Master and Fool (59 page)

It was easy to
acquire things. The secret was to push them discreetly from the line of view
while the other person's attention was occupied elsewhere. Both Kylock and
Mistress Greal made a point of scanning the room before they left, checking
that nothing had been left behind. If they didn't see anything, then that was
that. After all, a king could hardly be expected to remember a candle or a
glass.

Now all Melli
needed was a knife. Kylock always had one hung at his hip, but so far that's
where it stayed: he preferred using hot wax and thin rope on her. She might
have to do something to provoke him into drawing his blade-either that or steal
it right from his thigh. Whatever she did, it must be done soon. As best she
could work out, she was drawing close to her final month of pregnancy, and the
way her belly was expanding she doubted whether she'd be able to make it across
the room, much less escape from the castle, once the last few weeks were upon
her.

Melli returned her
collection to its hiding place, careful to ensure that the chest was in exactly
the same position as when she'd started. Mistress Greal would be along soon,
and she had eyes like a hungry cat.

Making her way
back to the comer, Melli pulled her blankets close around her. Soon, very soon,
she would make her escape.

The weather grew
progressively worse as they rode east then north from Marls. First the wind
sent clouds scudding across the sky, and then the clouds ganged up and styled
themselves a storm. Midday became as dark as twilight, rain struck in small but
dense patches, the ground underfoot softened to mud and the air blasted against
their faces like a gale.

The horses weren't
happy; the riders weren't happy. Wet clothes, wet food, no fires at night, no
rest, no warmth, no give.

The terrain itself
proved easy enough to maneuver. Farmland for the most part, it was flat or
rolling: pastures, meadows, and plowed fields broken up by hedgerows and low,
grassy hills. The rain had plumped and greened the earth, and the landscape had
the look of spring.

As the days went
by the weather became colder, and Tawl realized spring was only an illusion.
The journey was hard on all of them, especially Nabber. The young pocket had
caught a chill and spent a lot of his time sleeping at Tawl's back. Tawl knew
he was setting a hard pace, but he just couldn't bear to slow down.

Slowing down meant
time to think, time to dwell on what Gravia had told him in that squalid little
tavern in Marls. Tawl wished the conversation had never taken place, that he'd
never learnt the truth about Tyren. But he had. So the best he could do was
ride fast and furious and create the illusion it was all in the past.

It was getting
harder, though. Every step his horse took brought him a step nearer to Valdis.
They rode in its shadow now. Tawl could feel its presence pushing against his
left cheek, like heat given off by a fire. They were perhaps fifty leagues
southeast of the city. Tomorrow they would draw parallel to it. The only thing
that stood between them was a thick stretch of forest known as the Gandt. Tawl
remembered it well. He had trained, fought, hunted by day, and tracked stars by
night, all within its leafy bounds. He'd got blind drunk on more than one
occasion, too. He and Gravia would place bets on who could drink the most.
Gravia always won. He won at everything except swordplay. Tawl beat him hands
down at that.

They were such
good days. Rivalry was fierce but never bitter. Fights were fought hard but
without grudges, and friendships were slow to form but long to last. Above
everything there was Tyren: father, mentor, hero, and: god. He was the ideal
that they all strove for, the man they most wanted to impress. Tawl would have
done anything for him. Would have laid down his life.

And now he'd found
he'd laid down his soul, instead. All those years he'd spent believing that
Tyren saved him when really he had been bought and sold. The most precious and
enduring image in Tawl's life had been shattered, and it left a dangerous
hollow that was filling up with rage. The last six years of his life had been
based on a he, and Tyren had been the master of the sham.

"Tawl!"
called Jack. "Let's stop. Nabber's not looking too good."

Tawl glanced to
the northwest. They were so close to Valdis now he didn't want to stop.
"Just for five minutes," he cried, pulling at the reins. "Then I
want to get going again."

Jack did not look
pleased. He had changed a lot since Larn. He had become more confident, more
aggressive, less willing to follow, more to lead.

They stopped by a
small glade of trees. To the east there was farmland, to the west was the dark,
far-ranging form of the Gandt. It was not raining, but a shower had passed by
minutes earlier and everything was wet and dripping.

