Master and Fool (45 page)

The captain leapt
from his chair. "It's time I was on deck. Dampen the lights, then follow
me up."

"Wake up,
boy! Wake up! It's disrespectful to sleep in the presence of the Old Man."

Nabber was shaken,
prodded, cajoled, and finally freed from his bindings. His first instinct was
to smooth back his hair. His second instinct was to feel for his sack. Gone.
Bleary-eyed, sore-headed, and indignant, Nabber took in his surroundings. Nice.
Very nice. A good fire, gold-embellished furniture, and enough fresh flowers to
bury a family of four.

"You should
count yourself lucky, young man," came a voice from behind.

Nabber swung
around. An old man was sitting in the comer. He was dressed well but plainly,
and had no hair to call his own. Thinking he'd got the gist of the situation,
Nabber said, "I tell you now, sir, I've got nothing against you types, but
it's just not my meat of choice."

The old man burst
out laughing. The man behind joined in. Unsure what to do next, Nabber finally
settled for a long, sweeping glare. As he caught the eye of the one who'd
brought him, a tiny little shift took place in his brain: he recognized this
man. It was the smaller of the two cronies who had delivered the letter to Tawl
in Bren. What was it he said when he woke him up? It's disrespectful to sleep
in the presence of
the
Old Man, not an old man. Nabber took a gulp big
enough to swallow an apple whole. He was in the Old Man's lair. And the person
who he'd just insulted was none other than the Old Man himself.

"Moth, would
you be so good as to leave us alone?" said the Old Man.

"No problem,
Old Man. Me and Clem will be waiting outside." The one named Moth bowed
and left.

The Old Man turned
his attention back to Nabber. "Sit. Sit," he said, indicating a chair
near the fire.

Nabber sat. When
in the presence of Rorn's greatest crime lord, it was best to do as you were
told. "Nice arrangements," he said, nodding to the various vases
filled with flowers. "Must be hard to get your hands on such a variety at
this time of year."

The Old Man smiled
a dry little smile. "I do my best." Nabber cursed himself for not
knowing more about flowers. He could hardly tell a tulip from a turnip.
"Smell real nice, they do. Brighten the room up considerably."

"We all have
to have our little indulgences. Mine is fresh flowers; yours, I hear, is a
certain wayward knight." Nabber went to speak, but the Old Man didn't give
him chance. "Now, as I said earlier, you are quite lucky, my friend. I
could have had Moth and Clem give you a real nasty blow to your skull. Instead
they brought you in the nice way, with just a sack over your head."

"That sack
nearly killed me!" Nabber wasn't about to have anyone, including the Old
Man, tell him he was lucky when he'd nearly died of suffocation. "I passed
clean out. Couldn't breathe to save my life."

"Yes, that
was unfortunate." The Old Man smiled again, this time rather merrily.
"I think it's time we got down to business. I believe your friend has left
the city-heading to Larn, so I've heard. Now, as far as
he is
concerned
I have no choice but to wipe my hands of him. He murdered a dear friend of
mine, and I couldn't call myself a man of honor unless I acted honorably, could
I?"

Nabber nodded. The
Old Man had a point there.

"So that
leaves me with a choice. I could either sit back and do nothing-my duty to
Bevlin ended the minute the letter was delivered--or I could do what little I
could to continue the wiseman's cause."

Nabber was sharp
enough to realize that he wouldn't be here if the Old Man had decided on the
first option. He remained outwardly nonchalant, though. Let the Old Man say his
piece.

"I think I
owe Bevlin more than a letter. Many years ago now he saved my daughter's life.
Not with sorcery, mind, but with his potions. Daisy was bad with red fever and
everyone said it was too late. Bevlin was in Toolay at the time and I sent word
to him by pigeon. That man was in Rorn three days later-how he managed it I
still don't know-but he made it anyway, and he saved my sweet Daisy's life. And
that's why I brought you here today. I still don't think I've done enough to
repay that debt."

The Old Man got
up, walked toward the fire, and rearranged the flowers on the mantel, throwing
all the red ones into the flames. "I can never speak with or see Tawl
again, but I'd be fooling myself if I didn't admit that Bevlin would have
wanted me to help him. Even after all that has happened." He turned to
face Nabber. "So that's why I've brought you here."

