Master and Fool (46 page)

Without realizing
it, Tawl had stretched out along the beam, ready to catch Carver's foot or
britches if he fell. The second rope was cut and then the third. Carver hacked
away at the last. The mainmast creaked like a rotten staircase, and then, as
the final rope was cut, it bounded back toward the starboard side. The
aftermast, which had been in part suspended by the rope, shifted downward,
crushing more railings and coming to rest at a lower point above the sea.

Tawl didn't wait. He
shunted out onto the beam and grabbed Carver's leg. Carver was barely above the
swell line. Holding on to the beam was like holding on to a greased pole.
Together, Carver and Tawl crawled back to the ship. Jack had grabbed hold of
Tawl's legs, and someone else grabbed hold of him Carver was reeled in like a
fish on a line.

As soon as Tawl's
feet were on deck, Jack said to him, "We've got to get off this ship now,
or everyone will be killed."

Tawl, high on
exhilaration and relief, was brought down in an instant. Quickly, he made sure
that Carver was all right and then grabbed hold of Jack's arm and dragged him
to the side of the bos'n's cabin.

"What d'you
mean?"

Jack was soaked to
the skin. His long hair was loose and the wind blew it into his face. "I
mean this storm isn't natural. It's been created by sorcery. Can't you smell
it?" Tawl could smell salt and the sharp chemical tang of the lightning.
"No."

"I don't know
how it's been done, but it's been created to kill us. You and me, Tawl, not the
crew. And unless we get off this ship right now, it'll take all the sailors
along with us."

Tawl had never see
Jack so firm. There was no question of arguing with him. "How strong is
it?"

"Still
strong, but given enough time it will die down. No one can keep this up for
hour after hour and not be weakened."

Tawl nodded. He
trusted Jack's judgment implicitly. "How far are we from Larn?"

"Captain says
that when the storm hit, we were twenty leagues to the south. Borc knows where
we are now." More lightning. Thunder right behind it. Jack was right; this
storm wasn't passing over, it was staying right on top of them.

Two waves hit the
ship in quick succession.
The Fishy Few
bounced off the first only to
plow headlong into the second. A crest of water blasted across the bow and
foredeck.

"If we take a
boat now, the chances are it'll be ripped apart."

Jack looked Tawl
straight in the eyes. "It's either us or the entire crew."

"You think we
can draw away the storm?"

"I think we
can give it a try."

Tawl nodded.
"Let's do it."

The rowboat was
winched down to just above water level. Already it was carrying water, courtesy
of the waves that kept lapping over the sides.

"I don't like
this," said the captain, watching as the little boat swung back and forth
on the ropes. "It's suicide to put down in a storm." As he spoke, the
wind whipped through the rigging. The fall of the aftermast had left the
mainmast vulnerable, and everyone tensed until the gust tapered off.

Jack didn't know
what to say to the captain. He didn't want to lie, yet he wasn't sure how the
captain would take the truth. He looked around for Tawl, but he was belowdecks,
collecting together whatever they needed. Jack took a deep breath. "The
storm's not going to pass as long as Tawl and I are here."

The captain nodded.
"I'm not a fool, lad. I know." He looked across at the wheel. Fyler
was struggling to gain control of the ship. His huge muscles could be seen
straining in the lamplight. "A storm like this doesn't come fresh out of
the blue sky of its own accord." Quain looked at Jack and smiled.
"You don't sail the high seas for forty years without learning a thing or
two about life."

"Boat's
ready, Captain," shouted one of the crewmen. Jack was beginning to realize
why all sailors had loud voices: they needed them to shout over the roar of the
waves. Making a small gesture toward the sky, he said, "I'm sorry,
Captain. I would never have come on board if I thought anything like this would
happen."

"Nay, lad.
Don't be sorry.
The Fishy Few
isn't ready to pay her respects to the
seabed just yet."

"A big
one's coming in, Captain."

Jack and the
captain looked out to sea. Amidst the black and the gray was a gleam of pure
silver. It was the top of a swell and it towered high above the deck.

