhausted beast. He stormed away from the horse, leaving it to a slow but
sure death. He felt ashamed of that now, especially when he considered where
the horse had brought him.

When dawn came the
next day, Tawl found himself in familiar territory. He was in the valley just
south of Valdis.

For so long he had
ridden with no thought to time or place that he was genuinely surprised at
where he was. Dimly he wondered if he had been heading here all along. Looking
down at his circles-clotted with blood, swollen with infection-Tawl decided he
would go to Tyren and tell him that he could no longer be a knight. He owed the
man that much.

Tyren was now head
of the order, yet despite his high position, he came down to see Tawl as soon
as he knew of his presence. He had a letter in his hand, which he tucked
beneath his tunic as he drew Tawl forward into a warm embrace.

Tawl stiffened and
pushed the man away.

"What is the
matter, my son?" said Tyren. His eyes flicked toward Tawl's arm.
"What has happened?"

Tawl finally broke
down. He fell to his knees and sobbed like a baby. "They're dead," he
kept saying. "They're dead."

Tyren put his arms
around him. From somewhere warm blankets and two flasks of fine brandy
appeared. "Your family are gone?" he asked gently, offering one of
the flasks.

Tawl nodded. He
tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come. There
were
no words to tell
of what had become of his family. Instead, he said, "I can no longer be a
knight."

Tyren's fingers
rose to his tunic. The imprint of the letter could be clearly seen beneath.
"My son," he said with great gravity, "the knighthood needs you.
I need you. I will not let you go."

Tawl shook his
head savagely. "How can a man with no soul be a knight?"

Then Tyren said
the one thing that made a difference. "You're not alone," he said.
"All of us have to live with despair. Gaining the third circle is nothing
unless it is paid for with blood and sacrifice. You must know pain and
suffering before you can know greatness. You are not the first knight to lose
his family. Everyone who comes to Valdis forsakes all that has gone
before."

"What you
must do now is give your sisters' deaths meaning-that is the only way to regain
your soul. Leave here now, and I guarantee you will regret it for the rest of
your life. You will live and die in shame, unfulfilled and tormented till the
end of your days. Stay, and do what I ask of you, and I swear you will be
redeemed."

Tyren looked like
a god as he spoke. His brown eyes were fierce with divine light. Tawl
believed
in him.

He bowed his head
low in deference to the greatness of the man before him, and said, "What
would you have me do, my lord?"

Tyren pulled the
letter from his tunic. He waved it toward Tawl, but never unfolded it.
"Today I received this from a wiseman named Bevlin. He asks me to send him
a knight. He needs to find a boy who has the power to stop a world war before
it starts . . . "

"No, Bodger,
you take it from me, the worst thing a soldier's got to worry about isn't Isro
fire."

"But Isro
fine burns everything it touches, Grit stone, iron, hardened leather. It even
burns on water."

"Aye, but it's
nothing a good friend couldn't put out by pissing on you, Bodger. Nothing's
faster than urine for extinguishing the Isro flame." Grift shook his head
wisely. "No, Bodger, the worst thing a soldier can have thrown at him is a
dead rabbit."

"A dead
rabbit!"

"Aye, Bodger.
It's common knowledge that there's nothing in the universe that smells worse
than a dead rabbit Horrible for a man's constitution, it is. Makes me sick just
to think of it"

"But why
rabbits, Grift? Why not skunks?"

"I thought
I'd already told you about the strange mating practices of rabbits,
Bodger."

"That you
did, Grift."

"Then I think
it's about time you took a great leap forward and finally put two and two
together, Bodger." Bodger drew his eyebrows together, looked puzzled for a
moment, took a draught of wine, and then smiled triumphantly. "Aah. Say no
more, Grift."

Grift beamed like
a proud teacher. Settling himself more comfortably on his pallet, he said,
"Eh, it was a bit of luck Kylock finding that Highwall tunnel and
all."

"Aye. Who
would have guessed that Highwall would have tried to mine toward the
palace?"

"Not
everything's going Kylock's way, though. After the wall was breached yesterday,
about five hundred blackhelms died trying to cordon it off. By all accounts it
was a right bloodbath."

"The wall's
still not secure even now, Grift. Saw it with my own eyes, I did. They timbered
it up and dug a trench around it, but my guess is that one decent attack could
reopen it."

Grift nodded his
head. "Won't be our problem this time tomorrow, Bodger. Have you got the
letter on you?"

"Aye, but
it's sealed. The Lady Melliandra gave it to me about an hour ago. Says I'm to
take it to the enemy before first light tomorrow."

"You're not
worried are you, Bodger?"

"Well, I was
wondering if I should carry a white flag or anything. Just to let them know not
to shoot at me."

Grift thought for
a moment. "I think you should, Bodger. Just to be safe. 'Course, once they
realize who the letter's from, they'll welcome you with open arms. Lord Maybor
said he spotted the duke's colors flying above Highwall's siege tower. So
they're already claiming to be fighting for the duke's rightful heir."

