Master and Fool (70 page)

As Crayne spoke,
Jack got the distinct impression that he had talked to Tawl at some point
today. His priorities had shifted from the knighthood to the palace. Jack made
a mental note to thank Tawl later. It was good to have someone to depend on.

"How can we
be sure where the Lady Melliandra is being held?" asked Andris.

Tawl shrugged. He
had just wrestled the brandy flask off Nabber. "Once we're in the city,
we'll have to split up, ask around, find out whatever we can. Someone will know
where she is."

"If she is in
the palace, how are we going to get to her?" Nabber snatched the brandy
flask back. "That's where I come in, Andris. I know that palace like the
moles on my feet. I'll have us in there before you can strap on a
breastplate." The word breastplate came out as
bwestfate.
Nabber
had drunk more than his share.

Tawl handed him
his water flask. "Drink all of this ... Now!" he boomed when Nabber
hesitated.

Borlin reached in
his pack. "Here," he said, handing a loaf of bread around the fire.
"Make him eat this as well."

"So,"
said Crayne, ignoring the drunken pocket. "We can gain access to the
palace. We can probably get into the city-though some of us will have to go on
foot to draw less attention-but what do we do once we've got the Lady
Melliandra?"

"We he low
until nightfall," said Tawl, "smuggle ourselves under the wall, and
then ride east to meet up with Maybor's men. Once they've arrived, we head to
the south of the city and take over Tyren's camp." His words met with nods
of approval from the men. Tawl seemed relieved.

Jack coughed to
gain everyone's attention. "Once you've got Melli from the palace, I'll be
going in to take Kylock. I won't ask anyone to follow me, and"-he looked
straight at Tawl-"I don't want anyone coming back to rescue me if I don't
come out. I expect you to go after Tyren." The mist swirled around the
fire, hissing when it came close to the flames. The knights were silent,
waiting for Tawl's reply.

Tawl's gaze did
not leave Jack's for an instant. They both knew how much was being offered.
Finally he spoke: "You're a good friend, Jack. I will promise to do as you
ask, though my heart might lead me astray."

Sleep was slow to
come that night. Jack tossed and turned until dawn, visions of Maybor on his
deathbed and the thirty women in the ditch flitting through his dreams. The
knights were restless, too. Jack suspected they were thinking about Tyren and
how they would soon betray him. There would be no turning back if they failed.

The night was
long, the mist icy cold, and the earth beneath their blankets as hard as stone.
When dawn finally showed itself as a pink tinge in the east, the party was
already awake. With breaths whitening in the freezing air, and joints cracking
as they rose, they collected their belongings and kicked out the fire, and
headed north toward Bren.

Baralis decided it
was time to visit the fair Melliandra. He had just come from a meeting with
Kylock, and from what he had managed to ascertain, the girl was playing games
with him. The king was needed in Camlee. Kedrac was a good leader, but he
didn't come close to Kylock, and for victory to be both swift and assured,
Baralis knew Kylock should be there. However, Maybor's daughter had Kylock
wrapped around her little finger, and he was now delaying his departure for
Camlee, waiting for her to be ready.

Baralis didn't
know or care what ready meant, but he could spot delay tactics a league away, and
he knew the girl was bluffing. Which was the main reason he was going to see
her: no one put pay to his plans.

The other reason
was less substantial, but just as compelling all the same.

Baralis lit an oil
lamp and, checking the fold of his robe for his copper sigiling knife, left his
chambers in the dark behind him. Through corridors that were always deserted,
up stairs that hadn't been swept in a year, Baralis traveled, hands curled up
beneath his robes, feet making no sound to tell of his passing.

He rounded a
corner and came face-to-face with Mistress Greal. Meeting her thus, Baralis
realized he hadn't seen her since the night of the birthing. Over two weeks ago
now.

Mistress Greal
seemed surprised to see him. In her hand she had a small bowl of steaming water
and in the other a lambswool blanket. "Just off to bed for the night, my
lord," she said, raising the water.

"A little
early for a night creature such as yourself." Baralis didn't like the look
on the woman's face.