"Brace
yourselves, shipmates, "
cried the captain. Everyone hunkered down
against the deck, grabbing at railings, mooring heads, anything that was at
hand. Jack watched the swell roll forward. It was a massive shimmering wall.
Sucking in his breath, he held on to the mooring head with all his might. He
heard a low rumbling-like thunder, only gentler, more ominous. And then the
swell collided with the ship.

The noise was a
deafening rush.
The Fishy Few
rocked on its keel. The starboard deck
tilted downward, and a solid cliff of water blasted into the ship. Jack's whole
body felt the impact; his limbs felt as if they were being torn from their
sockets, his face felt as if it had been slammed against a door. Still the
water came, churning and bubbling like a mighty river. Wood splintered, lanterns
smashed, someone shouted out to Borc to help save them. A high, splitting sound
came from the mainmast.

The ship rolled
back from the port and the last of the swell caught the hull.

Jack's fingers
were frozen against the mooring head. His hair was plastered against his face.
All around him, the crew jumped up and began sweeping the water from the deck,
checking the lines, and running to brace the mainmast. Tawl staggered up from
belowdecks. He, too, was soaked to the skin. He took in the chaos of the scene,
saw the visible crack running down the length of the mainmast, and said,
"Captain, we're going now. We'll try and set a course to the north. You
head away from us as fast as possible."

The captain
nodded. Like everyone, his gaze was fixed on the mainmast. "Go now, then.
When the storm clears we'll be back to pick you up."

Jack had
difficulty catching his breath. He already knew the captain well enough not to
protest. "Thank you," he said Captain Quain opened his mouth to say
something, hesitated, then said, "Borc be with you, lad."

Before Jack knew
it, they were climbing down the rope ladder. Knees, ankles, and chins took a
beating against the hull. Jack could see white bands across the ocean where the
wind was cutting through the swells. The rain took turns whipping then falling
in sheets.

By the time he
reached the boat, Jack was sporting two bloody knees, a bloody elbow, and a
sprained ankle. Tawl, who was following him down, looked in even worse shape.
He caught Jack staring at him and grinned.

"This is
either the stupidest thing I've ever done in my life, or the bravest."

Jack grinned back.
He was glad to the bone that Tawl was with him.

Working together,
they untied the mooring knots and pushed the rowboat away from
The Fishy Few
with their oars. The crew leant against the railings, waving their
farewells. It was too dark to make out faces and too windy to hear what was
said. It didn't matter. That night Jack learnt that goodwill didn't have to be
seen or spoken to be felt.

And then they were
off. A wave cleaved them from the ship, bouncing them southward and filling the
rowboat with cold, foamy water. Tawl bailed while Jack rowed.

The wind was
slower, but colder close to the surface. The swells seemed impossibly large,
yet whereas
The Fishy Few
sat high in the water and blocked their path,
causing the swells to break, the little rowboat bobbed right over them.

They were fine for
a while.
The Fishy Few
faded to a dark silhouette in the distance, and
then, a few minutes later when Jack looked back, it had disappeared completely.
That was when the storm came in for its last attack. Jack sensed that the
storm, or rather the power behind it, had been waiting for a chance to get them
alone. He was frightened by the
breadth
of the sorcery behind it. It was
powerful, wild, beyond his ken. He wasn't fit to challenge it. He should have
stayed longer with Stillfox, should have learnt more, listened better, tried
harder.

The sorcery used
in the storm's making was not just powerful, it was a sophisticated,
many-layered construction with an iron will at its core.

Jack felt it now,
coming in for the kill. The metal tang was unmistakable. The very air was
charged with it. The swell rose and the wind picked up. The little rowboat was
flung from wave to wave like a leaf in a stream. The sea was a rabid dog:
angry, frothing, out of control.

Tawl stopped
bailing and began tying. At fast Jack didn't understand what he was doing. The
knight threaded a thick mooring rope beneath the bench Jack was sitting on,
then he pulled the rope tight across Jack's lap. Jack felt the beginnings of
panic. He was being bound to the boat. Twice more Tawl looped the rope under
the bench and over Jack's thighs. Then he sat on the opposite bench and began
to bind himself. He never uttered a word.

