Master and Fool (31 page)

"I must ask
for the gold and your word before we go any further," interrupted Mistress
G.

Baralis crossed
over to his desk. He quickly drew up a promissory note, signed it, then stamped
it with his seal. He handed it to the woman.

She read it
slowly. "I'll still need a deposit."

"If you don't
tell me where Maybor and his daughter are this instant, you will not leave this
palace alive." Baralis drew very close to the woman. "Now accept what
you have, or lose everything."

With a shaking
hand, Mistress G slid the note into her bodice. "Very well, then. Lord
Maybor is currently being entertained in my sister's establishment. Send some
men over to follow him home. He'll lead you straight to Melliandra."

Baralis' hand was
on the bell rope. "What establishment is this?"

"A little
place in the south of the city. I'll travel back with the men to make sure they
find it all right."

"Very
well," said Baralis. He had already lost interest in the woman-she could
lead the chase for all he cared. The seers at Larn were never wrong. Melliandra
would soon be his.

Maybor had long
since given up trying to remember all the girls' names. Moxie and Franny came
first, but after that the rest of them were just pleasant, scantily clad
bodies.

Smoke that would
choke a charcoal burner, combined with special brew so strong it could kill
one, had left Maybor in a sort of dazed semiconscious state. The only thing he knew
for sure was that it was time to be going home, and the woman who smelled of
dead rats wouldn't let him. Every time he walked to the door, she would block
his path and push another naked girl his way.

The place was
virtually empty now. A few drunken nohopes lay snoring on the floor, one man
was quietly weeping into his ale, and another was singing about his wife. Even
the smoke was starting to clear.

Maybor pushed the
girls away from him and stood up. The room took a moment to settle beneath his
feet The rat woman loomed into his field of vision.

"Oh sir,
don't go just yet," she said, gripping his arm. "You haven't seen
Esmi dance."

Maybor slapped at
her fingers. "As Borc is my witness, woman, I am leaving now! And you are
not going to stop me." He lurched toward the door. It opened before he got
to it A woman poked her head round. Or at least he thought she did, for when he
focused his gaze, she was gone.

The rat woman, who
had been one step behind him, suddenly turned to her girls. "Say goodnight
to the fine gentleman," she prompted.

"Goodnight,
handsome," echoed the girls.

Maybor
instinctively knew that now wasn't a good time to risk a bow, so he waved an
arm in acknowledgment, instead. The rat woman let him walk out of the door
unchallenged.

Maybor took a deep
breath of night air and tried hard to remember the way home. With eyes focused
firmly on his feet, he walked to the end of the road. Everything seemed
familiar enough and he turned to the left, then made his way across the market
square. It was quiet now. The Highwall army had given up their bombardment for
the night, and the only sound was the trickle of the water in the fountains and
the rustle of his satin tunic as he walked.

All in all it had
been an unusual night. He'd learnt a rather disappointing lesson from it: even
naked women could get boring after a while. Still, a man needs to get
thoroughly, disgustingly drunk once in a while just to stop himself from going
to seed. Judging from the quick pitter-patter of his heart, seed would be the
last place he'd go tonight.

As he walked
through the city, Maybor began to sober up a little. A light breeze blew the
smoke from his lungs, and the foul air from the open sewers had a greater
reviving action than the forest smelling salts.

With increased
lucidity came a certain wariness. His heart wasn't the only thing that was
patter-pattering. Maybor stopped in midstep and, sure enough, the footfalls
stopped, too. Someone was following him. Probably a pickpocket, or a cutthroat
attracted by his fine clothes and his drunken stupor. Maybor hurried on. He
wasn't far from the cellar now.

A few more turns,
a quick check to the left and right, and Maybor entered the butcher's
courtyard.

Borc! but it was
dark. Maybor stumbled into the center, his eyes searching the ground for the
flat square that marked the trapdoor. Once he found it, he banged his foot
against the wood and hissed, "It's Maybor! Let me in." Hearing some
movement from below, Maybor grunted with satisfaction. Those lazy beggars were
still awake. Just as the trapdoor opened up, Maybor realized he'd left his
cloak in the corner of the courtyard. "I'll be back in just a
minute," he murmured to Bodger down below.

