Master and Fool (37 page)

Melli felt her
skin burn. She could take it no longer. She raised up her fist and sent it
smashing into Kylock's arm. Kylock lost his grip on the lantern. It flew into
the air. Melli heard it clatter against the stone. The light wavered. Kylock's
fist punched into her jaw. All the bones in her neck cracked at once. Kylock
fell on top of her, tearing at her clothes.

She screamed.

He placed his hand
right under her jaw and slammed her head into the back of the wall.

Pain burst into
her skull. The world shot out of focus. Still she screamed.

She felt Kylock's
fingers probing under her bodice. She fought him, but her hands weren't
responding the way they should. She felt like she was drunk. He got a grip of
the fabric and ripped the bodice from her.

Through eyes that
saw everything as blurred, Melli became aware of a bright glow behind Kylock's
shoulder. The rushes on the floor had caught on fire.

Either sensing the
heat or smoke, Kylock pulled away from her. Standing up, he kicked the thin
layer of rushes with his boot, sending them to the far side of the room. The
wooden bench was near Melli's foot and so was removed from the danger.
Everything else was stone. Kylock stamped at the rushes around the edge of the
blaze. The flames licked at his shins. Spinning around for something to dampen
them with, he stopped in his tracks.

Melli hadn't
moved. Her breasts and torso were bare. The curve of her belly was highlighted
by the flames. Kylock stared at her. He stared at her swollen stomach. As Melli
watched, she saw his expression change. The blind look of rage crystallized
into madness. In that instant she felt fear so concentrated that it pushed the
air from her lungs. She felt it rush through her lips like her last chance of
hope.

Kylock's gaze rose
to her eyes. Behind him the fire began to dim, muffled by the stone and
frustrated by the lack of fuel. The room became thick with smoke. The vacuum in
Melli's lungs was like a hunger. She needed to breathe, but was afraid of
drawing in a substance more deadly than smoke. The back of her skull was
bleeding. She felt the blood trickle down her neck. Her eyes were watering.

The smoke was
black and speckled with soft burnt flakes. Kylock raised his hands and took a
step toward her. Melli opened her lips and took in the smoke. For a second her
body resisted her and she started to choke, but she fought it, breathing in
more and more. The smoke was bitter at first. Hot and acrid, it burnt her
lungs. But then Kylock's hands were upon her, and what had been her poison
became her savior.

The world fell
away and left Melli in the dark.

By the time
Skaythe dragged himself into the trees, his tunic was soaked in blood. He had
taken the arrow high on his left shoulder blade, and the tip had pierced his
bone. He had crawled to safety on his stomach, using his right arm to pull himself
forward.

His horse was
tethered to a slender ash tree and she whinnied softly as she caught his scent.
"Ssh, Kali," he murmured.

The trees still
carried most of their foliage and the leaves cut out much of the moonlight.
Skaythe preferred it that way. He always worked better in the dark. Grasping
hold of a nearby tree trunk, he hauled himself off the ground. Pain coursed
down his side. He felt physically sick and had to stop himself from vomiting by
holding back his head and gulping hard. His left hand made a fist just as his
right did Good. That meant the muscles in his arm would be all right.

After a moment the
nausea passed, leaving nothing but a sharp taste in his mouth. He stood up all
the way and then rested against the trunk for support. Making a soft clicking
noise with his tongue, he urged his horse forward. The filly came as near as
her reins permitted, and Skaythe was able to take the saddlebag from her back.

More pain and
nausea followed as his shoulders bore the weight of the bag. He found what he
needed: ointment, sharp knife, linen bandages, and a small flask of hard
liquor. He took the liquor first, drinking all but a mouthful in one go. It
burned a path down his throat and then glowed like an ember in his belly. He
had to work quickly now: liquor like this didn't leave much time between
dulling your senses and robbing you of your wits. The last of the liquor he
poured onto half the bandage and then cleaned the area around the wound, the
bottom portion of the arrow shaft, the blade of his knife, and his fingers.