Jack felt trapped.
He couldn't move his legs. The rowboat pitched and spun. The rain drove against
them. Water poured in from all sides. Tawl's face was grim. He was holding the
second pair of oars. The swells were coming fasttoo fast for the boat to right itself
after each one. Shin-deep in saltwater, Jack tried to concentrate on the
sorcery behind the storm. Lightning blazed in front of them. Thunder blasted
behind. The rain and the wind began to spiral around them. The boat was flung
prow-first into the oncoming swell. Jack was thrust forward. The rope burnt
against his thighs. Suddenly he was underwater.

He couldn't see.
He couldn't breathe.

He was dragged
down with the boat. The sea itself seemed to twist in on him, crushing,
wrenching. There was a dull cracking noise, and a sharp pain coursed through
his head. He thought he heard Tawl call his name. And then everything went
black.

Winter s in Rom
were a little cooler than summers, but for some reason the sunshine always
seemed brighter. Perhaps the wind thinned the air, or water crystals magnified
the sun's rays, or maybe it was just a trick of the light. Gamil didn't know.
But, as he walked across the palace courtyard on his way to an early morning
meeting, he made a mental note to find out.

Gamil liked to
know things. Indeed, he
lived
to know things.

Some men said that
knowledge was power-and they were right-but it was also much more than that.
Knowledge could bestow many more gifts than power alone. Satisfaction, for one.
Who could not help feeling that peculiar mix of smugness and triumph as one
dined amongst friends whose most intimate and terrible secrets were known to
one? Who could not feel glee at knowing-and meticulously cataloging
-all
the weaknesses and vices of one's workmates?

Besides satisfaction,
knowledge bestowed confidence. It bred upon itself, creating a dynasty of
influences gained, favors owed, mutual respect, and fear. A silk merchant with
an illegal fondness for young boys would willingly offer up the latest gossip
from Isro; shipbuilders who designed holds suitable for carrying slaves would
gladly share either profits or information with a silent but knowledgeable
friend. Illicit business deals, unlawful sexual practices, shady pasts, false
fronts, and well-covered trails: they were the currency Gamil dealt in.

Oh, he could have
made a fortune by now-a blackmailer could retire for life on the scandals he
knew-but money wasn't what Gamil was after. Knowledge was what counted. Why
take a payment in gold when you could take it in information, instead? Gold
might be legal tender, but it was as bloodless as a corpse, whereas knowledge
was a living, breathing thing.

Gamil was on his
way to receive just such a payment this morning. He was due to meet a man in a
tavern who could tell him of all the latest developments in the north. Gamil
was hoping to discover if the notorious Lady Melliandra was alive or dead.
Either way, it would have to be a short meeting. He was expected back in the
palace within an hour, doubtless to suffer more indignities at the hands of the
fat, lazy windbag who was known as the archbishop of Rorn.

As he passed
through the palace gates, Gamil tried not to dwell on Tavalisk's latest
penchant for making him scrape dead animals from the floor. Last week it had
been snails, the other day it was frogs. What would His Eminence think of next?

"' Scuse me,
sir. If I might have a word?"

Gamil jumped back
in horror. Some lowly street vagrant had actually touched him. Quickly, he
looked around. The palace guards were within calling range. He took a shouting
breath.

"I wouldn't
do that if I were you, sir. You wouldn't want me to be caught and tortured by
the guards." The person who was speaking was a boy of about twelve years
old: dark eyed, dark haired, and as thin as a pole. He grinned. "There's
no telling what I might say under pressure." Gamil knew a veiled threat
when he heard one--random coercion was one of the few drawbacks of knowledge.
He put a hand on the boy's back and bundled him down the road. Only when they
were out of sight of the guards did Gamil see fit to stop. "Now, what's
all this about?" he said, turning to face the young lowlife.

The boy made a
great show of smoothing down his tunic. "I'm surprised you don't know me,
my friend." Gamil ran down a mental list of all the people he was
currently dealing with. A twelve-year-old boy rang only one bell. "Are you
an associate of the knight named Tawl?" The boy nodded. "That's me.
Nabber's my name. Though I suppose you know that already. After all, that's
what you're famous for. knowing other people's business." While the boy
was speaking, Gamil took the opportunity to look around. No one but an old
orange-seller was within sight. The district around the palace was thankfully a
discreet one. Still, there was a shadier area to the right, and Gamil steered
his newfound friend in that direction.