Mistress Greal
attempted a simper. "Must get my beauty sleep, my lord." She bobbed a
quick curtsey and scurried off. Baralis opened his mouth to command her to
stop, but the knife pressed a reminder against his thigh: he had more important
things to take care of at the moment. The toothless hag was probably up to no
good, but she'd had free run of the palace for the last five months, so
stopping her here and now wouldn't serve much purpose. Baralis turned back to
his business.

A few minutes
later he climbed up the stairs to Melliandra's chamber. Situated in an unused
annex just off the nobles' quarters, no one had occasion to come here. The two
guards stood up when they saw him appear. Baralis could tell immediately that
they had been drinking. Normally such petty transgressions wouldn't concern
him, but a certain worry that had grown within his mind this past week caused
him to take the men to task.

"You,"
he said, pointing his finger at the nearest guard. "Drink once more whilst
you're on duty and I will have your fingers chopped off one by one." And
then to the other man: "Seeing as you are the oldest here-and so
responsible for your companion's behavior as well as your own-I will have your
arms hacked off at the elbow." Both men stared at him, their eyes large
with terror. "Is that clear?"

The older of the
two men nodded. He began to speak. Baralis cut him short. "No excuses. No
promises. Just do as I say." Much eager nodding followed. Baralis was well
pleased. "Good. Now, I want you to wait at the bottom of the stairs until
I call you." The guards hesitated. "Go!"

Baralis watched
them scurry away. When their footsteps had receded to dim patters, he took out
his knife. Copper hilt, copper blade, good for little except show, it wasn't
designed to slice flesh or spear meat or cut rope. It was used for scoring wood
and designed for making sigils. Sigils were warding signs marked upon doors.
When scored properly, using the correct blade and the correct sequence of
angles, the sigil acted as a gatekeeper. A silken thread of sorcery linked the sigil
to its maker, and the slightest pull on the thread was a warning the link had
been breached. Baralis had scored such markings upon the door to his own
chambers in Castle Harvell. He always knew the moment anyone crossed his
threshold and, having thought long and hard about the Valdis arrow in Skaythe's
heart, he intended to have a similar arrangement here.

Placing the oil
lamp down on the stone, Baralis warmed the blade in the flame. The incident at
Lake Ormon had troubled him for a week now. He couldn't be certain what it
meant; it might have just been an offhand killing, or it might be a sign that
the knights were now in league with Jack and Tawl. At times like this, Baralis
was always inclined toward caution. By his reckoning, the party should be arriving
in Bren in the next few days, and if there was even a remote chance they might
be free to try something, Baralis planned to make sure they would fail.

The baker's boy
had to be killed. He had already destroyed Larn. He could not be allowed to
destroy the empire as well.

And as for the
knight well, he had to be tried and hung for Catherine's murder. Justice was
long overdue.

Baralis lifted the
knife from the flame. The blade was beginning to darken and the hilt had grown
hot in his palm. Bringing the tip up to the banded wooden surface of the door,
Baralis began to utter the appropriate words of warding. His saliva thickened
with sorcery as the chant escaped from his lips. The heated blade scored a mark
three hairs deep in the wood.

The signs etched
weren't as important as the angle of the blade. It was the bevel of the mark
that made the sigil dance. Runes, stars, and other devices worked more as a
physical deterrent rather than a magical one. Superstition alone kept most
people from crossing a warded door. On first sight, though, no one would be
able to tell this door was warded. Baralis made the sigil follow the grain of
the wood, veering off at angles only when necessary. To a casual glance the
door would look normal.

Which was exactly
how Baralis wanted it. Just in case.

"We'll meet
outside the Brimming Bucket at midnight," said Crayne. He made a point of
meeting everyone's eyes. "If either party gets delayed or caught, or if
the others don't turn up, then we continue on without them. Understood?"

Jack nodded along
with the rest. They were on a dark street comer in the east side of Bren: to
the left lay a cobbler's shop, to the right a dimly lit tavern with
saffron-yellow shutters. It was early evening. They had passed the gate less
than a quarter of an hour ago.