Maybor wasn't
exactly sure which corner of the courtyard he'd left his cloak in. They all
looked the same in the dark. As he veered off toward the farthest point in the
courtyard, a harsh cry broke the silence of the night:

"Get
'em!"

Swords slithered
from sheaths and suddenly the courtyard was full of shadowy forms heading for
the trapdoor. Maybor saw two men coming straight for him. He drew his knife and
backed into the deeper shadows of the wall. His hip smashed against something.
It was the butcher's table. Cursing, he made his way around it.

Looking up, he saw
a group of armed guards jumping into the cellar. Someone screamed.

The two men were
only paces away now, and Maybor slashed out with his knife. One of the two
backed away. Grabbing hold of the butcher's table, Maybor pushed with all his
might. It went crashing forward into the second man. Maybor dropped onto the
ground. He scrambled around in the dirt until his hand brushed against the
softness of his cloak.

The second man was
pinned under the butcher's table. He called to his companion to help him lift
it off.

Several men
emerged from the trapdoor. One of them was carrying someone. Someone who
neither screamed nor struggled. It was so dark Maybor could make out no
details, but he guessed it was his daughter. Melliandra would meet the guards
with dignity. Maybor's heart leaped when he saw the figure move. The starlight
caught the flare of a skirt. It was Melli, and she was alive and well. TWo
guards stood on either side of her.

"Trevis!
Brunner! Have you got the old goat yet?"

"We've got
him cornered, cap'n." A loud crash followed as the first man levered the
butcher's table off the second man's foot.

Maybor knew he had
only split seconds to decide what to do. Melli was caught, and he doubted if he
could save her. There were too many men to fight single-handedly. He had to
pull his wits about him. For Melli's sake.

The two guards
came closer. They made wary, sweeping actions with their blades. Maybor was
deep in the shadows, and he guessed that neither man could see him.

He knew the best
thing he could do would be to escape. He'd be no good to Melli caught or dead.
If he remembered rightly, there was a service gate halfway between him and the
butcher's kitchen. Maybor grabbed hold of his cloak. He cast it like a net,
letting it flare out and catch the air. It glided away into the center of the
courtyard. In the quarter-light it looked like a man.

"There he is,
Trevis!" cried the first man. "He's making a run for it" Both
men shot off toward the cloak.

"Father!
No!" screamed Melli.

Maybor's stomach
churned when he heard her-she must have recognized his cloak. He hesitated for
an instant, then scrambled in the opposite direction from all the commotion,
along the wall, toward the gate, making accomplices out of the shadows as he
went. The air was burning in his lungs and he wheezed with every breath. He
didn't need to look back to know that his feint had been discovered. A
crossfire of footfalls and calls sounded behind him.

Maybor reached the
gate. His hand was shaking so much, he couldn't draw the bolt.

"He's there
against the wall!" cried someone.

Maybor gripped the
bolt with both hands and drew it back. The gate opened outward. He risked one
look back. Melli was causing a minor riot. She was kicking and screaming and
trying her damnedest to distract the guards from running after him. Maybor felt
his heart would break. She was the bravest daughter a father ever had.

Footsteps charged
up behind him and he knew it was time to go. He would not let Melli's efforts
go to waste. He slipped through the gate, slamming it closed as soon as he was
through. There was a little more light in the alleyway, and Maybor immediately
saw that the entire left wall was stacked with apple crates. Dashing forward,
he shouldered his whole body into the end stack of crates. They came turnbling
down behind him. Splinters cracked, boxes smashed, and apples went careening to
the floor. The gate was opened and two guards came through just in time to be
bombarded.

Maybor didn't have
the energy to relish the sight. He turned quickly and ran down the alleyway.
Every step was torture. There was a tight band of pain around his chest. His
fine tunic was soaked with sweat. Gradually, as he became lost in the great
maze of the city, his run slowed to a walk. Fully sober now, Maybor felt no joy
in his escape. His mind kept replaying his last sight of Melli, and the image
haunted him until dawn.

