Master and Fool (32 page)

Jack nodded.
"And Melli, as well. We ran away from Castle Harvell together. He found us
twice."

"Why did
Melli run away?"

"Her father
was forcing her to marry Kylock.", "So she just took off and ran
away?"

"Yes. She
left the castle in the middle of the night." Tawl suddenly felt very
happy. He could picture Melli working herself up into an indignant rage, then
deciding to do something reckless. He'd never met a woman with more spirit
"What was she like when you met her?"

"Uppity."
Jack took the pot from the middle of the fire and set it amongst the ashes to
the side. He picked up his pack and came and sat close to Tawl. "Her hand
was bleeding and she'd just been robbed, but she still refused my help. It took
her over an hour just to tell me her name." Jack smiled, remembering.
"She was beautiful, though."

Tawl smiled with
him. "Yes, she is beautiful."

"And strong.
To this day I still don't know how she managed to drag me across the forest to
Harvell's eastern road. She even persuaded a pig farmer to take care of me.
Told her I was injured in a hunting accident"

"And the pig
farmer believed her?"

"Melli has a
way of saying things that makes it difficult for people to contradict
her."

"You mean she
bullied the pig farmer?"

"What do you
think?"

Both men laughed
Tawl's heart filled with joy. He liked sitting here, in the glade under the
pale moon, and talking of Melli. It was the next best thing to being with her.

"You care
about her very much, don't you?" he said when the laughter died down.

Jack looked up.
"Yes, I do."

Tawl sensed some
reluctance in his voice. By not speaking he encouraged Jack to say more.

"But I'm not
in love with her, though. Not like you are." In his own way, Jack was
telling him he had no rival. Tawl lifted his hand and brought it to rest on
Jack's shoulder. The world seemed like a good place. There was honor and
friendship and love. "And what of you, Jack?" he said softly.
"Who do you dream of at night?"

Tawl smiled He
knew he'd caught the boy off guard. Jack moved toward the fire. His back was to
Tawl, and when he spoke his voice sounded far away. "There's a girl in
Halcus. Her family took me in. She was beautiful, not perfect like Melli, but.
. . " Jack shrugged. "But beautiful all the same."

Sensing Jack's
mood matched his own, Tawl settled himself back against his tree. He shot a
quick glance in Nabber's direction-all seemed quiet-and then said, "So,
tell me her name."

"Tarissa."

Tawl could tell a
lot by the way Jack said her name. There was longing in his voice, and
something else. A certain hardness. Not used to such conversations himself,
Tawl's instinct was to tread lightly. "What did she look like?" He
thought he'd asked the wrong question, for several minutes passed with no
reply.

The wind died down
and the moon lost itself behind a bank of clouds. The fire crackled and popped,
spitting flecks of green summer wood up with the smoke. Finally Jack spoke:
"Her eyes are brown and sparkling. Her hair is chestnut and gold. There's
a tiny bump in the middle of her nose and her dimples deepen when she smiles."

As Jack spoke,
Tawl looked at Jack. His hair was the exact same color as the woman he'd just
described.

A soft whirring
sound whipped through the dark. Tawl felt a cool wisp of air brush against his
face. Crack!

"Get
down!" he shouted. Directly above him, an arrow jutted from the trunk of
the tree. Its shaft was still vibrating. Jack dropped to the ground.

"Kick the
fire out."

Tawl followed the
direction of the arrow's flight. The archer was to the north of them. Behind
him, Jack threw soil on the fire. It banked, then died. "Crawl over and
untether the horses." Tawl spoke to Jack, but his mind was on Nabber.
"Bring them to meet me by the stream. Hold their reins to the side and put
their bodies between you and the archer." Tawl was going to ask him to draw
his knife, but a angle gleam of steel caught his eye. Jack was already ahead Of
him.

Tawl scrambled
over to the campfire. The pot of stew was overturned. No supper tonight.
Grabbing hold of the packs and bedrolls, he made a run for the stream.

It would be
impossible for the archer to get a good shot now. His targets were on the move
and there was no firelight to set his sights by. The trees would make it
difficult for him to get a clean line, as well. Strange, but Tawl never doubted
for an instant that it was a lone archer. If there'd been more than one he and
Jack would be dead by now.