Jack lifted Nabber
down from Tawl's horse. He placed his bedroll down on the ground and urged the
boy to rest. He then turned to Tawl. "Over there," he hissed,
indicating a spot where Nabber wouldn't be able to overhear them.

Tawl jumped from
his horse and prepared to do battle. "This pace is too hard on the
boy," said Jack.

"You mean
it's too hard on you."

Jack gave Tawl a
hard look. "What happened to you in Marls?"

"It's none of
your business, Jack."

"It is my
business when we're up before dawn every morning and ride well past sundown
every night. I want to get to Bren as fast as you do, but this isn't the way
to
do it. Nabber needs rest. He needs a warm bed and a hot meal. I say we stop
overnight at the next village we come to. If Melli is alive, she'll be all
right an extra day. And if she's dead, there's no hurry."

Jack's cool
assessment of the situation annoyed Tawl. "Who are you to say-"

"I'm the one
who'll deal with Baralis and Kylock. Not you, Tawl. Me."

"And who will
cut you a path?" Tawl was shaking now. "Or do you expect the guards
to just lay down their arms the minute you walk in the palace?"

"I expect you
to be by my side, Tawl."

The expression on
Jack's face killed Tawl's anger dead. Some things were too important to fight
over. Running his hands through his hair, Tawl took a deep breath. "I'm
sorry, Jack. You're right, I haven't been thinking straight since Marls. I
talked to an old friend while I was there and he told
me
someone . . .
" Tawl struggled to find the words, "someone I cared about had lied
to me."

"Tyren?"

Either Jack was
quick or he'd been talking
to
Nabber. "Yes, Tyren."

"People lie
all the time, Tawl." There was a trace of bit
terness
in Jack's
voice. "All the time and for all sorts of reasons."

Tawl nodded
slowly. He was right.

The wind suddenly
picked up. It was coming from the west, and for a moment Tawl thought he heard
a high sound, like a cry. It was gone before he could place it. "Let's
go," he said. "We'll ride until the next village."

Jack didn't object
and Tawl guessed he hadn't been the only one to hear the noise.

Protesting
vociferously despite his cold, Nabber was placed on Tawl's horse. Jack worked
quickly to secure his pack, then they turned onto the cow path and rode north.

An unspoken assent
between Jack and Tawl caused them both to steadily pick up their pace. Before
long they were cantering down the narrow trail, heads brushing against bare
branches, mud flying in their wake. Tawl was concentrating, listening for the
slightest sound. A pair of geese took noisily to the air as they passed,
somewhere over the hill a lone dog was barking, then the rain started to fall,
blotting everything out.

Tawl was nervous.
The path they were on dipped and twisted, and the way ahead wasn't clear. The
farther they went, the nearer the dark expanse of the Gandt came. It seemed to
be reaching out toward the path, closing in on them. Tawl broke into a gallop.

At first he
thought it was Jack at his heels, but the rhythm of pounding hooves became too
complex for just one horse. Then, out of the comer of his eye, Tawl spotted a
fast-moving form emerging from the Gandt.

"Hang on,
Nabber," he cried. And then to Jack, "Break to the east on my
say-so." Tawl dug heels into horseflesh and gave his gelding the reins.

There were more
forms now. At full gallop they cleared the forest, cutting a slanting path
toward the trail. Tawl recognized the colors: yellow and black. They were
knights, and they were trying to head Jack and Tawl off.

With fresh,
specially trained horses beneath them they'd be able to do it, too. Tawl knew
his own horse didn't have much fight left in him. Two to carry, a week of solid
riding, the poor old gelding must be on its last legs.

The riders were
drawing level with the road. Tawl could see their faces, but it was to their weapons
his eyes were drawn. They were wielding triple-edged spears. Tawl had trained
with such a spear, he knew exactly what damage they could do. The leading
two-edged blade slipped in first, and the matching barbs went in after. Once
the head was pulled out, it tore a man apart.

Tawl switched his
gaze forward. The road swung to the west up ahead. If Tawl and Jack followed
it, it would lead them right into the knights' path. It was too early to break
east, though. Best to wait until the last possible moment. Tawl risked a second
glance at the riders. Their heads might be bare, but metal gleamed beneath
their colors. They were wearing breastplates on their upper bodies, chain mail
on the lower. Fighting was out of the question-he and Jack wouldn't stand a chance.