It had taken them
seven days of hard riding to reach the city. Seven days of freezing sleet,
driving winds, and morning fog. They stopped only when the horses needed rest
and rode five hours past sunset every night. Burnt villages and farms dotted
the horizon, and corpses and refuse littered the fields. They followed Kedrac's
path all the way; it was the fastest road to Bren.

When they finally
drew near the city this morning, they made a small detour north to the village
of Fair Oaks. This was the place where they had arranged to meet Maybor's
troops. The Highwall men would be two or three days behind them, so Crayne
dropped Follis and Mafrey off in the village to wait for their arrival. The
remaining men had split into two groups. Jack, Tawl, Nabber, Crayne, and Borlin
were in the first group. Andris led the others in the second. The job of the
first group was to go into the city and find out all they could about Melli's
whereabouts and security arrangements in the palace. Later they would meet up
with the second group and decide upon a definite course of action.

No one had
challenged them so far. The run up to the city had been without incident, and
Jack and his party had met no problems at the gate. They had left half of their
horses in Fair Oaks, and only Borlin and Nabber had been mounted when they
approached the wall. Both knights had pared down their armor and weapons, and
they had their circles well covered. Jack still thought they could be spotted a
league away, but knights were currently welcome in Bren, and the gatekeeper
hadn't batted an eye.

Tawl was the only
one who caused them problems. A lot of people in the city knew what he looked
like, and there weren't many men who could match his size and golden hair. He
had claimed Nabber as his son, donned a felt hat, rubbed ash into his seven-day
beard, and took to leaning against his horse as if he were half lame. Jack
wanted to laugh when he saw him-up to that point Tawl had never looked anything
less than dignified. Now, with a felt hat flopping around his ears and a fake
limp dragging at his foot, he looked like an unusually large village idiot.

The disguise had
worked, though. The gatekeeper had addressed his questions to the
bright-looking son rather than the dim-looking father and, hearing nothing
amiss, had let them pass.

The gate was
heavily guarded. A dozen blackhelms stood on either side of it, and two dozen
more manned the wall. When they entered the city it was the same: black helms
on every other corner, blackhelms keeping watch from the battlements. Tawl
said, and Crayne agreed, that not all of the men could be fully trained, as
Kedrac would have taken the best to Camlee. Still, there were enough of them to
intimidate no matter what their weapons skills were, and as Jack made his way
across the city, his heart was pounding fast inside his chest.

He, 'Pawl, and
Nabber had split up from Crayne and Borlin; four grown men walking around the
city together might attract unwanted attention from the blackhelms. They would
meet four and a half hours later at a tavern of Nabber's choosing. Andris and
the men in the second party planned to enter the city two hours before the gate
was closed for the night. Their job was to acquire supplies and find lodging.

"Where should
we start?" said Tawl. The brim of the felt hat cast his eyes in deep
shadow. Which was just as well, thought Jack, for Tawl was constantly looking
from side to side to check for blackhelms.

"Let's try
and find out what happened to Lord Cravin." Jack was standing with his
hands thrust into his tunic to stop them from going numb. Bren was a full
winter colder than when he'd been there last. "I say we skirt close to his
townhouse. Talk to a few street traders, maybe go into a couple of
tavems."

Jack and Tawl both
looked to Nabber. As acknowledged master of city life, any objections he could
raise were invaluable. Like a true expert, Nabber knew his worth. He sucked in
his breath, then let it out with a series of cheekpuffing motions. "I say
Jack's got a plan. I'll hang back a bit from you two. Keep an eye out for
trouble. Raise the cry if it's needed. No one will pay any attention to a boy
like myself. I'll be as good as invisible."

"Sounds good
to me, Nabber," said Jack. "Let's go." They didn't have far to
walk. Lord Cravin's townhouse was less than a league from the east wall. On
Nabber's advice, they decided not to pass too close to the building and kept a
few streets south of it at all times. Coming upon a small square where market
traders were packing away their goods for the night, Jack veered off into the
pathway between the stalls. A light drizzle had just started up, and the men
and women who were closing shop worked quickly to prevent their wares from
being soaked.