He had already
broken the shaft halfway down, and about a hand's length of wood now projected
from his shoulder blade. Taking the knife, he cut into the wound, opening the
flesh to either side of the arrowhead. The knight had used a standard V -shaped
blade. Just the sort of head you'd expect a man of honor to use. Not barbed,
not razored, not beveled. Skaythe shrugged. He had pointed a barbed, serrated
head the knight's way.

Once he'd freed
the flesh on each side of the V, Skaythe took the remaining shaft in his hand,
willed his body to stay relaxed, and pulled the arrowhead free.

The pain was hot,
white, and clawing. It shot down his arm and across to his heart. Urine
splashed down his leg. Even though he had made space for the V, the edges still
gouged flesh as they went. He didn't scream. He never screamed-even as a child.

Once the head was
out, Skaythe slumped back against the tree. Taking the other half of the
bandage, he pressed it hard against the wound. His blood was black in the
moonlight. He was weakening fast. The liquor was reaching the point where it
robbed him of his wits.

As he held the
cloth to his shoulder blade he cursed Tawl with all the hate of a man defeated.
The knight had taken a chance--he had deliberately aimed his arrow to the left.
Tawl had bet that he would jump, and then taken a further bet on which way he
was likely to go. Skaythe had thought he was leaping to safety, but he had been
leaping straight into the arrow's path. If the knight had aimed his arrow straight
at the heart, then he would have emerged without a scratch. But no, he had
pointed his sights at thin air, and by doing so drawn blood instead.

Skaythe shook his
head grimly. The blood was slow to stop.

There was one
consolation to be drawn from tonight's match, however. Tawl had been lucky,
that was all. Skaythe knew all about luck, and he knew that, without exception,
it always ran out in the end. A man who was lucky one day would likely be
cursed the next. So when he met Tawl again, the odds would be in his favor.

And he would meet
Tawl again.

Tomorrow he would
find someone to stitch up the wound. After that he'd probably need to rest for
a few days, to give the skin time to heal. In the short term he might lose
track of the knight, but ultimately he knew where Tawl was heading, knew where
he would return to, and with just one sending from Baralis, Skaythe could find
him in the dark.

The wind was
lively and smelled of fish. The morning came early and bright. The white
buildings of Toolay trailed golden shadows in the sunrise, and the sea played
songs for the cliffs.

They had traveled
all night and were weary, but somehow the sight of the little
city
perched
high above the ocean acted like breakfast and tonic in one. Jack knew he wasn't
the only one to feel it; Nabber's face lit up and he muttered a long and happy
sentence in which the words
prospecting
and at last were repeated
several times. Even Tawl seemed pleased. He couldn't smile much, though. The
cut on his cheek might be stretched open by a smile.

"Goat's milk
and ale,"
he
said, urging his horse forward. "Goat's milk and
ale?" Jack kicked his heels into his gelding's flank. He wasn't about to
let Tawl get to the
city
first.

Tawl's eyes
twinkled brighter than the sea. "That's what they serve a man for
breakfast here."

There was a little
furtive rivalry in the air. Jack could clearly see Tawl building up for a
gallop. "What do they serve the women, then?"

"I've seen
the women here, Jack," said Nabber. "And by the looks of them, they
get just the ale."

With that, Tawl's
horse sped ahead, leaving Nabber's muffled cries of complaint in its wake. Jack
chased after them. It felt good to be here, right now, with the sun warming his
face and the wind salting his lips, riding through dust left by friends.

Friends they might
be, but he was still going to beat them. Jack dug his heels deeper and gave
Barley his reins. Tawl's horse was more powerful, but it had to carry two.
Barley found reserves of strength and was soon on their tail. Nabber kept his
head low, whilst his voice bellowed like a foghorn:

"This is the
last time I'll ever get on a horse with you, Tawl!"

Jack smiled as
Barley passed them. "I don't blame you, Nabber," he yelled.
"It's only worth riding with the best." He didn't risk turning to
look at them. First, because he didn't want Tawl to see him smile, and second,
he was terrified. He'd never ridden this fast before. Beneath him, Barley had
turned from a sweet and gentle creature to a warhorse on the charge. All Jack
could do was hang on and hope for leniency.