"We have to
assume we're being followed," said Tawl. "At all times."

"You never
said a truer word, my friend," chipped in Nabber. "Swift himself swore
he'd been trailed so many times that one day someone would follow him straight
into the grave."

Tawl smiled. He
looked quickly at Jack. He wasn't sure how Jack would take this last statement.
There was so much he didn't know about him.

Jack continued
building the fire. "I've assumed we've been followed for the past week
now."

"Is it
something you've sensed?"

"Not sorcery,
if that's what you mean, Tawl." Jack placed a pointed emphasis on the word
sorcery.

Tawl accepted the
reprimand. He deserved it for not speaking plainly. "Why, then?"

"Because
Baralis has ways of knowing what people are up to. He can follow their trails
if they use sorcery."

Jack threw the
last of the logs on the fire. "And because he's tracked me down more than
once before."

A cool wind blew
through the flames. The sun slid behind the hills to the west and the last of
the day went with it. The horses nickered softly, then turned their attention
back to the grass. Tawl had an uneasy feeling, and he suspected that Jack
shared it.

They had been gone
from the city for nine days now. Nine days of late nights and early mornings,
of hard travel, long hours, aching limbs, and little rest. A week ago they
purchased two horses from a farmer who was so scared of being robbed or beaten
that he'd practically given them away. The horses were a little long in the
tooth, but sturdy and well used to hard work. Tawl had let Jack have the bay,
which was the smaller of the two, and kept the dun for himself. Under protest,
Nabber rode at his back.

Up until now, the
horses had actually slowed them down. Nabber hated horses and Jack had never
learnt to ride. Tawl kept forgetting that Jack had been a baker's apprentice.
He didn't look like one, didn't act like one, and he held his blade like a
killer, not a kitchen boy. But he was young, and there were many things he
didn't know. Simple things like how to ride, how to pack his belongings to keep
them dry, how to follow the stars at night, and how to dampen the fire in the
morning.

Slowly Tawl was
teaching him all he knew. Jack learned fast. Already he was a better horseman
than Nabber. Tomorrow, Tawl expected they'd actually make good time. Within a
couple of days they should be in Ness. Once there they could exchange their
horses for faster ones and ride to Rorn within two weeks.

Tawl smiled. He
knew he was being overly optimistic-it might take twice as long as that-but he
just couldn't help himself. Melli was in Bren, and all he could think about was
getting to Lam as fast as possible and then speeding back to her side. He
dreamt of it every night. "Tawl, we're not going to do any more traveling
tonight, are we? I'm as bowlegged as a wishbone." Nabber made a sweeping
gesture with his arm. "Besides, this is a real nice spot to kip down.
Right secluded, it is."

Tawl looked at the
fire. It was burning brightly now. Ever since Jack had mastered the art of
building a quick fire, he used every opportunity to demonstrate it. Nabber was
right. They shouldn't go any farther tonight. They had a pleasant fire, a good
place to sleep, and with only half a moon on show, there wasn't much light to
travel by anyway. Tawl had planned on riding for a few more hours, but he knew
Nabber was tired. "Very well," he said. "We'll go no farther
tonight."

Nabber stood up.
"I'm off to fill the flasks. There's a stream beyond those trees."

"Watch out
for wolves," said Tawl, smiling. Nabber wasn't as interested in collecting
water as he was in the possibility of pestering newts and frogs. Tawl watched
the boy until he was out of sight, making a mental note of the exact direction
he was headed.

"Still
feeling uneasy?" asked Jack.

Tawl hid his
surprise. "I never take anyone's safety for granted."

Jack was quiet for
a while after that. There was a pot on the fire, and he was stirring lentils
and dried meat into it. They were in a gently sloping glade in a sparsely
planted wood. The trees that surrounded them clustered in loose groups like old
women. There were oaks, beech trees, and hawthorn bushes. Everything looked
like it had been here a long time. Even the grass had the jaundiced look of the
elderly.

Tawl made himself
comfortable. He leant back against the trunk of a gnarled old oak and watched
as Jack tended the stew. After a while, he said, "So Baralis has tracked
you down before?"