Master and Fool (41 page)

"Meanwhile,
the kingdoms' army will arrive in Bren and proceed to outflank and then destroy
Highwall's army." It was a simple and brilliant plan. Baralis had long
wondered why Kylock had positioned his troops outside of Annis. Now he knew
why. The king had been waiting for a chance to maroon the Annis army in their
own city. Up until now, he couldn't risk moving his troops without fear they
would be caught between Annis on one side and Highwall on the next.

Kylock was still
smiling. He was well aware of his own brilliance. "On the day the
kingdoms' forces are due to come down from the mountains, I want Bren's army to
wage their most aggressive attack on Highwall. The siege army will be so busy
defending themselves, they won't even see our troops coming. As soon as they're
spotted, Bren's army will come over the wall and attack Highwall full on."

"Highwall
won't stand a chance. Bren will be in front of them, the blackhelms to the
east, the mountains behind them, and the kingdoms' forces will come from the
west. It will be a bloody massacre. No prisoners. No mercy. No chance of
retreat."

Kylock put down
his cup of wine untouched. He looked directly at Baralis. "So, Chancellor,
what do you think?"

"I think the
entire north will be ours in less than a year," replied Baralis. He
believed it, too. Kylock was many things-unstable, irrational, cruel to a fault
but he was a genius where military strategy was concerned. No one in the Known
Lands could match him. Feeling suddenly more confident than he had in months,
Baralis said, "I will arrange to have your orders sent today by eagle,
sire."

Jack tapped Nabber
on the shoulder and said to the tavernmaid, "I'll have what he's
having."

"Very wise,
Jack. Very wise." Nabber beamed. The tavern-maid beamed. Only Tawl didn't
join in the merriment. The knight's attention was elsewhere; out of the corner
of his eye he was watching two men who were sitting near the back of the
tavern.

"Would you
like a crust of pastry or turnips on your pie, sir?"

Jack looked to
Nabber, who supplied the answer, "He'll have the pastry, miss. He's hoping
to get some sleep tonight."

Jack didn't bother
asking Nabber to explain the relationship between turnips and sleeplessness-he
was too busy studying the men who had attracted Tawl's attention.

The Rose and Crown
was a large and busy tavern. It was dark by the time they arrived, and although
Jack hadn't seen the sea, he knew it was close. The Rose and Crown was full of
swarthy men whose faces were reddened with salt and wind. Sailors, Jack
guessed.
The two men Tawl was watching looked different than most of the other
clientele.
It wasn't just their fair coloring, it was their size and their bearing.
Like Tawl, they managed to study everyone in the room without once lifting
their gaze from their drinks.

The tavern-maid
returned with the beer. The huge pewter jug brimmed with froth, and Nabber set
about pouring it into cups with all the skill of an innkeeper's son.

They had
been
in
Rorn for less than an hour. As soon as they passed the city gate Tawl had them
steering a course for the harbor. The sun spent little time setting, and most
of the journey through the city was done in the dark. Jack had little chance to
form an impression of the most famous city in the south, except that it smelled
really bad and the buildings were nowhere near as white as they appeared from a
distance. There were a lot of dodgy-looking people on the streets, too-and
quite a few of them were women.

No women in here,
though. None except the tavemmaid.

Jack pushed Tawl's
drink his way and said under his breath, "Should I have my knife
ready?"

Tawl raised the
cup to his lips. "Always have your knife ready, Jack," he said before
he drank. He brushed the foam from his lips, then spoke to Nabber. "Go and
see the innkeeper about a room for the night and stabling for the horses."

Nabber hesitated.
"Now. "

Mouth closed in
indignation, Nabber did as he was told. The fairest of the two men in the back
stood up. He was looking straight at Tawl. Under the table, Jack's hand was
damp around his knife. The man walked toward them. He was large and well built.
His gaze never left Tawl. His hands were empty, but the too-straight line of
his tunic told of a weapon barely concealed. He stopped less than a handspan
away from the table. Even though Jack was neither touching nor looking at Tawl,
he could sense the knight's readiness. He smelled like an animal prepared to
fight.