On his way to
victory, Barley demonstrated latent talents for jumping over ditches, picking
paths through rocks, and delaying his swerves around trees until the last
possible moment.

Finally, horse and
rider made it onto the high road. Seeing carts, people, and other horses had a
profound effect on Barley and, like a naughty child in front of visitors, he
became a model of good behavior. He slowed his pace to a trot and even stepped
to the side to let people in a hurry pass. Jack was so grateful that he'd
stopped galloping that he didn't have the heart to chide him. He merely
whispered in his ear, "If you've any more tricks up your sleeve, save them
for your next master."

"Hey!
Jack!" Tawl and Nabber drew level with him. Tawl reached over and patted
Barley's flank. "If I'd known he was that good, I would have picked him
for myself."

Jack had the
distinct feeling that if it wasn't for the newly scabbed cut on his face, Tawl
would be laughing out loud by now. "Come on, then," he said, urging
Barley forward. "We can't keep the goats waiting."

The city of Toolay
was bustling. Merchants, farmers, barrow-boys, and fishermen crowded the
narrow, winding streets. People were shouting their wares, calling greetings to
acquaintances, haggling, harping, and gossiping. Jack liked the place
immediately, his only reservation being that there were a lot of geese roaming
the streets. Having been chased by a pack of the vicious, honking birds last
spring, the only acceptable goose to him was now a roast one.

Suddenly feeling
hungry, Jack was glad when Tawl picked a nearby tavern to stop at. The
Lobster's Legs was small and cozy. The tavern-keeper, a hearty red fowled man
named Blaxer, greeted them warmly, sending out a boy to look after their horses
and personally warming the goat's milk himself. His exceedingly handsome son
brought them a breakfast of hot oatmeal and cold lobster, and then offered to
prepare them a room.

Jack hoped Tawl
would agree. They hadn't slept at all last night, and the idea of sleeping in a
comfortable, safe bed rather than on hard ground out in the open was pleasing
to say the least Tawl looked quickly at Nabber The boy stifled a theatrical
yawn.

"Very well.
We'll stay the night here and leave for Rom in the morning."

The
taverm-keeper's son nodded politely, poured ale into their goat's milk, and
then took his leave. His father watched all this from the corner of the room,
his face bright with patemal pride.

They ate their
breakfast in silence, all of them too tired, or hungry, or caught up in their
own thoughts to talk. After they had finished, Tawl stood up. "You two go
and get some rest I'll be back in a couple of hours."

Jack shook his
head. "No. I think I'll come with you, instead."

Tawl gave him a
hard look. "I'm just going to find someone to put a couple of stitches in
my cheek."

"That's fine
with me. After that we can see about getting an extra longbow." Jack
wasn't going to be put off. Tawl began walking across the room. "Come on,
then," he said as he reached the door.

Feeling like he'd
just won a small victory, Jack followed him outside. The sunlight made him
squint. The streets were still busy, but a little more ordered now that every
market-trader's stall was in place and everyone else had settled down to the
serious business of buying. Tawl accosted the first person who walked past,
asking her the name of a decent surgeon.

"Sir,"
said the old lady, "for an injury such as the one on your cheek, any
barber on Letting Street will suffice." She smiled pleasantly, bid them
good morning, and was off, large empty basket held out in front of her like a
shield.

Jack and Tawl
exchanged a smile. The people of Toolay were certainly unique.

By the time they
found Letting Street it was close to midday. All together there were about half
a dozen barbers vying for business along the way. Their shop fronts were open,
showing displays of sharp knives, hacked-off topnotches, and gallstones in
jars. "This one will do," said Tawl, indicating one enterprising
barber who had hung a carving of a huge wooden leech above his door.

"Aah, sirs! I
see two men in need of a haircut." The barber came rushing over to them as
soon as they stepped through the door. He was a thin man with a red leather
belt around his waist and a razor-sharp knife in his hand. He caught sight of
Tawl's cheek. "Why, sir, sit down. Sit down. That's a four-stitcher if
ever I saw one."

Tawl sat in the
proffered chair. Jack stayed where he was. He had grown accustomed to his hair
the length it was, and he had no intention of letting the barber near him.