Master and Fool (66 page)

Tyren was trying
to steal religious power from Silbur and keep it for Valdis and himself. With
religious power went taxes, property, Church land, and gold.

Tyren was being
greedy.

Baralis decided it
was time to make the man show his hand. "You ask a lot, my friend. What
would you give in return?"

A calculated pause
followed. Tyren liked to build tension, to create drama by speaking only when
he was ready, and to force people to wait upon his every word. It was yet
another use he had for silence.

After a moment he
inclined his head. Dark skin, dark eyes, and dark hair caught the light.
"I have three thousand knights in Valdis. On my word they will move north
toward Camlee." Tyren made a small gesture with his hand. "They will
not only bring extra manpower to the siege, but they will also provide access
to the tunnels."

"Tunnels?"

"Camlee is an
old city built by an old king. There are ancient ways under the wall-passages
that not even their generals know about-and one of my knights can supply you
with their locations. His father was a stonemason in Camlee. He knows all the
secrets of the guild."

Baralis took a
draught of his wine. He was going to give Tyren what he wanted. The empire's
forces could take Camlee on their own, but cold-weather sieges could be long
and unpleasant affairs. Bren was vulnerable at the moment; Annis could decide
to cross the mountains in defiance of the snow. And if they did, they'd find a
city seriously undermanned. The sooner Can-flee was defeated the better.

Baralis turned his
head, smiling softly into the shadows. The sooner Camlee fell, the sooner Rom
and Rom's archbishop would fall. Twenty years ago, Tavalisk had murdered a man,
then taken credit for his work, and punishment was long overdue.

"I think we
have an agreement, my friend," said Baralis, raising his cup. Highwall's
coffers were nothing to him. Camlee's people even less. Tyren could do whatever
he wanted in both the north and south as long as he didn't raise his sights
above religion and gold.

Tyren was not a
fool. He didn't permit himself to look even a little smug. He stood and bowed.
"I am well pleased, Baralis. I will send a messenger to Valdis
today."

Baralis opened the
door to him. "It is always a pleasure, Tyren."

The wind was
blowing straight from the mountains and the sky looked ready for snow. Jack
couldn't get warm no matter what he tried. Cold air gusted beneath his cloak
despite the fact he was sitting on the hem, and his toes were numb even though
his boots were lined with wool. Riding a horse all day through banks of
freezing fog was not a pleasant experience.

But it was a
necessary one. Up before dawn every day, riding past dark each night. When Tawl
wasn't driving the men forward, Jack was. They had to get to Bren. Four days
ago, when they had ridden through a mountain village west of Camlee, the
villagers told them that the empire's forces were about to lay siege to the
city. The skin on Jack's neck prickled when he heard the news. Kylock was
moving fast. He wasn't content to sit out the winter; he wanted another victory
under his belt.

The knights had
taken the news of the siege badly. Camlee was Valdis' closest neighbor, and all
the men in the party knew people in the city-some even had family there.

They were anxious
to discover if Tyren had sent any knights along with the siege force, but the
route they were taking at the moment kept them away from villages and towns.

Ever since they'd
learnt the empire's forces were in the vicinity, they had taken to riding along
the foothills of the Divide. No one wanted to risk a chance encounter with a
battalion of blackhelms; so they took a longer and more arduous path. The past
four days had been hard going. The temperature dropped to below freezing at
night and hardly rose significantly during the day. The knights still kept on
the lookout for villages, but they hadn't seen a single but since Camlee.

Things had changed
since the day at the lake. Tawl's leap had transformed the party. The knights
were his now. There were no more questions, no more doubts, nothing except
respect and something close to veneration. Tawl had emerged from the lake a
different person. His blue eyes were bright with purpose, his voice strong and
clear. He was full of strength and light; it was as if the falls had renewed
his soul.

Tawl had offered
the knights a chance for honor by rescuing a highborn lady from her captor, and
the knights seemed glad to take it. There was not a knight alive who would
hesitate at saving a damsel in distress. Tyren was a more delicate subject.
Tawl did not want to push the men into doing anything they weren't comfortable
with. He gave them time and space to reach their own decisions, and judging
from the gradual shift in opinions that was taking place within the party, it
was the wisest thing he could have done.