"Because you
can't talk to Tawl, so you'll talk to me, instead?" Nabber's eyes were on
the arrangement above the fire. Without the red ones it looked decidedly odd.

"Yes. So
listen hard, for I'll say this only once." The Old Man moved close. His
sharp little face was nothing but a backdrop for his eyes. Ahnost black, they
shone with all the cunning of a fox. "First of all, don't expect any help
from me in terms of money or favors. Information is one thing, but I'm not
about to go out of my way to help the man who murdered my friend. Tawl probably
knows this already, but I'm stating it here and now to ensure there's no
misunderstanding."

"Second, the
archbishop is holding an old acquaintance of Tawl's in the dungeon below the
palace. She's a young prostitute called Megan and she's been there for over a
year now, so Borc only knows what state she's in." The Old Man paused to
take a quick breath. "Last, we come to the venerable archbishop himself,
or rather his chief aide, Gamil. The man has been sending and receiving
messages from Larn at regular intervals over the past five years. I'm pretty
certain the archbishop himself has no knowledge of this correspondence, and I'm
also certain he wouldn't be too pleased if he found out." The Old Man gave
Nabber a pointed look. Nabber gave one back.

"You are
aware that the archbishop intends to pick up Tawl the moment The
Fishy Few
docks
in Rorn?"

"I'm ahead of
you there, Old Man."

The Old Man was
not displeased. "Well, that's everything I mean to say." He walked
toward the door. "Tawl's on his own from here."

Sensing an
imminent dismissal, Nabber stood up. "No, sir, Tawl's not on his
own."

"You're right
He's got you." Opening the door, the Old Man raised an age-spotted hand to
his face. "You know what, Nabber, when all this business is over with, I
think you should come back and see me again. You and I would make good business
partners."

Try as he might,
Nabber couldn't quite stop himself from beaming from ear to ear. "Might
take you up on that, Old Man."

"Might be
obliged if you did."

Nabber bowed at
the compliment Just as he was out the door, he remembered his sack.

"Moth will
see you get it back," said the Old Man. "Oh, and tell him I said to
go easy on you on the way back. Perhaps just a fold this time, eh?"

"A fold
sounds good to me." Nabber stepped out into a dimly lit chamber. The door
closed behind him. Well, well, well, he thought as he was frisked for valuables
by Moth, the Old Man bad good as given him a plan.

"It came out
of nowhere, Captain," shouted Fyler above the roar of crashing waves.
"An hour ago and the sky was as clear as a mountain pool."

Tawl never heard
the captain's reply, as a mighty wave crashed against the hull of the ship. A
mountain of frothing water was driven over the deck and the entire ship pitched
starboard. Holding on to the railings with all his might, Tawl brought his head
down to his chest to stop the rain lashing at his face.

Lightning struck.
It forked blue across the sky, lighting up the night with a single chilling
flash. Thunder followed less than two seconds later.

Tawl watched as
the captain barked out orders. A team of men were already bringing in the
sails. The deck was secure and the last of the hatches was being barred. Fyler
was at the wheel, but the smooth oakwood round was spinning out of control
beneath his fingers.

There were three
lanterns on the deck: one above the anchor mount, another above the wheel, and
a third nailed against the mainmast at man height. All three of them were
burning, yet their pale, bucket-sized halos of light did nothing but emphasize
the dark. The temperature had dropped rapidly in the past hour. The wind had
gone from a healthy breeze to a full-blown gale. It cut across the sea, slicing
the tops off the swells and driving the rain hard and fast against the boat.

Out of the corner
of his eye, Tawl spotted Jack emerging from belowdecks. He watched as Jack
struggled to close the hatch against the wind. The ship rolled and lurched,
both masts rocking wildly from side to side. The flag above the crow's nest was
torn from its rope, a quick flash of yellow consumed by the dark.

Another wave hit.
Tawl's left side was blasted by the surge. Water skimmed across the main and
foredecks. Having secured the hatch, Jack made his way forward. Tawl was
surprised at how well he moved. The deck was running with saltwater and the
ship rocked like a pendulum, yet Jack's footing was sure. The rain was coming
in heavy white sheets now, and Tawl couldn't make out Jack's expression until
they were an arm's-length apart.

