Master and Fool (53 page)

"To the
mountains!"
he cried, filled with a mad rush of exhilaration. So his
son wanted him dead, eh? Well, he'd just have to see about that.

The journey back
to Rom took six days. The mainmast of the ship was too weak to bear a topsail,
so they had to rely on the mainsail to bring them home.

It had been a calm
voyage. A time of rest. The winds were gentle upon the ship, the sea itself
almost conciliatory. The days were short, but the sunsets were long, and the
nights were spanned by stars.
The Fishy Few
creaked and listed from wave
to wave, and the crew cosseted her all the way.

During five of the
six days, Jack was abed with fever. Fyler and, surprisingly, Captain Quain
looked after him day and night. Tawl himself was out of the reckoning for the
fast two days, whilst his various cuts, bruises, gouges, and swellings were
seen to by the crew. Fyler was the ship's unofficial surgeon, and never had
Tawl come across a more enthusiastic-and thereby dangerous-amateur. Sometimes
Tawl got the feeling he was being stitched just for the sake of it. The
stitching wasn't as bad as the raw fish poultices, though, and not nearly as
painful as the cauterizing. In fact, Fyler's only saving grace as a surgeon was
his heavy reliance on hot rum toddies as painkillers.

Indeed, Tawl had
spent much of the past six days in a toddy-induced stupor. It was, he found,
the perfect antidote to Larn.

The island was
having a more lasting effect upon Jack. It had done something to him: in the
hours between destroying the seers' cavern and waking up the following morning,
Jack had aged five years. His hair had lost its brightness and there were
strands of gray around his temples. But that wasn't the worst. Deep lines now
cut into his face, across his brow, along his cheeks, and down to his mouth.

Tawl hadn't said
anything to him. There were no mirrors on the ship, but they'd be docking in
Rorn within an hour, and so he'd find out soon enough. Tawl smiled, bringing
his hand up to feel his own face. It was a mass of stitches and swellings.
Neither of them was a pretty sight now. Still, they'd gotten off lightly. They
were lucky to be alive. Tawl had no idea what happened at the cavern, what Jack
had gone through, but he'd sensed the power of the place, felt it throbbing
through his bones. Whatever sorcery had been there was mighty beyond telling,
and it was hardly surprising it had taken a toll.

Tawl had expected
to feel relief, even perhaps satisfaction, at its fall. In reality it just left
him feeling empty. The seers were dead, the cavern had been destroyed, yet many
of the priests had survived-they were the real evil on Lam. Ancient magic had
never tied anyone to a stone.

"Rorn looks
good from here."

Tawl turned around
to see Jack coming to join him on the foredeck. Once again, Tawl had to hide
his surprise over the change in Jack's appearance. He still hadn't got used to
it. "How are you feeling?"

"Not bad,
really. I think I'm becoming immune to rum."

"You're a
stronger man than me, then. Four of Fyler's toddies and I'm away licking the
deck."

Jack smiled. His
face was pale and drawn. The fever had left him two days ago, and Fyler had
only allowed him up yesterday. "We've a long way to go yet, haven't
we?" Tawl watched the white spires of Rorn grow larger on the horizon.
"We'll be in Bren before you know."

The Fishy Few
glided
into the dock, pulled by two heavy rowing craft. Jack and Tawl were joined by
Carver and Captain Quain. All four men stood on the foredeck and watched as the
ship was drawn past lines of fishing boats and caravels to its berth along the
wharf. Seagulls dipped and looped in the blue sky, and the breeze carried
messages from Rorn.

As they drew
nearer, Tawl raised a hand to shade his eyes and looked out at the quayside.
Two figures waited on the dock. Tawl recognized Nabber straightaway-the bulging
tunic, the pack slung over the shoulder, the impossibly skinny legs--but the
second one he couldn't make out. Carver had a spyglass to his eye. "We've
got one waiting for us, Captain. A bit raggedy, she is, but a live one just the
same."

Quain glanced at
Tawl, noted where he was looking, and said, "I don't think she's waiting
for us, Carver. Why don't you give the glass to Tawl?"

"Here you go,
mate," said Carver, handing over the spyglass. "She's standing next
to that young lad on the quay. Pimps get younger by the day."