"Lord Baralis
ordered the colors to be shot down as soon as he saw them, Grift."

"Aye. That's
the last place he'd want to see 'em, Bodger."

Bodger drained his
glass of wine. After looking around the cellar to make sure they were alone, he
said in a low voice, "Highwall aren't the only ones taking up the Lady
Melliandra's cause. There's people in the city who'd rather back her claim than
Kylock's. Just today, I saw the duke's guard leading two men away from Old
Taverner's Square. The men had drawn quite a crowd, claiming they'd rather have
the duke's bastard son as their leader than a bloodthirsty foreign king."

Grift shook his
head slowly. "Kylock won't tolerate talk like that, Bodger. He'll cut out
the tongue of any man who dares to challenge his rule."

The two guards
suddenly grew silent as Lord Maybor walked through the main cellar, toward the
trapdoor. "Keep an eye to Melliandra while I'm gone," said Maybor to
Bodger. The lord pulled his cloak close and climbed up the newly installed
ladder and out into the night. "That was strange," said Grift,
nudging Bodger with his empty glass.

Bodger promptly
refilled the glass with wine from the nearest of the three barrels that were
surrounding them. Gradually the guards were working their way through every
barrel in the cellar. They'd found quite a few sour brews so far, but none that
couldn't be drunk.

"What's
strange, Grift?"

"Old Maybor
wearing a heavy cloak like that on a night like this."

"You've got a
point there, Grift. It's got to be the warmest night of the year."

As soon as Maybor
let the trapdoor fall behind him he took off his cloak and stuffed it in a
darkened corner of the butcher's yard. The place reeked of blood, but Maybor
wasn't overly concerned where he put the gray, flea-ridden thing. He'd been
sleeping on it for months now and it had long lost what little style its tailor
had first intended.

Although it was
growing dark, Maybor still found enough light to admire the deep crimson color
of his tunic. A color that was certain to impress the wenches. Maybor smiled,
well pleased with what shadowy grandeur the twilight revealed, and made his way
across the courtyard and onto the city streets.

As he walked, the
Highwall bombardment shook buildings and lit up the southwestern sky. Having
grown bored with attacking the wall all day, the northern allies had decided to
set their catapults higher and were now sending missiles over the wall and into
the city. The noise was the worst thing. The terrible stomach-churning rumble
of the siege engines, the hammering of stone blasting against stone, the soft
whip of the longbow, and the high, haunting screams of the wounded.

Listening to the
sounds of war as he traveled eastward through the city, Maybor could hardly
wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow Melli's letter would be read by Lord Besik, the
leader of the Highwall army. Only today the man had ordered the flying of the
duke's colors to signify that he was behind Melliandra and her child-Maybor
could guess whose jeweled and pudgy hand was behind that one--and he and Melli
were now assured of a warm welcome into the enemy camp. Then at last he would
be able to take an active part in the war instead of hiding in a wine cellar
like a coward.

Maybor had spent
many of the last few days quietly surveying the city and had come up with a few
ideas on how best to defeat it. The wall was its strength, and although the
allies had managed to break through a small outer section, it had taken them
nearly a week to do so. The lake, however, was its weakness. The lake was the
lifeblood of Bren; every well in the city drew upon its cold and glassy water.
Thousands of people depended upon it for survival. Poison it and those very
same people would be on their knees within a week.

Highwall should be
sending out divers into the lake. Nabber had told him that there were gateways
beneath the surface that led straight to the heart of the palace. If there was
already a network of tunnels beneath the palace, then a mine should be built
under the lake to join up with it. The whole thing should be filled with hay
and timber, then set alight. The foundations would crumble in no time.

And as for the
late duke's colors, well, he'd have them flying on every tent, every scaling
ladder, every crossbow in the field. There were many in Bren who would prefer
to back Melli's claim rather than Kylock's-they just needed a little
encouragement, that was all. Cravin was currently working to whip up support
for Melliandra. It was, Maybor grudgingly admitted, a decidedly risky endeavor.
So far the handful of noblemen who had expressed tentative support for
Melliandra had all wound up dead. Of course, the official word was they were
missing, but Maybor was far too old and wily to believe official word.

Maybor was
distracted from his thoughts by two young ladies who were standing in a doorway
and calling out to him:

"Hey there,
handsome! Fancy a little brawl between the sheets?"

"You can lay
siege to my door anytime, matey." Maybor, having quickly appraised their
charms, or rather lack of them, bowed politely to the two women in passing.
"Not this evening, ladies. Another time, perhaps." The girls giggled
in appreciation of his courtesy, then promised him special rates if he passed
their way again later. Maybor made a mental note of the street. If he didn't
find the place he was looking for soon, he just might take the ladies up on
their
offer.
After all, the plain ones were usually the most inventive
in bed. One thing was certain, though, tonight he would have a woman.