No. This was one
man working alone. And Tawl had the distinct feeling they'd just been sent a
greeting. The arrow was too well placed to be a mark gone awry. A handspan
above his forehead, centered between his eyes-it was a classic warning shot.
Someone not only wanted them to know he was out there, but also that he was in
no hurry to kill them just yet. He wanted to scare them first.

Looking ahead,
Tawl spotted the bright glimmer of the stream. There were shadows moving in
front of it. The horses. He sprinted toward them. As soon as he spotted Jack,
he shouted, "Is Nabber with you?"

Jack didn't get a
chance to reply.

Nabber piped up:
"Hey, Tawl, what's been going on? A boy can't take forty winks round here
without fording himself in the middle of an uproar." He walked forward
into the moonlight. His tunic sported several wriggling bulges.

"Leave the
toads here, Nabber," said Tawl, resisting the urge to hug the boy.
"We're going to be on the move tonight, after all. We've got to put some
distance between ourselves and the man who fired that arrow."

Skaythe rarely
smiled. At times such as this, when he had reason to be pleased, he permitted
himself a satisfied tightening of his lips. Nothing more.

From his position
on the top of the rise, he could just make out the slow-moving forms of the two
horses. He couldn't see if they were being ridden or led. It didn't matter. He
had accomplished exactly what he set out to do tonight: he'd thrown down the
red marker.

Too bad Tawl
hadn't spared a glance for the arrow, or he just might have guessed the game.

There is something
sacred about an arrow. It speeds through the air carrying a message of death,
propelled only by muscle and tensile force. Every part of the arrow could tell
you something about the archer's intent. Messages within the message, like a
secret code within a letter.

Skaythe was a
little disappointed that Tawl had not taken the time to read the arrow on the
tree. After all, he had once been a knight, and knights knew all about the
secret language of archery.

If Tawl had but
looked he would have seen a small arrowhead, finely shaped for accuracy. Not a
hunting arrowhead, a sporting one, designed to hit a target, not a beast. It
had never been aimed for a kill, rather a well-placed threat, instead. As for
the shaft, it was shaped from forest cedar. Not something a casual archer could
easily come by, but something a serious archer would make it his business to
acquire. The shaft was a thing of beauty: smooth enough to rub across a lady's
cheek, straight enough to set your sights by. It was a shaft that told of the
archer himself. It told of his skill, his perfectionism, and his knowledge of
his trade. Only professionals used cedarwood.

Then there were
the fletchings, the most specific feature of the arrow. The archer's chance to
show off his true colors. They were the arrow's banner, its flag waving in the
breeze for all to see once it had hit its target. The fletchings of Skaythe's
arrow were unique.

Red silk and human
hair.

Red silk for the
marker that was thrown into the pit the night that Blayze was murdered. Human
hair shaved from Blayze's corpse the day before they laid him in his grave.

The arrow was a
tribute to his brother's memory and a sworn oath of vengeance.

Skaythe had been
with Blayze when he died. He had watched the fight in the pit, watched the
knight beat Blayze's skull against the ground until his brain splattered the
dirt walls, watched his body being carried to the palace, and watched him die
without once gaining consciousness. Tawl hadn't fought a man that night, he had
murdered
one. He could have stopped sooner; Blayze was out as soon as
his skull smashed against the stone for the first time. The knight could have
stopped then and there and claimed victory. But no, he continued on and on,
only stopping when his second pulled him off. Blayze could have walked away
from that fight with his life, able to fight another day, to regain his lost
dignity, and to settle old scores that hadn't yet been settled. But the knight
had put an end to all of that.

Skaythe fastened
his quiver to his back and mounted his horse. He urged the gelding forward
toward the glade. Now he would never have the chance to beat Blayze one on one.

They had been
rivals first, brothers second. They were born exactly nine months apart.
Skaythe was the eldest. People said that Blayze had the charm and good looks,
while Skaythe had the skill and the brains. They were fighting before they
could walk. By the time Skaythe reached his sixteenth year there seemed no
limit to what he could achieve. He fought like a demon. No one could beat him,
though his brother always came close.