Tawl looked
through the glass. He couldn't help but smile as he spied Nabber. The young
pocket did not look happy. The girl who stood beside him was cleaning his face
and neck with a rag. The girl herself was pitifully thin. Her hair was shorn
short, and if it wasn't for the fact that she was wearing a dress, she could
have been mistaken for a boy. As Tawl watched, she turned to face the ship.
Tawl caught his breath. It was Megan. His Megan.

He brought down
the glass. What had happened to her? Where were her bonny curls and rosy
cheeks? Her plump lips, her curves, her sparkling eyes? Tawl felt a cold dread
steal over him. He remembered the last time he'd disembarked
The Fishy Few,
running
down the gangplank and heading straight for the whoring quarter, hoping to
spend the night with Megan. Only she hadn't been there. Her room was empty, her
possessions in disarray. He'd just accepted that she'd gone. What if he'd been
wrong? What if she'd been in danger, and he'd just carried on?

Gradually the ship
drew level with the wharf. The two figures on the quay began to move down the
wooden walkway. Tawl could see them clearly now. Megan was dressed very
prettily in a pink skirt and bodice that, judging from the way it gleamed in
the sunlight, could only be silk. A woolen shawl lay across her shoulders, and
every so often Nabber would reach up and pull it close against her arms. The
two walked hand in hand.

"Whoa!
Tawl!" shouted Nabber, approaching the docking ship. "I've brought a
friend to see you."

Tawl looked down
at Megan. Even from this distance, he could see he had been wrong: her eyes
still sparkled. She didn't say anything, but she smiled. It was a smile of
welcome and warmth and friendship, and it filled Tawl's heart with a sharp,
aching joy.

He was down the
gangplank before the mooring ropes had been secured. He raced along the walkway
and into Megan's arms. She was so thin, so frail, he was frightened he might
crush her. Her cheeks were wet with tears, and she shook like a newborn colt.
"Tawl, I'm so glad," she murmured, resting her head against his
shoulder. "I'm so glad you're here."

The crew cheered.
Tawl looked up to see all twelve of them lined up along the ship's railings,
grinning. He couldn't help but laugh at the sight of them. They were good men.
He raised his arm and waved. After a second, Megan waved, too, and the crew
went wild: yelling, throwing kisses, and asking her if she had any friends.

Shaking his head,
unable to stop smiling, Tawl put his arm out for Nabber The pocket slid under
his arm and against his chest.

"If you don't
mind me saying so, Tawl, you look a bit rough."

Tawl burst out
laughing again. He squeezed the boy hard. "If you don't mind me saying,
Nabber. I think you could do with a little tact."

Jack was saying
his farewells to the crew. Tawl watched as he exchanged a few words with the
captain and then made his way down the gangplank. He had a strange look on his
face.

"Hey!
Jack!" cried Nabber, disengaging himself from Tawl and running up to meet
him. Jack hugged the boy. Tawl was standing with his arm around Megan, waiting
for Nabber to put his foot in it. He didn't have to wait long. "Borc's
kneecaps, Jack! What happened to you? Tawl looks bad, but you look awful. Is
that gray in your hair, or wet paint?"

Jack raised a hand
to his hair. "Gray?"

"Just around
the edges, mind."

Jack looked at
Nabber a moment and then laughed. "Well, if a few gray hairs are all I've
got to show for Larn, then I didn't come off too badly."

Tawl breathed a
sigh of relief. He beckoned Jack over to meet Megan. As he introduced her to
Jack, he couldn't help wondering what she had gone through. Dark circles ringed
her eyes and her cheeks were empty hollows.

"Pleased to
meet you, Jack," she said. Her voice was thinner than he remembered.

Jack bowed and
took her hand. Tawl smiled at him, pleased that he greeted her as if she were a
highborn lady. After a moment, Nabber padded up from behind to join them.
"I've just had a quick word with the good captain. Told him we'd be back
later with the payment."

"You've
managed to raise it?" said Jack.

"Of course I
have," said Nabber instantly indignant. "What d'you think I am, a
bungling amateur? You two aren't the only ones who have been up to stuff, you
know. I've been busy, too. Having meetings, rescuing damsels, acquiring the
loot. Right put upon, I've been. Right put upon."

Tawl, guessing
Nabber's feelings had been hurt by being left in Rorn, said, "That's why
we left you here, Nabber. Because we knew we could rely on you to take care of
business."