The bend was
coming up fast. Tawl could see the knights beginning to rein in their horses.
He counted--one, two. . . three-then cried, "Now, Jack. Now!"

Tawl pulled on the
right rein. The gelding's head whipped to the east. Nabber dug his fingers into
Tawl's side as the beast changed its course in midstride. The path was bounded
by a ditch, and the gelding barely had time to find its feet before it was
forced to leap across the trench. The horse hit the soft muddy bank. It
struggled for its footing. Jack's horse cleared the trench easily, and he rode
ahead into the plowed field. Behind them, Tawl could hear the knights crying
out to each other, switching their plan from a blockade to a chase.

Tawl guided his
horse farther along the ditch, until they reached a section where the bank
wasn't as steep. The gelding scrambled up and onto the field. Jack was way
ahead of them, setting a course for a wooded copse on the other side of the
hedgerow. The rain had stopped now, but the field was heavily waterlogged, with
pools of water lying between the furrows. The water made the gelding skittish;
it was a city horse, unused to country conditions, and although Tawl encouraged
it to run straight through the pools, it preferred to jump them.

The knights were
gaining on them. Their blinkered mounts were trained for the chase and bred for
speed alone. Swinging his head back, Tawl saw that not all the knights were
following his path; some had veered off to the north, and others had come to a
standstill. Tawl caught his breath. The men who'd come to a dead stop were
dismounting their horses. Marksmen.

Tawl immediately
switched his riding to a zigzag pattern. It slowed him down, but he'd rather
take a spear in his gut than risk an arrow in Nabber's back. Jack was too far ahead
to warn, but not far enough to be dismissed from a marksman's sight. He was
almost upon the copse now-if he made it there, he'd be safe.

An arrow whirred
past Tawl's knee. They were aiming low. Too low to bring down a man. Tawl
looked ahead just in time to see Jack's horse collapse beneath him. Jack was
propelled forward, headfirst into the hedgerow.

In that moment,
Tawl realized the knights weren't interested in killing-they wanted to capture
them. Valdis' marksmen were the best in the Known Lands, and when they brought
a horse down rather than its rider it was with intent. The triple-edged spears,
too-they were heavy enough to stop a horse in its tracks. A lighter one would
do for a man.

"Nabber,"
shouted Tawl, "put your left hand straight up in the air." They
couldn't outrun the knights. Jack was down, the gelding couldn't keep up the
pace much longer. It was only a matter of minutes before they were caught. It
was better to surrender now, while Jack was the only one down, than keep on
running and risk arrow nicks and broken bones from falls. It was time to cut
their losses.

Nabber did as he
was told, and Tawl gradually slowed down his horse. He knew the knights would
stop firing once they saw the signal: Valdis' code of honor would prevail.

Tawl turned to
meet his pursuers. Four men rode forward to meet him.

"Off the
horse. Now!" said the man in front.

Tawl reached for
Nabber's hand and squeezed it. "We'll be all right," he whispered.
Jumping down into the mud, he lifted Nabber from the gelding. The boy's body
was stiff and cold.

The knights
withdrew their spears. One man came forward and frisked them for weapons.

The two riders who
had headed north were making their way toward Jack. Tawl had no way of knowing
what, if anything, Jack was planning. "Jack," he shouted, "I've
surrendered. Come peacefully." Tawl had seen what Jack was capable of, and
this wasn't the time for a replay of Larn. These men had acted honorably and
they would receive honor in return.

Tawl watched the
hedgerow. He saw the riders approach, heard them shout out, and then spied Jack
slowly emerging from the bushes. His face was covered in blood and he was
limping. His hands were above his head. Good. He had heard and understood the
warning. No sorcery. Not on the knights.

Tawl watched Jack
for a moment, satisfying himself that he would be all right, and then spun
around to face the leader. "Es nil
hesrl, "
he said: I am not
worthy. It was the traditional greeting at Valdis, and somehow, despite
everything-despite Tyren's betrayal and the knighthood's decline--it seemed the
right thing to say. These men were his brethren.