Jack gripped the
rail. His eyes were dark. A muscle in his neck beat a pulse.

The crew darted
about them, fastening lines, sweeping the decks, drawing in the rigging. There
were two pairs of hands on the wheel now: Fyler's and the captain's. Tawl
didn't know much about sailing, but he had a feeling that the only thing
steering the ship was the storm.

More lightning.
Thunder right behind it.

Tawl got a clear
look at Jack's face. What he saw scared him. The boy's lips were drawn to a
thin line. His eyes were blank. He seemed to be looking
through
the
storm, not at it.

"Captain, the
swell's rising fast. It'll match the hull before we know it." Carver
dashed past them to the wheel. Jack followed him. Tawl was reluctant to leave
the railing, but he knew something was wrong with Jack and he had to find out
what. His hands were numb with cold. He pried them free from the railing and
followed Jack to the wheel. The deck was as slick as a frozen pond. Tawl
skidded with every step. The rain beat him back. Waves hit from all sides. There
was a powerful gust of wind and then Tawl heard something crack.

"Whoa!
Watch out!"

Instinct more than
sense made Tawl leap to the side. He dived for the railings and hit an oncoming
wave full-on. Water smashed against him. It was in his eyes, his nose, his
throat. He couldn't breathe. A high, creaking sound split through the air. The
ship rolled sharply to port. Tawl was forced to hold on to the railings with
all his might to stop himself from rolling with it.

Crack!

With sea salt
stinging in his eyes, Tawl watched as the aftermast crashed to the deck like a
felled tree. It went smashing into the port railings, crushing them like
tinderwood.

"Cut the
rigging!"
cried the captain.

The cables
attached to the aftermast were pulling against the mainmast. The huge central
mast was listing to the port. Tawl could hear the beam creaking with strain.

Carver dashed
forward, knife in hand. Tawl felt for his own knife. He was up before he knew
it. As soon as his left foot hit the deck, pain coursed up his ankle. He
ignored it. He had no choice. The winds were high and the mainmast was listing,
ready to crack. If that fell, the entire ship would go down with it.

Tawl scrambled
toward the fallen aftermast. The rigging ropes were wrist-thick. They were so
taut they hummed in the wind like the strings of a bow. Carver and two other
crewmen were busy hacking. The mainmast towered above them. It was visibly
bending. Waves beat against the hull. Surf spewed across the deck. The ship no
longer rolled, it
heaved.

Lightning flashed.
Thunder roared. The wind cut the rain into razors.

One by one the
rigging ropes were cut. The usually quick-tongued Carver was silent. Tawl
worked by his side, sawing the ropes with the edge of his blade. Finally there
were only four ropes left: those that secured the top of the aftermast to the
top of the mainmast. Tawl's gaze traveled to the end of the aftermast. It was
jutting out two horse-lengths across the sea. He stood up.

Carver put a hand
on his arm. "No, Tawl. This is my job." Tawl opened his mouth to
protest.

Carver gripped him
hard. "No, Tawl. You did me a favor once by insisting you row to Larn on
your own. I haven't forgotten that, and I'm not about to let you risk your neck
out there when I can do the job faster and better than you. "

Tawl brought his
hand up and clasped it against Carver's. "You're a brave man."

"No. I'm just
a man who loves his ship."

No one on the ship
spoke as Carver moved toward the broken railings. The aftermast gleamed with
saltwater. Like a sapling in a gale, the mainmast leaned toward it. The last
four rigging ropes bound the two masts together as surely as a leash between
master and dog. Carver hoisted himself onto the aftermast and began to shunt
along the beam. The blade of his knife was between his teeth, as he needed both
hands to hold on. Taw] crept alongside the mast, only coming to a halt where
the deck came to an end.

Thirteen men
watched with baited breath. Carver was now suspended above the open sea. The
waves swelled up to meet him. Reaching the end of the mast, he took the knife
in his right hand and began to work on the first of the four ropes. Rain drove
against his face. His legs were entwined around the beam for support. The fast
rope snapped back to the mainmast. A massive wave smashed against the port
side. Carver was engulfed by white foam. For a second no one could tell what
had become of him, then the foam fell away and Carver could clearly be seen
spitting saltwater from his mouth and holding onto the beam for dear life.
Everyone cheered. Carver tipped them a nod.