"Take care of
business, my earlobes! Stranded, I was. Left to fend for myself without so much
as a word of warning or thanks. You two should count yourselves lucky that I'm
here today. Mortally insulted me and I'm still paying the bills!"

Tawl grabbed hold
of Nabber's arm. He began steering him along toward the quay. "Why don't
we go to the Rose and Crown, have a hot meal, and you can tell us all you've
gone through?"

Nabber snorted.
"I suppose I'll be paying for that, too."

"Your
Eminence, word has just come in from the north. Highwall's armies were defeated
six days ago on the southern plains of Bren."

Tavalisk put down
the asparagus that had just been aimed at his throat. "How did this
happen? Bren's armies alone couldn't possibly have been enough to rout the
Wall."

"The
kingdoms' forces moved across the mountains last week, Your Eminence. They
arrived in Bren just ahead of the winter storms."

"So that was
what Kylock was waiting for all this time. The winter storms." Tavalisk
licked the asparagus butter from his fingers. This was the worst news that
Gamil had ever brought him. The northern empire was no longer a threat. It was
a reality. Baralis and Kylock had effectively conquered the north. "Tell
me, was it a massacre?"

"Yes, Your
Eminence. Apparently the Wall was surrounded on three sides. They tried to
withdraw to the east, but they didn't make it. Bren's blackhelms slaughtered
them. By all accounts it was a bloodbath. No prisoners were taken."

"Maybor and
Besik?"

"Lord Besik
went down with his men. There's no word on Lord Maybor. There's a rumor that he
led a third of the Highwall army into the mountains, but from what I can
ascertain, most of their number died. They were the last to withdraw from the
field."

"Yes. That
would do it." Tavalisk was distressed, but not about to betray that fact
to Gamil. Ever since that unfortunate incident last week with the young
pickpocket, the archbishop found himself trusting Gamil less and less. His aide
was obviously up to something of a dubious nature, or he wouldn't have been
successfully blackmailed by a street urchin. And, more importantly, there was
now a remote possibility that the man knew about his treasure trove.

Tavalisk picked an
asparagus spear from the tray. He bent it until it snapped. As soon as that
pesky little pocket left Rorn, he'd arrange to have his savings moved. Might
even split it-half in the city, half outside. The way things were looking in
the north at the moment, a man couldn't be too careful where his assets were
concerned. Especially when those assets were hard gold.

"How are
Camlee and Ness taking the news of Highwall's defeat?"

"Badly, Your
Eminence. Ness is but three weeks hard march from Bren. It doesn't take a
genius to see where Kylock's eye will fall next."

Tavalisk waved an
asparagus stalk at Gamil. "Hmm. You're probably right. Kylock will be
hoping that the mountain storms keep Annis on ice all winter. And now he's got
his kingdoms' army with him, he'll be loathe to sit around and do nothing.
There's no one more restless than a newly crowned king."

"He is in a
very strong position, Your Eminence."

"Gamil, if
I'd wanted someone to state the obvious, I could have brought in a
copper-polisher. He might be illinformed, but at least he's sure to see
everything in front of his face." The archbishop slipped the top half of
the asparagus in his mouth. He never ate the bottoms. It was an act of
kindness, for he always sent the remainders to the poor. "Come spring
Kylock will have problems, though, Your Eminence. He'll have to cross the
mountains and claim Highwall, keep Halcus subdued, and defeat Annis."

"He'll be
stronger by spring, Gamil. Only half the troops in Bren are fully trained at
the moment. There's all sorts: mercenaries, farmers, conscripts. If the man's
got any sense at all, he'll spend the winter making sure they're fully trained
for the spring."

"What of the
invasion of Ness, Your Eminence?"

"The
blackhelms and kingdoms' forces can take care of that. Ness can't be expected
to put up much of a fight."

"But won't
the south help the city?"

Tavalisk
considered the asparagus: green, glossy with butter, scenting the air with the
faint tang of sweat. With their furtive little spearheads, they were the
perfect vegetable to scheme over. "The official line should be that the
south is not prepared to help Ness at all."

"And the
unofficial line, Your Eminence?"

"We need to
give Bren the impression that we're wiping our hands of Ness, that way they'll
be more likely to send out less troops and be less prepared. Only when they
look set to conquer that wretched sheep-bound city will the south make its
move. I say we arm Camlee in secret, mind our own business until the last
possible moment, and then take young Kylock by surprise."