They were good
days, then. Their rivalry spurred them both on; they lived for it, and it
shaped them into the fighters they became. As soon as Skaythe mastered a new
move he would use it against Blayze, then teach him it after he'd won.
Sometimes, but not often, Blayze would learn a new technique first. Oh, the
fight would be glorious then. Skaythe was never happier than when he was faced
with new challenges. There was joy in every thrust and parry, meaning in every
blow.

People watched
them and shook their heads. Never were there two such brothers, they said.

Then, when Blayze
turned sixteen they had their last fight. It was dark, and they had both been
drinking. Skaythe had downed one skin; Blayze, always lacking in moderation,
had two. The fight was sloppy, undisciplined. It took place in the courtyard at
the back of their father's shop. One oil lamp and two candles were the only
light they had. Ale, not only made them slow, it made them bitter. Before long
the fight became nasty: long-held resentments surfaced in the fray. Blayze was
always the favorite, beloved of both their parents, his handsome face a
guarantee of success. Skaythe was the arrogant one, a bad-tempered bully,
unable to control his moods. Insults came faster than blows. Skaythe was the
most clear-headed of the two, and he took the advantage when it came, raking
his knife along his brother's arm and then pressing it into his chest. Normally
in a friendly bout, as soon as blood was drawn from the torso the fight was
won. Skaythe turned his back on his brother and began to walk away. He felt a
sharp blow to his head. Stumbling forward, he fell to the ground. He spun
around in time to see Blayze standing over him with a rock in his hand. The
rock blasted into his leg. His knee exploded in pain. The night became light as
he screamed, then darkened as the agony of splintered bones pushing against
muscle became too much for him to bear.

Skaythe's face was
grim as he remembered. His knuckles were white as he held the reins.

After that day he
never fought again. The knee healed in time, but the limp remained. Neither Skaythe
nor Blayze mentioned the fight again. Skaythe put all his efforts into helping
Blayze become a champion. Blayze's victories were his victories, and his
failures were too few to count. While his brother fought his way through every
pit in Bren, Skaythe quietly kept up his skills, practicing archery instead of
the longsword, and the lance instead of the flail. He had a local blacksmith
forge a spike for his stick and turned a weakness into a weapon. He could walk
without his stick now, but it suited him too well to give it up.

Ten years had
passed since the incident with the rock. Blayze eventually became duke's
champion, and Skaythe was at his side all the way. Right until the final fight.

Even now, Skaythe
found it hard to believe that Blayze was gone. Every day of those ten long
years he had imag ined that a time would come when he and his brother would
fight again. And he would beat him one last time.

Only now there
would never be a fight. And all the victories left were hollow ones.

Skaythe dismounted
his horse. He stepped into the glade and moved toward the tree where the arrow
was lodged. Taking the shaft in his fist, he pulled it from the trunk. The wood
split in his hand.

The knight had a
lot to answer for.

All the apples and
crates were gone. Someone had cleared them away.

Maybor stood in
the same shadows that had helped him escape four nights earlier. He was in the
alleyway and had just opened the gate into the courtyard. It was dark and
quiet. There was no sign of movement, and not a single sliver of light shone up
from the cellar's depths.

For three hours
he'd been here. Watching. Waiting. Making sure that no one was watching and
waiting for him. The butcher's lights had gone out two hours back. Then the
butcher himself had come out and relieved himself against the wall. Nothing
else had happened since. No footfalls, no muffled coughs, no calls. The
courtyard was empty, and it looked like the cellar was, too.

Maybor only knew
one prayer. It was self-centered and immodest and used the word me a lot, and
he chose to speak it now as he crept toward the door.

The wooden panel
had been moved back into place. Maybor nudged it with his foot. It was loose.
Bending down, he scooped his fingers under the corner and pulled the trapdoor
up. It had not been fastened on the inside. There was no bar to prevent it from
being kicked in. Maybor peered downward. It was very dark. It stank of sour
wine. The guards must have split a good few barrels open.