The man checked to
left and right, and
then
hissed, "Have you been sent by Tyren to
bring us back?"

Tawl's stance
didn't change. "Why? Are you deserting him?"

"Are
you?"

Jack didn't
understand what was going on. He was beginning to suspect that the fair-haired
man and his companion were knights, but that still didn't explain the exchange.

Neither man had
relaxed. "What are you doing in a city that
executes
knights on
sight?" said the stranger.

"Same thing
you are. Passing through."

"Where are
you heading?"

"That's my
business." Tawl leaned forward a little. "I don't think there's any
need to ask you yours."

The stranger sent
a quick look to his companion. A "bide your time" look if Jack ever
saw one. "Have you been in Helch over the past five months?" he asked
Tawl.

Tawl shook his
head.

"Then you
only
think
you know my business." The stranger's voice was low and
harsh. "I'm not about to be judged by a man who's been playing it safe in
the south while the war's been raging in the north." He made a quick
movement.

Tawl's hand came
out. He grabbed the stranger's arm. His grip shook as the man fought his hold.
"Go back to your table, my brother," he said. "You're right, I'm
in no position to judge anyone. And I have no wish to fight you tonight."
The man pulled his arm free. "Tyren is murdering the soul of Valdis,"
he said. "And a body with no soul needs to be buried deep in an unmarked
grave." He held Tawl's gaze a moment, then turned and walked away. His
companion stood up and joined him, and together they left the tavern. Jack was
trembling. Strong emotions thickened the air. pride, bitterness, shame. He
glanced toward Tawl. The knight was looking down. His golden hair fell over his
face, and slowly, very slowly, he shook his head from side to side. "Has
it comes to this?" he said, his voice plain and small like a child's.
"When knights slip away from Valdis like prisoners from jail?"

Jack knew Tawl
wasn't talking to him, but he had to know. He had to understand. "Those
two men are knights like you?"

"Not like me.
No." Tawl didn't look up. He managed a bitter smile. "Then again,
they might be exactly like me. After all, I deserted the knighthood
first."

"So they're
deserters?"

Tawl nodded.
"Yes. They thought I had been sent to bring them back." The
bitterness of the smile now extended to a laugh. "Me. The one man in the
knighthood who's not fit to stand in Valdis' shadow. A traitor to bring back
traitors."

"That knight
who just left didn't sound like a traitor to me," said Jack. "He
sounded like a man with no hope." At first Jack didn't think his words had
any effect on Tawl, for he made no attempt to reply. A candle burnt low at the
center of the table. Liquid wax shot over the wood like a stream of glistening
jewels. They both watched in silence as it solidified, becoming milky and dull
once more. Brushing the hair from his face, Tawl looked across the tavern in
the direction the two knights had taken. "No hope, you say?"

Jack was nervous,
yet didn't know why. It was suddenly very important that he say the right
thing. "If you were still in the knighthood, how would you feel about
fighting at Kylock's side?"

"I would do
whatever Tyren asked of me. Loyalty is the one thread that binds the knighthood
together."

The candle began
to gutter, then die. There was no more wax left to burn. The flame changed from
yellow to orange to red, and then went out, leaving a thin strand of smoke
heading up toward the roof.

"I asked how
you would feel, not what you would do." Jack desperately wanted a drink.
His mouth was as dry as sawdust. He didn't dare take one, though. The slightest
movement might ruin what was happening between him and Tawl.

For the first time
Tawl looked directly at him. His blue eyes were bright-with tears or dreams,
Jack didn't know. "You're right, my friend," he said. "I would
feel like a man with no hope."

"But you are
different from the two who just left. You can make your own hope." Jack
leant closer. "Together, we can stop this. Everything good doesn't have to
pass. The knighthood can be glorious once more. Peace can come to the
north."

"Jack, you're
young. You don't understand."

"Then help me
understand. Tell me."

Tawl made a small,
helpless gesture with his hand. "The leader of the knighthood, the man who
those two are running away from, was like a father to me. Tyren first brought
me to Valdis. He made me who I am. When others rejected and ridiculed, he was
there backing me all the way. When my life was no longer worth living, he gave
me reason to carry on." Tawl's voice was close to breaking. "What
sort of man would that make me, if I turned against him now?"