Jack was pleased
that Tawl had managed to win the loyalty of the knights, but he felt a certain
sadness, too. He and Tawl were moving apart; they had different motives,
different goals, different fates. Bren would mark the end of their partnership.
From there they would go their separate ways. "Smoke ahead!" cried
Andris.

Jack looked up. He
had been drifting off into the future and was glad of the chance to get back to
the present. In the distance, in a cleft between two hills, a silvery stream of
smoke could be seen rising against the gray sky. As his gaze focused, Jack
could see that there was more than one plume: it had to mean there was a
village ahead.

The party was
excited by the sighting, and everyone spurred their horses on. It was well past
midday, and thoughts of a hot meal and a warm bed for the night were uppermost
in Jack's mind.

It took them
longer than they thought to reach the village. They had to cross a snowbound
valley where the deep drifts and a frozen pond forced them to dismount their
horses. Snow started falling when they were halfway across, and the wind from the
mountains whipped it into a flurry, making it difficult to see anything. By the
time they approached the two hills it was already growing dark.

Crayne sent Andris
and Mafrey ahead to scout the village. Although it was far to the west of the
army's path, Crayne was taking no chances. The party gathered in the lee of the
hill and waited for the two men to return. The snowfall grew steadily heavier,
and the temperature began to drop for the night. The men huddled close, their
breath crystallizing in the darkening air, their cloaks white with snow.

Tawl, Crayne, and
Borlin were speaking in hushed voices. Jack could see them glancing toward the
path that led between the hills. Andris and Mafrey should have been back by
now. After a moment, Crayne nodded. "Let's follow them in," he cried.

Jack kicked his
horse forward, steering toward Nabber and his mule. Tawl had a similar instinct
and held back until Nabber drew level. Together they picked a route along the
base of the hill until they crossed the path leading into the village. "Do
you think Andris and Mafrey have been attacked?" shouted Jack above the
roar of the wind.

"I don't
know," Tawl said. "The villagers may have spotted them and assumed
they were part of Kylock's forces." With his right hand he made a small
gesture down toward his scabbard.

Jack nodded. Tawl
was warning him to be ready with his sword.

The snow was
falling so fast that hoofprints were covered within minutes; there was no sign
of Andris and Mafrey's passing. As they rode through the narrow pass, a subtle
change began to take place within the party: everyone sat forward on their
horses, Borlin and the archers slung their quivers over their backs, Crayne
took his spear from its horn, and all but the thinnest gloves were stripped
off.

Sharply slanted
roofs came into view above the hill line-a few at first, and then more. The
village was bigger than they thought. Pale strips of light escaped from
shutters and the smell of woodsmoke was carried on the wind.

They rounded a
snowy crag and came face-to-face with a band of armed men. Andris and Mafrey
rode in the middle. Borlin's bow was out of its sheath in an instant.

"Don't shoot!
" cried Andris.

Crayne raised an
open palm, halting his archers. His glance took in the half-dozen mounted men.
"Release my brethren, or be shot where you stand." The steel in his
voice cut straight through the snow.

Andris urged his
horse forward. "They haven't captured us, Crayne. They're just escorting
us back."

"They're
Highwall men," hissed Tawl to Jack. "Silver and maroon."

Highwall? What
business did the Wall have seventy leagues northwest of Camlee? Jack moved
ahead of Tawl. Crayne was speaking to one of the armed band and he wanted to
hear what was being said.

"Yes,"
said Crayne, "Tawl of the Lowlands and Jack of the Four Kingdoms."

The man nodded.
"Come with us."

Jack shot a glance
at Tawl. The knight shrugged: he had no idea what was going on, either. The
party began to move forward. Crayne still held on to his spear, but he seemed
content to follow the men. The path began to widen out and the village soon
came into view.