Jack's heart was
beating fast. What Tawl said affected him deeply. There were whole worlds in
the layers between the words. There was tragedy and truth and lies. More than
anyone Jack knew there were always two sides to people. They could do good
things, say good things, and behind your back create a landscape of deceit.
Tarissa and Rovas,

Stillfox, even his
mother-they had all smiled at him whilst they lied.

"It would
make you human, Tawl," he said. "The knight who came over to speak to
you wasn't a liar. He wasn't a traitor. He was disillusioned. There must have
been a time when he believed in Tyren as much as you."

"What are you
saying, Jack?"

"I'm saying
that just because Tyren's been good to you, it doesn't mean he can't be
bad."

Tawl smiled, this
time without bitterness. "You said that like you know what you're talking
about."

Jack shook his
head. He didn't want things to become too personal. Not here, not now. "The
only thing I know for sure is that you and I are on opposite sides from Tyren.
He is fighting against Melli, and that makes him our enemy." Jack's mind
caught at something half-forgotten in the intensity of the moment. "As
soon as you saw those two knights, you assumed they were sent by Tyren to
assassinate us both. That's why you sent Nabber away."

Tawl didn't deny
it He stood up. "This morning you told me why you agreed to come to
Lam-you said you were bon for it Well, let me tell you what I was born for: I
was born to serve. First my mother, then my sisters, then Tyren. Now Melli. I'm
not a fool, Jack; I recognize that Tyren is my enemy. I would even oppose him
if it came to it. But know this: until I have seen proof of his wrongdoings
myself, I will hear no word against him."

Tawl began to walk
away. "You don't serve someone to cast them aside as soon as another
obligation comes along." Jack watched him head out the door. He had
probably gone looking for Nabber. Stretching out his arm, Jack grabbed at the
jug of ale. He swallowed the remaining brew, then followed Tawl outside. The
knight might be wise in many ways, but he still had one hard lesson to learn.

As always, Melli
scraped the dripping from the bread. Mistress Greal allowed her no butter, so
she had to make do with what she got. Bacon grease today, by the smell of it.

Hitching up her
dress, she rubbed the grease into her belly. Her stretched and tautened skin
drank it up.

As she worked, she
spoke to the baby beneath: gentle words of nonsense mixed heavily with love.
This was her favorite part of the day; too early by far for a visit from
Mistress Greal Or Kylock, she could sit in her uncushioned chair with her shawl
pulled close around her shoulders and imagine that Tawl would soon be coming to
take her far away.

It was strange,
really. All her life, she had believed people who daydreamed were weak and
mindless fools. Now she knew she was wrong. There was strength to be found in
dreams. Lots of it. And when there was nothing else in lifeonly violence and
the fear of it--the strength drawn from make-believe worlds was enough to carry
on.

So she sat and
rubbed and dreamed. If she was careful enough, and didn't look at her hands or
her legs or her arms, she sometimes managed to forget where she was.

It was amazing
what the body could bear. Her pregnancy seemed to make her body more resilient.
If Kylock bound her wrists, which he did often, the rope burns would take less
than two days to heal. The wax bums took longer, but the bruises often went
away overnight. At the moment, her right palm had a bum the size of a flame tip
upon it, and one of the bones in her right wrist was bent out of shape.

Her face may, or
may not, have been bruised-she couldn't tell. There was no mirror or glass in
the room. But even if her skin was marked, Kylock had not done it. He never
beat her on the face. Only Mistress Greal did that.

Neither face nor
belly, that was Kylock's way.

The bolt on the
door whirred softly. Melli pushed down her dress, wiping the grease on the hem.
Her stomach contracted and the baby protested by kicking against her abdomen.
No matter how healthy she felt, how strong her daydreams made her, the noise of
the bolt being drawn back destroyed all courage in an instant.

Kylock entered the
room. Straightaway, Melli knew he was lucid. His eyes focused sharp like a fox.
"Good morning, my precious," he said. He moved like no other. Like a
dancer with knives: graceful, guarded, deadly.