Nestled between
two hills, it was saved from the bite of the wind. Thickly timbered cabins
dotted the slopes, and three-story houses clustered in the valley. All the
buildings had eaves and pointing roofs. There was one road: it ran from east to
west along the center of the valley, tapering off abruptly when it reached a
huge, fenced enclosure full of sheep. Jack didn't think he'd ever seen so many
sheep in his life. There were thousands of them, their backs daubed with red
and blue markings.

The armed men led
them to the largest building in sight. A sign creaked over the door, but Jack
couldn't read what it said.

As soon as they
came to a standstill, Crayne beckoned Jack and Tawl over. "There's a man
inside who wants to speak to both of you."

Crayne shook his
head. "They wouldn't say. I think we should all go in together."

"I
agree," said Tawl. "Where did these men come from?"

"Bren. They
escaped from the battlefield."

"They were
lucky not to be picked up by Kylock's forces," said Jack.

"They
probably stayed close to the mountains." Crayne jumped from his horse,
signaling the rest of the party to do likewise. He looked over at the tavern
and then back to Jack and Tawl. "I don't expect any trouble in here, but
the first sign of anything strange and we're all coming out. Is that
clear?"

Jack nodded. He
didn't feel in any danger. Almost without being aware of what he was doing, he
had sniffed for sorcery in the air. Nothing sinister was lying in wait for
them. He walked forward toward the tavern door, the armed men moving ahead of
him, Tawl and Crayne behind. After the freezing cold darkness of the night, the
tavern's warmth and brightness were shocking. Jack was dazzled by the light,
his senses overpowered by the smells, sights, and sounds. The aroma of roasted
meat and onions wafted through the low-ceilinged room. The place was packed
with men wearing maroon and silver. Gaunt-faced, hollow-eyed, they fell silent
as Jack moved amongst them. "Up here," said the one who was leading
the way. Jack followed him to the back of the tavern and up a flight of narrow
stairs. Tawl was at his heels. They came to a curved oak door. Two men guarded
the way.

The taller man
held out a restraining arm. "Wait here." He went inside the room.
After a moment he came out with another man.

"Jack, Tawl,
come inside."

It took Jack a
moment to recognize the figure in front of him. It was Grift. His voice was the
same as ever, but the face and body were changed beyond recognition. He had
lost a great amount of weight. His double chin had gone, his once chubby cheeks
were now slack, and dark circles ringed his eyes. "Come on," he said.
"Lord Maybor's waiting for you."

Melli lay on the
bed and held the pillow to her stomach. Sometimes, if she closed her eyes tight
enough and hugged the pillow hard enough, she could imagine her baby was still
there. Other times she fell asleep with the pillow beneath her, and in the
morning when she awoke there was a moment of pure joy. Those were the moments
she lived for, those fragments of seconds, those blinks of an eye, when the
past eight days were lost inside her mind.

Tonight there was
no forgetting. The pillow was just a pillow, her belly just a curve, time was
too rigid to be changed and her mind too sharp to let go. There was nothing
except the emptiness in her stomach and the terrible, aching soreness in her
breasts.

Milk soaked
through her bodice. Sticky, slow to dry, it seeped from her breasts, running
down along her rib cage, forming dark stains on the fabric of her dress. Melli
couldn't bear it. She reeked like a wet nurse.

In one quick
movement, she made a fist and slammed it into the pillow. She felt the blow in
her stomach and didn't care. Again and again she brought down her fist, pummeling
the soft fabric with all her might. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing.

Bringing up her
second fist, she struck the pillow as hard as she could. Crack! A blinding pain
coursed up her arm. Melli's face crumpled and quick tears flared. She slumped
against the bed, cradling her broken arm against her chest. She had forgotten
how fragile it was. Now she had rebroken it before it had a chance to heal.

When the pain
subsided to a dull throb, Melli ran her fingers over the bone. An uneven
swelling jutted out against the skin of her forearm. It was too dark to see
anything except the outline, so she wouldn't be able to do anything until first
light. She had made a halfhearted attempt to reset the bone a few days earlier,
but she didn't know the first thing about physicianing, and the pain she
experienced trying to force the bones to meet smoothly had been frightening
enough to make her give up. Tomorrow she would try and fix a splint.